THE
                         TAYLOR-TROTWOOD MAGAZINE

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

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           GOVERNOR BOB TAYLOR and JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE, Editors

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Contents for March, 1907


  FRONTISPIECE—From a painting by Gilbert Gaul

  FAMOUS THRESHOLDS IN WASHINGTON              _Annie Riley Hale_       569
                             Illustrated.

  HISTORIC HIGHWAYS OF THE SOUTH—CHAPTER
    XVIII.                                     _John Trotwood Moore_    577
                             Illustrated.

  SOME BEAUTIFUL WOMEN OF THE SOUTH                                     587
                             Illustrated.

  AUNT HETTY ON THE “WET AND THE DRY.” (Story) _Louise Clarke Pyrnelle_ 592

  MY LOVE. (Poem)                              _Lillian Wester_         594

  OLD HICKORY                                  _Robert L. Taylor_       595
                             Illustrated.

  DALE’S HIGHLANDERS                           _Capt. H. W. Carpenter_  599

  THE FALSE FRANCISCO. (Story)                 _William A. Branan_      601

  THE STATE HOUSE OF MARYLAND                  _George W. McCreary_     604
                             Illustrated.

  MEN OF AFFAIRS                                                        606
                             Illustrated.

  INDUSTRIAL EDUCATION IN THE SOUTH            _Lillian Kendrick Byrn_  611
                             Illustrated.

  THE MEASURE OF A MAN. (Serial Story)         _John Trotwood Moore_    618

  THE FIRST CAMP MEETING IN AMERICA            _Helen Harcourt_         622

  THE SHADOW OF THE ATTACOA. (Serial Story)    _Thornwell Jacobs_       626

  HISTORY OF THE HALS—Chapter XVIII.           _John Trotwood Moore_    635

  THE QUEST OF POAQUITA. (Story)               _Horatio Lankford King_  638

  NAPOLEON—Part VII.                           _Anna Erwin Woods_       645

  WITH BOB TAYLOR                                                       649
      SENTIMENT AND STORY
      THE PARADISE OF FOOLS

  WITH TROTWOOD                                                         654
      THE RIGHTS OF CHILDHOOD

  THE TESTER-BED AND ITS OLD-TIME COVERINGS    _Susie Gentry_           657
                             Illustrated.

  AUNT JANE’S MOCKING-BIRD. (Story)            _Alma L. Stewart_        659

  SOME SOUTHERN WRITERS                        _Kate Alma Orgain_       661
                             Illustrated.

  SOME QUAINT OLD BALLADS                      _Virginia Chambers_      663

  BOOKS AND AUTHORS                            _Lillian Kendrick Byrn_  665

  WITH OUR READERS                                                      667

  THE FAMILY SCRAP BOOK                                                 671

        Copyright, 1907, by The Taylor-Trotwood Publishing Co. All
       rights reserved. Entered as second-class matter, January 12,
            1907, at the post-office at Nashville, Tennessee.




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[Illustration: “Standing at the small gate, now off its hinges, she took
in all the surroundings and tried to imagine Ervin amid them”—_The Shadow
of the Attacoa, page 626_]




                           THE TAYLOR-TROTWOOD
                                 MAGAZINE

                  VOL. IV       MARCH, 1907       NO. 6




FAMOUS THRESHOLDS IN WASHINGTON

THE OCTAGON HOUSE

By Annie Riley Hale


At the northwest corner of New York Avenue and Eighteenth Street, within
a stone’s throw of the War, State and Navy Department, and almost
within the shadow of the Corcoran Art Gallery, is a queer old red brick
structure, with stone steps leading up to the white-pillared portico,
which is known in Washington as the “Octagon House.”

As a historic mansion, as a “haunted dwelling,” and as a unique piece of
Colonial architecture, the Octagon has a triple claim to a place in the
catalogue of “famous thresholds.”

Back in 1798—that same year in which George Washington laid the
cornerstone of his “two buildings” on North Capitol Street—another
Virginian, Colonel John Tayloe, moved by the persuasive arguments
of our first President and first real estate boomer for the Federal
City, decided to build his “town residence” in Washington, instead of
Philadelphia, as was his original intention.

Colonel Tayloe’s Virginia estate, “Mt. Airy,” comprised eight thousand
fertile acres along the Rappahannock, with five hundred slaves and a
superb villa, all inherited from his father, a member of the House of
Burgesses, who built the Mt. Airy country seat in 1758, on a scale of
magnificence unsurpassed at that period in this country.

The site of the Octagon was purchased from Mr. Benjamin Stoddert, our
first Secretary of the Navy, an office created by the first Adams.

It is related that General Washington was much interested in the Octagon,
frequently riding by on horseback to watch the progress of its building,
though he was not permitted to witness its completion. Singularly enough,
it was begun in the same year, finished in the same year (1801) and
designed by the same architect (Dr. Thornton) as his own house on Capitol
Hill. The Octagon was well and strongly built and set in a triangular lot
which conformed to the street lines. The rear premises, in which were
located the stables and servants’ quarters, were enclosed by a high brick
wall, now broken in places, and ivy-grown.

When finished, this was the finest private residence in the Federal City,
as it antedated the more stately Van Ness mansion by a number of years,
and from its unique style of architecture was regarded as the show house
of the surrounding country.

The irregular perimeter of its walls—whence the name “Octagon”—includes
five sides and six angles for the main body of the house, with two short
sides, and a circular swell across the front—demonstrating that the owner
had to strain a point and round a curve for its christening. The exterior
exhibits many windows of the old-fashioned, small-pane pattern, and from
the rear giant old trees fling their flickering shade athwart them.

[Illustration: THE OCTAGON HOUSE]

The interior of the house was modeled to fit the outward circumference,
the doors, sash and glass in the circular vestibule being made on the
circle and all still in working order.

In the niches prepared for them are exhibited two old cast-iron wood
stoves, which crackled their good cheer for generations long past, but
which evidently owe their present lustre to more recent furbishings. The
doors on the ground floor are all of mahogany, and in an excellent state
of preservation, as is likewise the railing to the stairway leading from
the main hall up to the third story—a frail, insubstantial-looking affair
with its slender wooden pilasters and narrow rail; yet, owing to the fact
that every fourth pilaster is of iron, and the railing of mahogany, this
old stairway has stood the test to which more massive balustrades have
succumbed.

The rooms, eleven in all, are few, as compared with the size of the
building, but the area of some of them might easily accommodate a modern
housekeeping apartment. To the right of the main hall is the spacious
drawing room, which has been the scene of many a brilliant assemblage in
the days long gone, where the bas-relief figures on the mantel imported
from London, watched the going and coming of the men and women who made
history. Upon the estimate of an expert, it is said that the cost of
reproducing this mantel in marble nowadays would be two thousand dollars.

Opposite the drawing room, to the left of the hall, is the long,
high dining room, studded with windows and flooded with western
light. Turning back the clock of time for almost a century, one sees
gathered around this generous board a distinguished company, including
Jefferson, Madison, Monroe and John Quincy Adams; Hamilton, Marshall,
Jay and Pinckney; Webster, Calhoun, Clay and Randolph; Decatur, Porter,
Lafayette, Steuben, Sir Edward Thornton and other notabilities.

[Illustration: DRAWING ROOM]

Although it is not recorded that any of the Tayloes shone very
conspicuously in their country’s annals by reason of any great service
rendered in positions of public trust, yet because of their great wealth
and social prominence, their lives touched at various points many of
the great names which emblazon the pages of history. At the time he
took possession of his Octagon home, in 1801, Colonel Tayloe’s income
was seventy-five thousand dollars a year—three times as much as the
President’s salary at that period—and the unbounded hospitality dispensed
from his two households at Mt. Airy and the Octagon, embodied the most
splendid features of the regal Old South.

He was married at the early age of twenty-one, to Miss Ann Ogle, daughter
of Governor Benjamin Ogle, of Maryland. Descended from the Corbins,
Gwynnes, Platers and Fauntleroys, connected by the marriage of his
sisters with the Lees, Pages, Washingtons, Carters, Beverleys and Lomaxes
of Virginia, and by his own marriage with the Bladens, Taskers, and
Ogles, of Maryland, Colonel Tayloe’s social prestige was limitless.

One does not live long in Washington ere he learns to uncover and speak
softly before a lineage which reaches to the “Eastern shore,” either of
Virginia or of Maryland; and when a line is discovered which connects
both these aristocratic strongholds—well, words are but poor things, and
a solemn hush is the most approving corollary.

[Illustration: ECLIPSE]

Colonel Tayloe was educated at Eton and Cambridge, England. He was noted
for the urbanity of his manners, for the splendor of his equipages and
for his lavish hospitality. In 1802, conjointly with Governor Ridgeley,
of Maryland, Colonel Tayloe laid out the Washington City Race Course on
the Holmead Farm, about two miles north of the President’s house, near
the present Mount Pleasant. For a number of years, the Colonel was at
the head of the turf in his native state at a time when the turf was
much affected by the aristocratic sportsmen of the old régime. He kept
in his stables at Mt. Airy a large number of blood horses. He owned the
celebrated Leviathan, Gallatin, Sir Charles, Sir Archy and others; and
from his imported thoroughbreds were descended the most famous coursers
in the early annals of the American turf. From the Tayloe stables came
Eclipse and Henry—“the North and the South”—who ran the celebrated
sectional race on the Long Island course in 1823, in which Henry was
beaten, and the success of Eclipse was attributed to the manipulation of
a jockey named Purdy. The victory was received with uproarious shouts,
Eclipse was led to the stand amid the strains of “The Conquering Hero,”
and there followed a jubilee in New York. Whereupon, John Randolph, of
Roanoke, who was present, remarked: “I am glad no one on the course
thought of nominating Purdy for the Presidency, for it would have been
carried by acclamation!”

In 1818 Colonel Tayloe built the old Willard Hotel, on Pennsylvania
Avenue and Fourteenth Street, which was enlarged and improved by his son,
Mr. Benjamin Ogle Tayloe, in 1844, when it became and has since continued
the most fashionable hotel of the Federal City.

Colonel Tayloe was in his day the largest contributor to St. John’s
Episcopal church, which was the first building erected on Lafayette
Square after the War of 1812, and is popularly known as “the President’s
church,” from the fact that more Presidents have attended it than any
other in the city, probably because of its proximity to the White House.
Colonel Tayloe presented to this church the massive silver service which
formerly belonged to the old church of Lunenburg, in Richmond County,
Virginia.

[Illustration: CIRCULAR ROOM IN WHICH TREATY OF GHENT WAS SIGNED]

Colonel Tayloe’s occupancy of the Octagon embraced the administrations
of four Presidents—Jefferson, Madison, Monroe and John Quincy Adams—and
ceased in 1828, just as the picturesque figure of “Old Hickory” rose
above the Presidential horizon. In 1814, after the burning of the White
House by the British, the hospitality of the Octagon was tendered to
the homeless President and his bewitching “Dolly,” and for six or eight
months it was transformed into “the President’s house,” Colonel and Mrs.
Tayloe retiring to their country seat for the nonce. In the circular
room over the round vestibule, Madison signed the Treaty of Ghent,
February, 1815, which closed our second war with Great Britain. The table
at which the treaty was signed is still in the possession of the Tayloe
family.

The fact that Madison is esteemed one of our most intellectual and
scholarly Presidents, that his state papers exhibit not only statecraft,
but literary construction of a high order, and that a distinguished
Southern Senator in a recent speech in Congress named him “more than
any other man the author of the American Constitution,” gives peculiar
piquancy to the following story, which is vouched for by Mr. Benjamin
Ogle Tayloe:

When a member of Congress in Philadelphia, Mr. Madison boarded in the
house of Mrs. Payne, the mother of “Dolly,” at that time the beautiful
Widow Todd. Mr. Madison, attracted by the personal charms of the
fascinating young widow, sent her a book to read and requested her
opinion of it—presumably with a view to sounding her mental depth.
Whereupon, Mrs. Todd, who, Mr. Tayloe says, was always more remarkable
for beauty, tact and manner than for depth of intellect, asked Colonel
Burr, who boarded there, also, to write her reply to Mr. Madison, which
he accordingly did.

Shortly afterward, Madison offered himself to the handsome and
intellectual widow, and was accepted. This story tallies with the
statement from other sources that Burr made the match between Madison and
the sprightly Dolly, but if our accomplished fourth President really was
ensnared by the schoolgirl ruse, he certainly had no occasion to complain
of his matrimonial bargain. For in the judgment of her contemporaries
and of all succeeding generations, no lady has ever done the honors of
the White House more gracefully and acceptably to all parties than the
gracious and lovely Dolly Madison. Her brilliant levees and various
functions at the Octagon during her brief sojourn there are among the
richest traditions of early official life in the Federal city.

Dr. William Thornton, the architect of the Octagon, was remarkable for
his talents, benevolence and eccentricities. He was the first architect
of the Capitol at Washington, and was appointed one of the three original
commissioners to lay off the city. At the request of Jefferson, he
furnished designs for the University of Virginia. He was born in the
West Indies, of Quaker parentage, and educated in England and Scotland.
A man of science, he was head of the Patent Office from the time of
Washington’s administration to that of Monroe, and claimed to have
preceded Fulton in the application of steam as a propeller of boats, and
to have made experiments on the Delaware before Fulton made his on the
Hudson.

This claim naturally brought the two into collision, and their quarrel
consisted in writing pamphlets against each other, apropos of which,
Thornton is said to have declared: “I killed Fulton with that last
pamphlet of mine!” Dr. Thornton married the daughter of an English lady
who kept a fashionable school for young ladies in Philadelphia, and is
reputed to have stood much in awe of both his wife and mother-in-law—a
condition of mind which finds scant compensation in worldly honors. The
ladies were allies in their opposition to his leaning toward the turf, to
which, despite his Quaker blood, the Doctor was passionately addicted.
This brought him into close association with Colonel Tayloe, and their
deaths occurred in the same year, 1828.

After her husband’s death, Mrs. Tayloe retired from society, although
she continued to make the Washington house her principal home until her
death, nearly thirty years later. One of her granddaughters, yet living
in the District, is authority for the fact that for more than fifty years
the Octagon was lighted solely by candles. Although gas was introduced
prior to Mrs. Tayloe’s death, she would never permit its use in the
Octagon, looking upon it as a “dangerous innovation,” and clinging to her
candles to the last. The granddaughter remembers as one of the distinct
impressions of her childhood, the sockets over the doorways which held
these wax illuminators.

The Tayloe occupancy of the Octagon ceased with Mrs. John Tayloe’s death,
in 1855, though its ownership did not pass from the family until its
purchase by the American Institute of Architects, in 1903.

Between the dates 1855 and 1865, the Catholic Sisters of St. Matthew’s
Parish taught a girls’ school in the Octagon, and from 1866 to 1879 it
was leased by the government for the “Hydrographic Office,” incorporated
by Congress in 1866 as a branch of the Navy Department.

Then for nearly twenty years the Octagon was given over to silence,
cobwebs, mice and ghosts, the last the inevitable tenants of all
deserted dwellings which have been the scene of departed grandeur.

A Virginian of good birth—whose fortunes had fallen on evil days, and who
was wont to seek solace in the flowing bowl and nepenthic drug—having
been installed as custodian of the place, greatly assisted popular
superstition by the recital of his own pipe-dream imaginations. As one of
the present Tayloes remarked—“you had only to fee the caretaker, and get
a ghost-story spun to your liking.”

[Illustration: HALL AND STAIRWAY, SCENE OF THE REPUTED SUICIDE]

Indeed, what with a mythical Miss Tayloe flinging herself over the
third story balustrade to escape the pangs of misplaced affection, and
a British officer—“nameless here forevermore”—walling up an octoroon
slave girl in the wine cellar; with bells ringing at all hours of the
night through the empty rooms, and heart-rending sighs breathing from
hidden nooks and passages, the Octagon is particularly rich in spooky
traditions, which neither the incredulous smile of daylight, nor the
disapproving frown of the family can wholly dispel. So often have they
been repeated, and so closely interwoven with the history of the old
house—whole works of fiction having been built on them—that when one goes
from the warm sunlight across this colonial threshold, pushing back the
heavy curved door with its iron bar and ponderous key, the sensation in
one’s spinal region is distinctly creepy. The eye wanders apprehensively
up the thin, winding stairway to the third floor and back to the spot
in the hall directly beneath, where the fatal plunge was made; and
descending the narrow, worn stairs to the basement, one involuntarily
listens in expectant dread for the smothered groan or sigh from behind
those mouldy bricks.

Mr. Glenn Brown, the accommodating secretary of the American Institute
of Architects, which now owns and occupies the Octagon, tells of a more
objectionable class of tenantry than the ghosts, when the architects
first took charge of the building in 1899. The faithless caretaker had
rented out the rooms to irresponsible negroes, and the architects found
several families of them domiciled in the erstwhile abode of Presidents.
To remove the squalor and damage consequent upon such occupancy, and
to restore and preserve the colonial architecture of the once splendid
mansion, the Institute expended three thousand dollars, resulting in
handsome and artistic headquarters, in all respects worthy of such an
organization.

It may not be generally known that prior to 1850, the profession of
architecture was not in good repute in America; that carpenters and
contractors were much more highly esteemed than architects, the former,
in contrast to the latter, being classified as “practical persons.”

In 1857, in the city of New York, a dozen young architects met in
the office of Richard Upjohn, for the purpose of considering the
organization of a society of architects, whose object should be the
promotion of schools for architecture, the publication of journals and
raising the standard of public taste in regard to it. This was the
genesis of the American Institute of Architects, which now numbers
eight hundred members and ten past presidents, of whom Richard Upjohn
was the first; another, Thomas U. Walter, designed the present wings of
the Capitol, and another, Richard M. Hunt, designed the Administration
Building, at the World’s Fair, and the famous “Biltmore,” at Asheville,
North Carolina.

The circular room on the second floor of the Octagon, once President
Madison’s executive office, is now the business office of the Institute,
and Dolly Madison’s bedroom has been converted into an exhibit room for
the American Academy in Rome.

Through the courtesy of the secretary, the writer was permitted to
explore the back yard and peep into the stable lot, in which is located a
large stone block—“whereby hangs a tale.”

A granddaughter of Colonel Tayloe’s, who spent much of her youth at the
Octagon, affirms that this stone was used by the postilions in mounting.
Yet to the frenzied fancy of more than one chronicler of local history,
this was the “slave block,” from which were auctioned some of those five
hundred slaves ascribed to John Tayloe, and is referred to in pompous and
melodramatic phrase as “doing satanic duty through the years.” Opposed
to this is the well authenticated fact that Colonel Tayloe never sold
any of his dusky retinue, and his wife’s reply when questioned as to the
number of her husband’s slaves: “He has five hundred _servants, but only
one slave. I_ am slave to them all,” is fraught with much historic truth
which is pretty generally overlooked in the portrayal of ante-bellum
types of Southern women.

Other pious visitors to the Octagon kitchen, looking through the same
lens as the discoverers of the “slave block,” beheld in the long iron
“spits,” used for roasting meats, unique _instruments of torture_ for the
hapless slaves!

These stories indicate that other imaginations besides the inventors of
ghostly legends, have been busy with the long-suffering Octagon; these
encrustations of false over the true cannot, however, detract from the
real interest of the history of this dignified old mansion.




FATE’S IRONY


    He fought against his weakness; weary,
    Heartsick, he, amid his failures, died.
    Then one who knew him, knew how near he
    Came to conq’ring with the hurts he bore;
    Knew the reachings of his nature,
    And the sweetness of his heart at core;
    Knew the baffled will, the down-crushed pride;
    From his effort plucked up courage,
    Turned the failure into story,
    From it won renown and glory.

                                                      _Amy E. Blanchard._




HISTORIC HIGHWAYS OF THE SOUTH

CHAPTER XVIII—THE BLUNDERS OF SHILOH

By John Trotwood Moore


The more one studies Shiloh, the more contradictory it becomes. It will
ever remain an incongruous battle. On the Union side it was a battle of
unpreparedness—though not of dishonorable surprise—and on both sides
a battle of blunders. And never in any battle of any war that I have
ever read did Chance—old-fashioned, historic, blind Chance—play a more
conspicuous part.

Some of the big chances, standing out in the light of to-day like gray
ghosts above the battlefield, are:

First—The chance that cut Buell off one day too late for the Union cause.

Second—The chance that put him there one day too soon for the
Confederates.

Third—The chance which Grant took—and which he says in his autobiography
he would not have taken with the riper knowledge gained later in the
war—of not entrenching.

Fourth—The chance of mud and rain, which delayed Johnston one day in
bringing on the fight.

Fifth—The chance of one fateful bullet amid ten thousand harmless
ones, striking an artery not hit once in ten thousand times in battle,
and striking from the boards the only head on either side which had
absolutely a clear conception of the entire battle to be, planned by
himself with consummate skill and executed, till stricken to death, like
a thunderbolt of Jove in the brain of Mars. He alone, I repeat, of all
the host of generals, Federals and Confederates, who swarmed booted and
bedecked around the contending hosts of that day, had definite plans,
knew what was to be done, and held the doing of it in the hollow of his
hand, and his name was Albert Sidney Johnston.

Sixth—The great chance Beauregard had for ending the fight on the first
day, instead of calling off the troops until the fatal to-morrow.

Seventh—The chance—ay, the blunder—of Grant in recalling Lew Wallace
from a position which a most gracious and generous fate had given him.
A chance which gave to Wallace the opportunity for his own fame and the
fame of Grant’s army—the chance of falling upon the flank and rear of the
eager, neglectful, front-fighting Confederates, of breaking their hearts
as Johnston’s death could never have done. This was a greater chance
than Jackson had at Fredericksburg when he utterly defeated the Yankee
army; it was as great as the chance Blücher had at Waterloo; greater than
Bonaparte’s at Austerlitz.

In thinking of Stonewall Jackson and Johnston, did God in His wisdom know
it was best that the Confederacy should not be, as we all now know it,
and take these two men from life that it might not come to pass?

And there we are at it again: For God’s decision is man’s destiny.

Now, are not these chances enough? Or is it Law, Cause and Effect,
Adjustment, Nature—God?

To know—to see clearly—to understand that one paragraph, who would not
be willing to go hence to-night? For if it is God and immortality, there
would be no fears, doubts, pitiless days of self communion, ending in
that pale despair which strikes into the soul of every man whose soul is
his own and who thinks. And if it is all Chance (a thought repellant and
unbelievable to one who thinks), or even the Great Unchance of fixed,
immutable, but unloving and uncaring Law—as many believe—then why suffer
to this palsied, dust-turning end?

[Illustration: GENERAL LEW WALLACE]

From the lips of babes, from the humble and the ignorant, what wisdom!
Here is some of it:

On a morning after a cyclone where I once lived, amid the death of nearly
threescore people, and the wreck of homes, a friend met an old negro,
whose wife and children had been killed, and his home blown away. There
was the usual compassion and condolence and trust from the learned man,
who had lost nothing. But the old negro said: “Marster, the man that you
calls God—yo’ God—it ’pears to me that he do about as much harm as he do
good!”

I have wondered since—often and often—if our God—the God our little minds
have been able to grasp—to whom some people falsely attribute revenge and
cruelty and murder—if he is not as the old negro said; and I have prayed
that I might live to know the God Which Is, and that he would permit me
to understand the things which do stagger me now!

Were these things really chances? Take each one of them and sift it to
its very beginning—follow up the broad stream of each till you find the
first drop of its water trickling over the blind bluff of the thing
unknown which staggers and stops you, and even to that last tiny drop you
will stand and find no answer to the question, and before that drop you
will stop again, look up at the stars and ask the same question: “Is it
Chance, is it Law, or is it God?”

Let us take the first one: Why was Buell a day late? A thousand little
things—a march from Nashville to Savannah, planned with ample time, yet
delayed. What delays? Hundreds of them—follow up any one of them and it
will end in the drop.

Let me give you one which came under my personal recollection: Some ten
years ago I stopped one night at a hotel in Chicago, known as the Kuhn
House. After registering, the proprietor sought me out. He had been one
of Buell’s chief engineers, and upon seeing where I was from—Columbia,
Tennessee—he wanted to know if the old bridge across Duck River at that
point was still standing. “It was there,” he said, “that we saved Grant’s
army and made him President instead of prisoner. I was given two days”—I
think that is the time he stated—“to repair the bridge, the flooring of
which had been torn up and the structure half burned before we reached
it. But we had heard rumors of a great battle pending near Savannah and
though we had received messages from General Grant saying there was no
need for undue haste, we were marching for all we were worth. I felt,
somehow, that great things were at stake, and I doubled my force and
worked day and night completing the repairs so that the artillery might
pass over in just half the time given me; and that time saved, put us in
Savannah twelve hours to our good. I have often wondered what would have
happened had I taken my full time to repair that old bridge over Duck
River at Columbia.”

Chance. Might-have-been! Tell me what they are and I will tell you what
God is!

Grant and Buell threshed out their differences years ago before they both
passed into the shadowland, and nothing is more interesting than the
grave and dignified controversy between these two men. Grant, great as
he was in war, was out of his element with a pen in his hand; and in the
written battle, Buell, to my mind, has worsted him. Nor was it Buell’s
fault that this controversy arose. It came about from the exaggerated
desire of the friends of the Army of the Tennessee to shield Grant and
Sherman from the blunders they so clearly made and which should have been
acknowledged by them like men, instead of trying to belittle the part
that Buell played. For Buell had enough to his own credit.

In his very able article in _The Century_, Buell demonstrates at least
very clearly to his own mind:

First. That Grant and Sherman were neglectful in preparing for this
battle.

Second. That Grant’s army was too badly scattered, and he, himself, too
far away from the front when the battle opened.

Third. That Grant and Sherman were surprised.

Fourth. That they were whipped.

Fifth. and (Q. E. D.) that Buell saved them.

Here is Buell’s very succinct, graphic and convincing statement in the
beginning of his paper and argued throughout with the greatest ability:

    “An army comprising seventy regiments of infantry, twenty
    batteries of artillery and a sufficiency of cavalry lay for two
    weeks and more in isolated camps, with a river in its rear and
    a hostile army, claimed to be superior in numbers, twenty miles
    distant in its front, while the commander made his headquarters
    and passed his nights nine miles away, on the opposite side
    of the river. It had no line or order of battle, no defensive
    works of any sort, no outposts, properly speaking, to give
    warning or check the advance of an enemy, and no recognized
    head during the absence of the regular commander. On a Saturday
    the hostile force arrived and formed in order of battle,
    without detection or hindrance, within a mile and a half of the
    unguarded army, advanced upon it the next morning, penetrated
    its disconnected lines, assaulted its camps in front and
    flank, drove its disjointed members successively from position
    to position, capturing some and routing others, in spite of
    much heroic individual resistance, and steadily drew near the
    landing and depot of its supplies in the pocket between the
    river and an impassable creek. At the moment, near the close of
    the day, when the remnant of the retrograding army was driven
    to refuge in the midst of its magazines, with the triumphant
    enemy at half-gunshot distance, the advance division of a
    reinforcing army arrived on the opposite bank of the river,
    crossed and took position under fire at the point of attack;
    the attacking force was checked and the battle ceased for the
    day. The next morning at dawn the reinforcing army and a fresh
    division belonging to the defeated force advanced against the
    assailants, followed or accompanied by such of the broken
    columns of the previous day as had not lost all cohesion, and,
    after ten hours of conflict, drove the enemy from the captured
    camps and the field.”

It will be seen from the statement in his article that one of the
strongest points he made as to the unpreparedness of Grant’s army is
the repeated fateful turning of the flanks of the different divisions
throughout the day, in one of which Prentiss was captured. He says:

    “The outflanking so common in the Union report at Shiloh is not
    a mere excuse of the inferior commanders. It is the practical
    consequence of the absence of a common head and the judicious
    use of reserves to counteract partial reverses and preserve the
    front of battle.”

[Illustration: GENERAL GRANT.

As he appeared at the time of Shiloh]

From this alone he argues all the misfortunes of the different divisions
acting independently and without a common head. Their flanks turned again
and again as each fell back with no warning from the others. And this is
his graphic statement of the critical ending of the first day’s fight:

    “Before the incumbrance of their success was entirely put out
    of their day, the Confederates pressed forward to complete
    a seemingly assured victory, but it was too late. John K.
    Jackson’s brigade and the Ninth and Tenth Mississippi of
    Chalmer’s brigade crossed Dill’s ravine, and their artillery
    on the south side swept the bluff at the landing, the missiles
    falling into the river far beyond. Hulbert had hurriedly gotten
    into line in rear of the siege guns, as they are called in the
    official report, posted a half-mile from the river, but for
    five hundred yards from the landing there was not a soldier
    or any organized means of defense. Just as the danger was
    perceived Colonel Webster, Grant’s Chief of Artillery, rapidly
    approached Colonel Fry and myself. The order of getting the
    battery which was standing in park into action was expressed
    simultaneously by the three of us, and was promptly executed
    by Colonel Webster’s immediate exertion. General Grant came
    up a few minutes later, and a member of his escort was killed
    in that position. Chalmer’s skirmishers approached within one
    hundred yards of the battery. The number in view was not large,
    but the gunners were already abandoning their pieces, when
    Ammen’s brigade, accompanied by Nelson, came into action. The
    attack was repelled and the engagement ended for the day.... We
    know from the Confederate report that the attack was undertaken
    by Chalmer’s and Jackson’s brigade, as above stated; that the
    reserve artillery could effect nothing against the attacks
    from under the shelter of Dill’s ravine; that the fire of the
    gunboats was equally harmless on account of the elevation which
    it was necessary to give the guns in order to clear the top of
    the bluff, and that the final assault, owing to the show of
    resistance, was delayed. Jackson’s brigade made its advance
    without cartridges, and when they came to the crest of the hill
    and found the artillery supported by infantry, they shrank
    from the assault by bayonet alone. Jackson went in search of
    co-operation and support, and in the meantime the attack was
    superseded by the order of the Confederate commander calling
    off his troops for the day.”

His description of how things looked when he landed at Pittsburg Landing,
of the demoralized condition of Grant’s army, is graphic in the extreme:

    “On the shore I encountered a scene which has often been
    described. The face of the bluff was crowded with stragglers
    from the battle. The number that at different times has been
    estimated at five thousand in the morning to fifteen thousand
    in the evening. The number at nightfall would never have fallen
    short of fifteen thousand, including those who had passed
    down the river, and the less callous, but still broken and
    demoralized, fragments about the camps on the plateau near the
    landing. At the top of the bluff all was confusion. Men mounted
    and on foot and wagons with their teams and excited drivers,
    all struggling their way closest to the river, were mixed up in
    apparently inextricable confusion with a battery of artillery
    which was standing in park without men or horses to man or move
    it.”

There lives near me in honor and good name, General Gates P. Thruston,
one of the greatest scholars of the South, and perhaps the greatest
living ethnologists of this country. He was with Buell, and corroborates
his chief, and he refers me to General Lew Wallace’s oration, delivered
at Shiloh, April 6th, 1903, in which General Wallace uses the following
language:

    “Did any of you, my friends, ever hear of an army fighting a
    battle without a commander? No? Well, that was the case with
    the Army of the Tennessee at the beginning of the first day
    here. The five divisions on the field had each its chief, to
    be sure; but none of the five chiefs was in general command.
    Instead of one supreme governing will, nowhere so essential as
    in battle, there were five officers, each independent of the
    others. Between them things were done by request, not orders.
    No one of them was responsible for what the others did. I am
    sure you will see the enormity of the disadvantage. You will
    even wonder that there was any resistance made.

    “I may not pass this point without an explanation. To do so
    would be grossest injustice. General Grant, as everybody knows,
    was in command of the Army of the Tennessee at the time. By
    order of General Halleck, his headquarters were at Savannah,
    ten miles below Pittsburg Landing. Hearing the guns, he made
    all haste to the scene of action, arriving there four hours
    after the attack began. It was then too late for him to change
    the day. The battle had passed beyond his control.

    “A strange circumstance that, certainly; but what will you say
    to this I offer you next? The Confederate army left Corinth
    for Pittsburg Landing on Thursday, in the afternoon. It moved
    in three corps—Hardee’s, Bragg’s, Polk’s—with Breckinridge’s
    three brigades in reserve. The intention was to attack the
    Army of the Tennessee Saturday morning, but it was not until
    late Saturday afternoon that the entire army reached its
    destination and was deployed. Here, now, is the marvel. How was
    it possible to move the three great army corps into as many
    lines of battle, each behind the other, within two miles of
    Shiloh Church, without making their presence known? Were there
    any Union pickets out? How far out could they have been? Had
    they no eyes, no ears? It would seem not. For at five o’clock
    Sunday morning, when Hardee moved to the attack—I give you all
    permission to wonder while you listen—neither General Grant at
    Savannah nor one of his division commanders on the field knew
    of the peril, or even suspected it.”

Of the other great chance or blunder of Shiloh—Grant’s recall of Lew
Wallace—let us now speak. Early in my study of this battle I stumbled on
this so unexpectedly that it filled me with surprise. It was beyond doubt
the greatest opportunity of Shiloh, as I mentioned in a previous paper.
The story of it by Lew Wallace himself, is the most interesting paper
ever written about that battlefield. For many years the distinguished
author of “Ben-Hur” was made the scapegoat of Shiloh. He bore it like
the man he was, but history will now vindicate him and nothing has given
me greater pleasure than to contribute my share toward his vindication
in this series of papers. At the time I arrived at the conclusion I did
concerning General Wallace’s brilliant movement during the first day’s
fight, I did not know that he had ever explained it himself, but seeing
the position I took, and the conclusions I deduced, a friend has sent me
the account General Wallace wrote of it himself and turned it over to
General James Grant Wilson to be published by General Wilson after the
death of the author. This was done last January by the Appletons,[1] and
it is useless to add that the author of “Ben-Hur” has told in no usual
way the graphic story of that blunder of his superior which made Wallace
a scapegoat instead of a hero of that much misunderstood fight. I quote
only part of it, but this part bristles with interest, and is enough:

    “On the 6th, the memorable Sunday, a sentinel woke me from
    sleep on the steamboat serving me for headquarters. He reported
    cannonading up the river. When I reached the hurricane deck
    dawn was breaking. The air was humid and heavy, but still.
    The guns were quite audible. Five minutes—ten—and then the
    irregular pounding, sometimes distinct, sometimes muffled, kept
    scurrying down the yellow flood of the river. Directly the camp
    on the bluff became astir.

    “My staff officers reported to me. One of them (Lieutenant
    Ware) I sent to Colonel Smith with directions to form his
    brigade and conduct it to ‘Stoney Lonesome.’ Another (Major
    James R. Ross) was dispatched at speed to Colonel Thayer with
    orders to have everything ready to move; continuing his ride,
    he bore an order to Colonel Wood of the Third Brigade to break
    camp, send baggage and property to the landing (Crump’s) and
    bring his regiments to the rendezvous at ‘Stoney Lonesome.’
    The purpose of these orders was to have the division ready for
    movement when General Grant, who was at Savannah for the night,
    should pass in his dispatch boat going up the river.

    “About 8:30 o’clock General Grant drew alongside, and a
    conversation, substantially (almost literally) the following,
    took place:

    “‘Have you heard the firing?’ he asked.

    “‘Yes, I have been listening to it since daybreak.’

    “‘What do you think of it?’

[Illustration: NASHVILLE PIKE, NEAR SPRING HILL, DOWN WHICH ROAD BUELL
MARCHED]

    “‘It is undoubtedly a general engagement.’

    “‘What have you in your front?’

    “‘There is nothing reported.’

    “He then said, after thought: ‘Very well. Hold yourself in
    readiness for orders.’

    “‘But, General, I ordered the concentration about daylight. I
    am ready now.’

    “Again he reflected. He seemed uncertain. It afterwards came
    out that he believed the real attack would be on me. Presently
    he repeated: ‘Hold yourself in readiness to move in any
    direction.’ The pilot bell rang, the lashings were removed and
    his steamer put off up-stream hard as it could go.

    “There was general disappointment among my officers. I was
    disappointed; but without remark I left the boat. My last order
    at the Landing was to have a horse saddled and bridled and
    hitched to a tree on the bluff, that a messenger coming down
    the river with an order for me might bring it without delay.
    Thereupon I rode out to ‘Stoney Lonesome,’ where Smith and
    Thayer were waiting, arms stacked. The Third Brigade had not
    yet arrived.

    “The men were clustered together in groups. They were doing
    little talking. Their faces were turned to the south,
    listening. Occasionally musketry could be heard accompanying
    the artillery. Smith and Thayer and their staff officers
    collected around me, and were surprised when I told them the
    order General Grant had left me.

    “Ten o’clock, and still the air laden with noises of the
    struggle going on—still no order; 10:30—yet no order. Smith got
    into his saddle and rode away, saying: ‘I guess Grant sees he
    can get along without us.’

    “Eleven o’clock. The firing was no longer continuous, but at
    intervals and in outbursts. Thayer suggested that an order
    might have been started and the messenger intercepted. I
    thought not; for if the situation on the field called for us,
    the possibility of an accident to a courier by land would
    necessitate sending him by boat. So I ordered a staff officer,
    Major Ross, to ride to the landing and see if anything had come
    down by the river. About half a mile down the road he met an
    officer on the horse I had left, who asked him where General
    Wallace was. Ross told him; then he asked, in turn, if he
    had orders for General Wallace. The officer said he had, and
    gave the Major a paper, which the Major read. In a short time
    Captain Baxter, a Q. U. of General Grant’s, introduced himself
    to me and placed the paper in my hand, saying: ‘Here is an
    order.’

    “Our watches showed 11:30 o’clock. The officers of my staff
    and of Thayer’s closed around me while I read. The paper was a
    half sheet of foolscap, dented with boot heels and soiled with
    tobacco juice, and it was folded, not enveloped. The writing
    was in pencil. Strangest of all, no signature was attached. I
    passed the paper to Thayer to read, and, turning to Baxter,
    asked: ‘How is the fighting going, Captain?’

    “Baxter replied: ‘Very well. We are repulsing them all along
    the line.’

    “The paper was returned to me, and I read it a second time,
    and, noticing its deficiencies, inquired:

    “‘Who is this from, Captain?’

    “‘General Grant.’

    “‘Why is it not signed?’

    “He then explained: ‘I received the order verbally. Not being
    used to carrying orders, I picked the paper from the floor of
    the cabin as I came down and wrote what you see. I was afraid I
    might make a mistake.’

    “General Grant, speaking of the order, has several times said
    that he sent it to me not later than 10 o’clock; that it
    directed me to march to Pittsburg Landing by the lower or river
    road; that he gave it verbally to a staff officer, and did not
    know what it was when delivered to me. Of course, he could
    not know, but I do; and others, some dead, some living, who
    read it, have given their accounts of it, so that I can speak
    with confidence. Here it is—as I received it, mark you—almost
    verbatim:

    “‘You will leave a sufficient force at Crump’s Landing to guard
    the public property there; with the rest of your division march
    and form junction with the right of the army, your line at
    right angles with river, and be governed by circumstances.’

    “Observe, if you please, that the words by the lower or river
    road to Pittsburg Landing are omitted, leaving nothing but a
    naked direction for me to march and form junction with the
    right of the army.

    “Do I deny General Grant’s version of the order? I believe he
    ordered me to Pittsburg Landing by the river road because he
    says he did, and because at 10 o’clock, when the whole army
    was slowly and sullenly retiring to the river, it was the
    order logically right and first to present itself. Moreover,
    by inserting in the body of the order actually brought to me
    the words ‘to Pittsburg Landing by the lower or river road,’ we
    have sense in the other direction to ‘form my line of battle
    at right angles with the river,’ otherwise without sense. At
    the right of the army, out three miles from the Landing, how
    was the angle to be ascertained? Why, then, did I not lead
    my column to Pittsburg Landing? And I answer, because the
    order Captain Baxter delivered to me contained no mention of
    Pittsburg Landing or of any road. Satisfied that I comprehended
    it, I passed the paper to Colonel Thayer; others about us at
    the moment read it. I gave it finally to Captain Kneffler, my
    Adjutant-General, who probably stuck it under his sword belt.
    It was lost during the day. On account of its informality, he
    attached no importance to it, and, as I shared the opinion, I
    never blamed him.

    “My first thought was, where is the right of the army? Captain
    Baxter’s good news settled the point. If not where it was
    in the morning, then Sherman must have advanced. In short,
    Sherman’s camp was now my goal, and I knew it was just beyond
    the bridge at the junction of Owl and Snake Creeks, on the road
    from Pittsburg Landing to Purdy. To get to it by the shortest
    route and in the quickest time from the corner of the V my
    brigades were in, I must take the right-hand road. General
    Grant has said in a footnote of his ‘Memoirs’ that, in the
    absence of an express direction, if I had been an older soldier
    I would have marched to Pittsburg Landing, and thence, as from
    a base, out to Sherman. I think not. He forgot the news I had
    from Baxter as to the condition of the battle; besides which,
    by taking the right line of the road fork, the distance of the
    march would be reduced nearly, if not quite, three miles; in
    addition to which, again, the column would be on the very road
    Myers had bridged and corduroyed for me. So I sent word to
    Myers to lead out for the Owl Creek bridge next to Sherman’s
    camp.

    “I asked myself, to be sure, if we are beating the enemy, and
    he is on the run, why the want of me? And why the order to form
    my line at right angles with the river? I could not answer,
    but rested implicitly on the order. Grant was on the ground—he
    knew—that was enough. The idea of defeat never entered my mind;
    and starting, as I was, with intelligence of a victory already
    won by our army, what ground is there for the imputation that I
    had the achievement of some special glory in purpose?

    “The road we were pursuing had been well repaired. The cavalry
    had done its work substantially, and we bowled along. By the
    firing we could tell we were nearing the battle. We took no
    note of time. Somewhere about half after one o’clock—I remember
    the head of the column was reported in the vicinity of the
    Owl Creek bridge—a cavalry officer, quite young and capless,
    covered with mud, slashed across the forehead, rode up from the
    rear and asked:

    “‘Are you General Wallace?’

    “Without pulling rein, I replied.

    “‘General Grant,’ he said, ‘has sent me to tell you to hurry
    up.’

    “Up? To the right of the army, of course; so I returned: ‘Give
    General Grant my compliments, and tell him I will be up in a
    few minutes.’

    “The courier rode off the way he came—a circumstance which,
    if I had had the slightest suspicion that my movement was in
    error, would have prompted calling him back for question.

    “So, in absolute unconsciousness of mistake, I pushed on.
    Several times officers came to me and remarked upon the firing
    so far down on our left. And it was curious. Had we been
    repulsing the enemy, he should have been in the south, not so
    nearly in the southeast. But I settled the point, at least
    to my own satisfaction. ‘The fighting has ceased on front of
    Sherman; but they are keeping it up away over on our left.’
    From the position my column was then in, the left of our army
    should have been well down toward the river in an almost
    easterly direction—certainly far enough in that direction to
    dispose of the only mistake General Grant attributes to me in
    the footnote corrective of the text in his ‘Memoirs.’

[Illustration]

    “Finally the revelation overtook me. A second messenger came
    up from the rear. It was Captain Rowley, well known as of
    General Grant’s staff. He it was who reported to his chief that
    he found me marching to Purdy and several miles farther from
    the battlefield than when I started. From ‘Stoney Lonesome,’
    Purdy lies west; whereas the road upon which he overtook me
    runs almost due south, and Shiloh Church, marking the left of
    Sherman’s camp, could not have been to exceed two miles from
    where Rowley and I held the conversation, which I will give
    very nearly in exact words. The fact is, he was himself out of
    his reckoning, if not lost.

    “‘I’ve had a devil of a time to find you,’ he said, in high
    excitement.

[Illustration: JOHNSTON’S MONUMENT AT SHILOH]

    “‘I am sorry to have put you to trouble,’ I returned, checking
    my horse. ‘What is it?’

    “‘The General has sent me to hurry you up.’

    “‘That’s the second message of the kind in ten minutes. I don’t
    understand it.’

    “‘Where are you going, anyhow?’

    “‘To join Sherman.’

    “‘Sherman!’

    “‘Yes.’

    “‘Come to one side with me.’ We went a little out of the road.

    “‘Great God!’ he said, ‘don’t you know that Sherman has been
    driven from his camp? And that the whole army is now within
    half a mile of the landing, and it’s a question if we are not
    all to be driven into the river?’

    “To my exclamations Captain Rowley went into details. There
    are kinds of fear; but nothing of that nature can shoot one’s
    marrow so to the core as the dread of making a mistake in a
    situation such as Rowley then flung me. Yet I could see with
    astonishing distinctness that I had led my division into the
    rear of the rebel army, or rather that the whole victorious
    army was between me and Grant.

    “My first impulse was to go on. A vigorous assault upon the
    enemy’s rear might turn defeat into victory. Two years later,
    at City Point, General Grant told me that if he had known at
    Shiloh what he then knew he would have ordered me where I
    started to go. To which I add, if I had known the moment Rowley
    was talking to me that General Nelson was on the right bank of
    the Tennessee, with a possibility of crossing his division to
    the left bank at Pittsburg Landing before night, I would have
    continued my march at all hazards. As it was, I did not even
    know that General Buell was within fifty miles of Savannah.
    Why, in the morning at Crump’s Landing, General Grant did not
    tell me that a considerable part of the Army of the Ohio was
    within supporting distance of the Army of the Tennessee has
    been a mystery to me from that day to this. It must have been
    that he did not yet believe there was seriousness in the rebel
    demonstration at Pittsburg Landing.

    “Captain Rowley, it is to be observed, did not estimate that
    there was a mistake in my movement to the right of the army. I
    told him it was plain that I was in the rear of the rebel army,
    and asked categorically: ‘What does General Grant want me to
    do? Do you bring me an order from him?’

    “‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘General Grant wants you to go to Pittsburg
    Landing, and he wants you there like hell.’

    “‘Very well, I shall obey him,’ I said. ‘But it will be
    necessary for me to back out of this and find a cross road to
    take the column into the river road. You have just come through
    the swamps; stay, now, and pilot me.’

    “He declined, and presently left me; then, thinking to find
    a crossing into the river road before the head of the column
    would lap the foot, I sent Captain Kneffler, who was still
    with Major Myers at the Owl Creek bridge, intelligence of
    the altered situation and a desire that he would remain with
    Myers and help take care of the rear. Thereupon I ordered a
    counter-march by brigades. The tactics of the movement have
    been criticised, and I now think justly. I should have resorted
    to a right-about of column.

    “Note, now, please—when we thus changed direction, from the
    south facing north, it was to march completely around the
    left flank of the Confederate army. Note, also—when the
    counter-march was ordered, not only was my cavalry holding the
    bridges at Owl Creek, scarcely a half-mile from the bluff on
    which the right of Sherman’s division rested in the morning,
    but Thayer’s advance guard had been some time turned into
    the Hamburg-Purdy road, and could not have been to exceed
    three-quarters of a mile from the bridge. And, marvelous to
    say, not a sign of the enemy had been seen! The inference is
    that the rear of the Confederates was unguarded. Indeed, it has
    been told me by reputable officers of their side that at the
    time of my approach there were fully as many of their soldiers
    looting and drinking in the captured camps as there were of
    ours burrowing under the bluffs down at the landing. Who shall
    tell the result had I been permitted to go on in my march? Many
    a time, seeing as we see in dreams, I have beheld Thayer’s
    deployed regiments moving through those tented streets, a wave
    crested with bayonets, and heard the demoralized hordes rushing
    panic-stricken upon their engaged lines. And now, in moments
    when personal ambition gets the better of me, I hold Rowley’s
    coming my greatest quarrel with Fortune. Oh, if he had remained
    lost in the woods an hour longer!”

[1] _Appleton’s Magazine_, January, 1906.

[Illustration]




SOME BEAUTIFUL WOMEN OF THE SOUTH


[Illustration: MISS ALETHA VARDAMAN

Daughter of the Governor of Mississippi

_Sweeney, Jackson_]

[Illustration: MRS. J. C. W. BECKHAM

Wife of the Governor of Kentucky

_G. B. Waggener, Philadelphia_]

[Illustration: MISS EULALIE GORMAN

Dallas

_Voorhees & DeVoe, Dallas_]

[Illustration: MRS. THEODORE PERRY SHONTS, OF WASHINGTON]

[Illustration: MRS. WILLIAM ATKINSON JONES

Warsaw, Virginia]




AUNT HETTY ON THE “WET AND THE DRY”

By Louise Clarke Pyrnelle


    [The editors feel that they will not be treating their readers
    fairly unless they call especial attention to this picture
    of Alabama negro life and the unusual cleverness of the
    dialect.—Editors Taylor-Trotwood.]

The town of Luckville had been from its very beginning “wet;” that is,
there had always been a saloon or “doggery,” at which whisky could be
bought by the pint, quart or gallon.

But the discovery of phosphate beds in the river near town had brought
in a number of new residents, many of them “temperance folks.” So at the
next election the town voted “dry,” and no liquor could be bought there
except from the drug store by a doctor’s prescription.

This law remained in force for three years, and now, on the verge of
another election, the opposing factions were busily and earnestly at
work for their respective sides. It was at this time and under these
conditions that Aunt Hetty began loudly to proclaim her opinions on the
“wet and the dry.”

“Humph! De whi’ fo’ks is all de time er-gittin’ up some kin’ er ructions
er nuther ’long uv deyse’fs! Dat’s des whut mek me say whut I does—dat de
whi’ fo’ks is de cuttin’upist an’ de gwineonist fo’ks dat de good Lawd
evah made! Dey’s er-votin’, er dey’s er-fightin’, er dey’s er-co’tin’ up
teh de cote-house, er dey’s er-doin’ sump’n er-nudder dat-a-way de whole
indurin’ resistunce uv dey time! Now dey’s ’scussin’ uv de ’wet an’ de
dry’! Humph!

“Hit’s all one teh me! I knows I ain’t er-gwine teh hab no bar-room
mahse’f, an’ I ain’t er-gwine teh pestah nobuddy frum habin’ er bar-room
ef dey wants one. Dat’s des perzac’ly whar I stan’s.

“I done seen de wuckin’s uv de bar-rooms, an’ ergin, on de yutheh han’,
I done seen de wuckin’s uv de drug-sto’. I done study uv ’em bofe thu’
de ’newvehmunts uv dat ole niggah Pomp, whut nomuhnates hisse’f mah
husbun’—do’ I ain’t nevah seen no mighty ’mount uv _husbun’_ ’bout him.
He’s des er lazy, biggity, ornerary ole black niggah, whut got hisse’f
tied up in de bon’s er macremony des feh teh git his vittles an’ his
lodgmunts. But he done bin er-livin’ er-long uv me now er-gwine on a
mighty heap uv yeahs, an’ I got so used teh see him er-hangin’ ’roun’
mah house tell hit ’pyears lak I cyarn’ do bedoutin’ him—lak sump’n’s
er-missin’ ef he ain’t dar.

“But ’scusin’ all dat, he sho’ is de _on_temperatist man, white er
black, dat evah wuz bawn! He des natch’ly _bleedged_ feh teh drink ef he
knows dar’s enny kin’ uv liquidmunts er-roun’! W’en de whi’ fo’ks had
de bar-rooms ole Pomp he got pow’ful pyeart! He tuck’n tuck my ax an’
went all er-bout er-splittin’ an’ er-cuttin’ up wood—but de Lawd knows
he ain’t nevah cut an’ split none feh _me_! An’ den he digged in de
blossom patches feh de whi’ fo’ks. An’ let er-lone all er dat, mah hens
got teh doin’ mighty cur’s—dey’d cackle lak dey wuz er-layin’ pow’ful,
but I nevah could fin’ de fust rudemunts uv er aig. I mought er done
a onjustice to de po’ ole niggah, but I ’spicioned him ’caze I hearn
tell uv him er-sellin’ aigs, an’ hit don’t ’pyeah natch’l feh er man
teh sell aigs w’en he ain’ got no hens uv his own feh teh lay ’em. Dem
two ingrejunces—hens an’ aigs—des ’pintedly b’long to one er-nuther. Ef
you got hens you’ll git aigs, an’ ef you ain’t you won’t. Dat is, not
natch’ly! Uv co’se dey _is_ shawt cuts you kin take feh to git ’em, an’ I
’spicioned mah ole man uv takin’ dem vehy cuts—an’ mah aigs wid ’em.

“Well, dem an’ his wuckin’s fotch him in a little sal’ry, an’ evah night
he’d go teh de bar-room. Ef he had fo’ bits he’d buy er fo’-bit bottle;
ef he had two bits he’d buy er two-bit bottle; so, ’cordin’ teh his
bits wuz de size uv his bottle. Den he’d stan’ er-roun’ an’ tell his
’speriunces an’ notate his tales, an’ sing his chunes, an’ de gen’l’mun
would treat him to beeh an’ segahs. An’ des es long es dat bar-room stay
open, ole Pomp, he’d stay dar. An’ evah night hit wuz de same thing! Evah
_re_gitimate cent Pomp could scrape up stopped slap dar in dat bar-room!

“So I wusht teh de Lawd de whi’ fo’ks ’d shet up dem bar-rooms, an’ bless
de Libbin’ Goodness, dey tuck’n done dat vehy thing!

“Den dey made de law dat nobuddy could git er drink ’ceptin’ ef dey
wuz sick an’ had de doctah’s subscription feh teh git it by. W’en
dat ole Pomp got er clear ondehstan’in’ uv dat ’ar law he des hump
hisse’f! De niggah wuck so hahd an’ step er-roun’ so pyeart, an’ look so
’ligious-minded dat I got mighty holped up erbout him. But, _umph-umph_,
honey, dat ole niggah, he sho’ sly! W’en Sat’d’y night come he ties er
hank’cheh ’roun’ his ole jaws an’ gits him er stick an’ limps up teh de
drug sto’. W’en de doctah notice him he say, ‘O-o-oh, Lawdy-Lawdy,’ lak
he mos’ daid. An’ de doctah ax him, ‘Whut’s de mattah wid you, Uncle
Pomp?’ An’ dat weekid ole Christyun niggah, whut’s es strong es er
natch’l bawn oxen, he ’lowed, ‘O-o-oh, Lawdy, doctah, I feels pow’ful
bad, thank Gawd!’ ‘Whut seem teh huht you now?’ sez de doctah, an’ ole
Pomp ’spon’s back teh him, ‘Well, suh, I don’t perzac’ly know des whut
it is. I got er miz’ry in de off side, an’ I’se afeerd I’se busted de
rim outeh mah stomach. I knows I got a achin’ in de pit uv mah back, an’
mah livah’s all gummed up! An’ dis laig—o-o-_oh_—hit seem lak hit ain’t
hung right er sump’n—hit ain’t _plum_, somehow. So I thought I’d ax you
ef you’d be so onscruperlous, suh, as teh gib me er subscription teh git
a drap uv whisky teh rub on intun’ly, suh, on dese stiff ole j’ints uv
mine, ef you please, suh.’

“So dat ole backslidin’ niggah, he wuck on de doctah’s symphonies tell
de doctah gib him de subscription, an’ he gib de doctah fo’ bits. An’
on top uv dat he hatter gib er dollar an’ er quawteh fo’ de vehy same
kin’ an’ same remount uv whisky dat he git frum de bar-room feh fo’ bits
befo’! Lawzy, chillun, hit wuz des lak I bin er-tellin’ you! An’ evah
week hit wuz de same prefawmunts tell hit set me teh studyin’. An’ I done
’pintedly come to dis ’clusion, dat ef er man is _got_ teh hab whisky—des
natch’ly boun’ an’ ’bleedged feh teh hab it, hit don’t mek much diff’unce
whedder it come frum de bar-room er frum de drug sto’. An’ ef dey calls
de bar-room de ‘wet’ an’ de drug sto’ de ‘dry,’ den de mos’ diff’unce is
’twixt an’ ’tween er dollah an’ six bits—countin’ de subscription—an’
fo’ bits. So I tells you dis, honey, w’en it comes to bar-rooms an’ drug
sto’s hit’s des nip an’ tuck—mos’ly tuck.”

[Illustration]




[Illustration: MY LOVE]

BY LILLIAN WESTER


    You have been mine, O Love!
      One fair, sweet day;
    Last night you left the courts of men
      And passed my way.

    I did not ask, O Love!
      In wish nor prayer,
    For one so strong, so wholly good,
      To think me fair.

    I did but hope, O Love!
      From humble sphere,
    To sing one song so true that you
      Might pause to hear;

    Might pause, and find, O Love!
      _That_ path more sweet,
    When Chance should bring you once again
      Where strayed my feet.

    But then you came, O Love!—
      ’Twas night with me—
    You smiled and drove the shadows far,
      And I could see.

    You took my hands, O Love!
      And with your eyes
    You looked my soul away from me
      To where yours lies.

    I weep, my Life, my Love!
      But then the tears
    Are for the days before you came,
      Not coming years.

    You came, my King, my Love!
      And in your eyes
    I lost the fear of days, and found
      A Paradise!




OLD HICKORY

BORN AT WAXHAW SETTLEMENT, MARCH 15, 1767

DIED AT THE HERMITAGE, JUNE 8, 1845

By Robert L. Taylor


The most noted character in American history, one whom the coming ages
will number among the truly great, was born at a point so obscure that
its exact location is still in dispute. On the remote frontier of the
Carolina colony, whose boundary lines were uncertain; far up on the
forest-clad banks of the Catawba, whose slopes were just beginning to
feel the pioneer’s axe; on the fifteenth day of March, 1767, Andrew
Jackson was presented to humanity.

The story of his mother partakes of the tragic, the heroic and
the pathetic. The daughter of a fairly prosperous linen weaver of
Carrickfergus, she linked her destiny with young Andrew Jackson, a
Scotch-Irishman, and, after a few years at home, they left the shores of
the Emerald Isle, seeking fortune in the new colonies. Scarcely had they
fixed their abode in the Waxhaw Settlement and begun to make a home, when
death claimed the young husband, and the bereaved widow was left almost
destitute, with two young sons, Hugh and Robert, her sole dependence.
Within a few days Andrew was born, and necessity forced her to send her
eldest son, Hugh, to live with a relative, while she and the two younger
made their home with another.

Here in the primeval forests young Andrew began to imbibe that love
of liberty which fitted him later so to bless humanity. His education
was obtained in the old field school, but, impatient of its restraints
and loving best the rifle and the chase, he spent the earlier years in
developing the sinews of a vigorous manhood.

When yet a mere lad the sweep of the Revolution reached the Waxhaw
Settlement, and Mrs. Jackson willingly gave her two older boys to the
service of the colonies, but clung to her youngest born until the insult
of a British officer gave intensity to an inclination that was destined
to cost England so dear.

[Illustration: OLD HICKORY]

Peace found young Andrew bereft of mother, brothers and worldly
inheritance, but with a vigorous constitution, a chivalrous sense
of moral duty and a deep, abiding love for his country, he set out
resolutely upon an unexampled career, the chief characteristic of which
in earlier years was reckless daring, in which he was unconsciously
laying the foundations for that intrepid adherence to right principle
that later set him apart and above his fellows. Of uncommon mental
endowment, he easily acquired such education as was then obtainable and
adopted the profession of law, and when but twenty-one years of age
he fell in with the adventurous spirit of the times on the frontier
and made his way with the pioneers into the Southwest Territory. After
lingering in the Watauga settlements a time, he followed the trail still
farther into the wilderness until he reached the beautiful basin of the
Cumberland, where he took up his final abode.

There, from the first, he took his place easily and naturally as a leader
of men and began to work out that great destiny which will link his name
indissolubly with liberty and free government as long as men love to be
free, the symbol of the soundest and strongest fundamental principle in
government ever conceived by man.

Measured by the moral standards now obtaining, many of his acts and
habits in those earlier years cannot be justified, although there is
little to indicate that they were held to be reprehensible then. His
chief characteristic was towering and intolerant mastery of men, his
greatest foible was his love for a race-horse, and he left nothing
further to be done in following both bents, and yet he was actuated
in everything by the highest conception of honor and principle, and
imparted dignity and the virtue of his own indomitable character to every
transaction in which he engaged.

The annals of men do not afford, and fiction has never conceived, an
instance of more sublime devotion to womanhood than Andrew Jackson held
for his wife. He loved her with an intensity of tenderness that was the
exact antithesis of that fierce and stormy love of adventure and aptitude
for arms that possessed him; and if nothing else were known of him but
this, it would enshrine his name forever. She could not have been less
than a charming, loving woman to have deserved the devotion of such a
man and held it to the end, and she sleeps now by his side under a slab
inscribed with a tribute by his hand that for entreating tenderness of
sweet affection is scarcely paralleled:

    “Here lie the remains of Mrs. Rachel Jackson, wife of President
    Jackson, who died the 22d of December, 1828, aged 61. Her
    face was fair, her person pleasing, her temper amiable, her
    heart kind; she delighted in relieving the wants of her
    fellow-creatures and cultivated that divine pleasure by the
    most liberal and unpretending methods; to the poor she was a
    benefactor, to the wretched a comforter, to the prosperous an
    ornament; her piety went hand in hand with her benevolence, and
    she thanked her Creator for being permitted to do good. A being
    so gentle and so virtuous, slander might wound, but could not
    dishonor. Even death, when he tore her from the arms of her
    husband, could but transport her to the bosom of her God.”

Jackson’s character as a warrior and a statesman are so conspicuous as
to dwarf by comparison his record as a lawyer. It is said that he filed
seventy lawsuits for clients in the first month of his practice, and that
out of one hundred and ninety-two cases before the court in 1790 he was
counsel in forty-two. Three years later his cases numbered seventy-two
out of one hundred and fifty-five, and the next year he increased this
to two hundred and twenty-eight out of three hundred and ninety-seven.
It was no inconspicuous lawyer who could make such record as this. But
for his other resplendent traits, his reputation as a jurist might rest
more securely, but it doubtless suffered much by his own indisposition to
build his fame upon it.

He was only eight years in Tennessee before being made Major-General of
militia, which in those times meant active service in the field. His
career as a soldier needs scant recapitulation here to establish the
statement that it was characterized by a most unselfish patriotism. He
hesitated at nothing when his country’s interests were in jeopardy,
creating opportunities and anticipating the power to meet them, daring
even to invade a friendly territory, to disobey superior orders, to take
fate and destiny in his own hands at any peril to himself.

It was this same unchanging, unconquerable spirit of invincible daring
that characterized his administration of the government and nerved him
to defy and conquer the money power that was then dominating the country
through the United States Bank and gave him power to meet and quell the
turbulent and dangerous doctrine of the right of a state to nullify a
proper act of Congress.

The most conspicuous service rendered to mankind by Andrew Jackson was
the creation and enforcement of the political cult that is expressed in
his name. “Andy Jackson Democracy” has no mere partisan significance, but
it denotes a principle and power in popular government that is to save to
America forever the right of the people to rule themselves—the invincible
strength of a central government based upon the supreme power of the
separate states acting in harmony.

What was the secret of Jackson’s power? Whence came the attraction that
drew men to him as the magnet draws the needle? It is not difficult to
find the secret of his popularity with the pioneers. He appealed to them
through his devotion to the “sport of kings,” for no man loved a fast
horse or would risk more upon its prowess than he, and he led the sport
in which the people most delighted. And then he stood first in all the
feats of daring to which frontiersmen were addicted—a perfect shot,
swift of foot, a mighty wrestler, capping it all off with a spirit of
chivalrous gallantry and a gentlemanly bearing that rendered him superb.
But what drew the sage of Monticello to him? What gave him such mastery
in statecraft and charmed men to his standard? It was his inherent,
unswerving love of human liberty, his tense loyalty and stern faith in
the institutions of his country, his immaculate conception of right and
duty, and the superb fearlessness that possessed him, that made the man
_convincing_.

It is said that Jackson has more biographers than any other national
character. His career was so replete with incidents inviting
interpretation that writers are drawn to it like flies about the
sugar-bowl. Of no other man can historians resort to panegyric in
substitute of statement and be justified by public criticism. There are
perhaps more anecdotes told of him than any other public man, and never
one that does not denote courage and power and strength. Indicative of
his intuitive powers of quick decision is the story that when the subject
of a site for a new treasury building to replace that burned by the
British was broached one day, he was walking on Pennsylvania Avenue. With
instant emphasis, he struck his stick upon the ground and said: “Put it
here!” And there it stands to-day.

No man has lived who had a simpler human way of loving his friends and
hating those who hurt him than Andrew Jackson. His fiercest wrath,
however, was reserved for those who dared traduce his wife. In his
Florida campaign, when supplies failed the army, he set the example of
eating nuts and roots and berries. One of his friends at the other end of
a long table at a barbecue became involved in a difficulty, which Jackson
no sooner perceived than he cried, “I’m coming!” and, mounting the table,
strode its full length to the rescue. He was singularly tender to little
folks. How touching is the picture of this grim warrior, the seasoned
duelist, the fierce hater, tenderly wrapping a sugar-rag for a ragged
papoose found in a Creek village after a battle, and nursing it until
he could send it to a friendly woman in Montgomery! Such was his hold
upon the affections of his people that a certain traveler, reaching a
Tennessee town the day after he was elected President, found the populace
engaged in applying tar and feathers to two reckless burghers who had
dared to vote against the General! And there is still a happy valley
somewhere in remote Arcadia, we are told, where the old men hobble to the
polls quadrennially in November and cast a loyal vote for “Andy Jackson.”

His faculty for remembering faces and names was marvelous. In 1832,
returning from Washington to Nashville, he was tendered a reception at
Cincinnati. A rough-looking fellow was seen trying to make his way past
the reception committee. The General’s keen eye spied him and at once he
darted forward. “Hello, Ned!” was his hearty greeting, and, turning to
his bewildered committee, he explained: “One of my old boys in the Fourth
Infantry, gentlemen—had to release him from the guard-house once or twice
for fighting or stealing chickens, but he was a good soldier, gentlemen.”
“How long since you have seen him, General?” asked one of the committee.
“Oh,” was the matter-of-course answer, “it’s about twelve years. I saw
him on guard at the Governor’s house the day I left Pensacola.”

Early in the spring of 1845, after his arduous campaign in Polk’s behalf,
General Jackson’s health began to fail. He met the idea of death with
that same fortitude which nerved him when a lad of thirteen to suffer a
sabre cut rather than black a British officer’s boots.

His career, which had been like the blaze of the sun in the fierceness of
its glory, melted into a passing away as tranquil as a summer evening.
The majestic energy of an indomitable will gave way to the gentleness of
a heart rich in the tenderest affections. No man in private life more
completely possessed the hearts of all around him; no man ever retired
from public life with more complete mastery of the affections of the
people. No man was more truly and typically American in his ideas; no man
expressed them more boldly or more sincerely. He was always, under all
circumstances, wholly sincere and true. I cannot do better, in closing,
than to quote from George Bancroft, the historian.

“Up to the last,” he says, “he dared do anything that it was right to
do. He united personal and moral courage beyond any man of whom history
keeps the record.

“Before the nation, before the world, before coming ages, he stands
forth the representative, for his generation, of the American mind. And
the secret of his greatness is this; by intuitive conception he shared
and possessed all the creative ideas of his country and his time; he
expressed them with dauntless intrepidity; he enforced them with an
immovable will; he executed them with an electric power that attracted
and swayed the American people. The nation, in his time, had not one
thought of which he was not the boldest and clearest expositor.

“Not danger, not an army in battle array, not wounds, not widespread
clamor, not age, not the anguish of disease, could impair in the least
degree the vigor of his steadfast mind. The heroes of antiquity would
have contemplated with awe the unmatched hardihood of his character;
and Napoleon, had he possessed his disinterested will, could never have
been vanquished. He conquered the wilderness; he conquered the savage;
he conquered the bravest veterans trained on the battlefields of Europe;
he conquered everywhere in statesmanship; and when death came to get the
mastery over him, he turned the last enemy aside as tranquilly as he
had done the feeblest of his adversaries, and passed from earth in the
triumphant consciousness of immortality.”

Notwithstanding the fact of his incomparable successes at the bar, on
the bench, in Congress and on the field of battle, which demonstrate his
sense and genius, and although his state papers compare well with those
of any President, there are yet those living who believe him to have
been illiterate. If Colonel Colyar’s masterly “Life and Times of Andrew
Jackson” had naught else to commend it, it would deserve the commendation
of the American people in its complete refutation of the charge of
illiteracy, all-sufficient and incontestable.[2]

His faithful old body-servant remained at the Hermitage and kept his
grave green through all the years, and to all visitors who came he talked
about “de Gin’ral” as though he were still in the flesh. The story is
told that soon after the death of Old Hickory a visitor asked old Alfred
if he thought General Jackson went to heaven.

“I don’t know, boss,” promptly replied the old man, “whether de Gin’ral
went to heben or not, but dar’s one thing I does know—he did if he wanted
to!”

[2] Life and Times of Andrew Jackson. By A. S. Colyar, Nashville:
Marshall and Bruce.




DALE’S HIGHLANDERS

By Captain H. W. Carpenter

United States Marine Corps


One of the finest examples of what discipline can do in affecting the
conduct of soldiers and others whose lives are passed amid dangerous
surroundings, is furnished by the charge of Dale’s Highlanders at the
battle of New Orleans, January 8, 1815, just ninety-two years ago.

In order to understand just what this charge meant to the brave Scots, it
is necessary to summarize briefly the events which preceded the memorable
battle, a fight which, as one of General Andrew Jackson’s cannoneers
expressed it, “was lost before the fighting began,” for a peace was
signed while the preliminary movements were going on.

A powerful British fleet with a large military force under Sir Edward
Pakenham, brother-in-law of the Duke of Wellington, sailed from the West
Indies to attack New Orleans and arrived in Lake Borgne about December
twentieth, 1814. The small American flotilla which opposed their landing
was destroyed, and the troops disembarked on Pine Island.

Finding themselves in a swamp, the British floundered through the mud
until about nightfall of the first day of the advance, ground suitable
for a bivouac was discovered near the Mississippi River, and not far
from the position along the Rodriguez Canal, which had been selected
by General Jackson for the defense of the city. Here, behind hastily
constructed works of mud and cotton bales, were drawn up the defenders,
composed of a few United States regular artillery, volunteers from New
Orleans and Kentucky, many of the latter unarmed; a force of pirates and
smugglers from Baratara Bay, under their captains, Dominique and Beluche;
and last, but not least, about twenty-five hundred backwoods riflemen
from the Cumberland Valley, in all not above thirty-two hundred men.

Hardly were the invaders established in their bivouac before they were
rudely disturbed by a night attack from the Americans, during which they,
for the first time, discovered the prowess of the backwoodsman and his
long rifle, and during the short fight which followed lost two hundred
and thirteen killed and wounded, and seventy captured.

Reinforcements, which increased their number to thrice that of the
Americans, having arrived from the fleet, the invaders remained in or
near their bivouac until the morning of December thirtieth, 1814, but
never for a moment were they permitted to be at peace; for by day their
hiding places were sought out by the guns of the gunboat _Carolina_, at
anchor in the river, and as soon as night enfolded them the backwoodsmen
took up the bloody work. Sentries were shot down as they walked their
posts, and to enjoy the warmth or light of the camp fire was but to
court almost certain death from the unerring rifles. Knife and tomahawk
also played their parts, until the harassed British were not only
panic-stricken at the swift death which overtook so many of them, but
bitterly complained of the uncivilized methods of their adversaries.

The situation became so serious that Sir Edward himself came up from the
ships to take over the command from General Keane, and plans were at once
perfected to relieve matters by attacking the troublesome enemy. The
commander in chief could not be made to believe that there was anything
to be feared from backwoodsmen and untried militia when they were
confronted by the pride of the British army in battle formation.

The Americans had been very busy with their works in the meantime, and
had also mounted thereon five small field pieces, so that when, on the
morning of the fourth day after Sir Edward’s arrival, a force of about
two thousand men advanced to storm their position they were ready and met
the adversaries with such a storm of well directed lead and iron that
they were repulsed, and being unable to withdraw from the field sought
shelter in the ditches and drains until, under cover of darkness, they
were able to retreat, leaving over one hundred dead upon the field.

Sir Edward had become convinced that these men behind the mud walls were
something different from the militia he had been accustomed to denounce,
and therefore called a council of war and erected a battery composed
of sugar hogsheads, mounting thirty-five guns within a third of a mile
from General Jackson’s works. The attack was then renewed, but it was
a repetition of the first one, so far as results were concerned, for
the infantry were repulsed and the battery with its thirty-five guns
completely dismantled. The British loss in this attack was eighty-odd
killed and wounded, beside the thirty-five guns.

Reinforcements again arriving from the fleet. Sir Edward, furious and
chagrined, determined, for his honor as well as for his safety, to renew
the assault with such a force as would overwhelm the militia by mere
weight of numbers, if nothing else, and therefore remained inactive for
eight days in order to allow his men to get over the ill-effects of the
two former failures, and to bring up every available man for the final
effort.

On the morning of January 8th the British were early astir, and it was
soon discovered from the American lines that the enemy was about to
deliver his assault in three columns. General Keane’s Foot and Colonel
Rennie’s Rifles formed the left of the British line; General Gibbs, with
three thousand Peninsular Veterans, the right; Dale’s Highlanders, nine
hundred and fifty strong, the center, and a force of about two thousand
foot, under General Lambert, as a reserve—in all, about eighty-five
hundred men.

Over them all hung a silence as of the grave, for none knew better
than these men that they were about to march to almost certain death
at the hands of the backwoodsmen and their long rifles. At break of
day, by rocket signal, the columns moved into position; but some
plantation buildings which concealed the advance of the Rifles having
been set on fire by the American guns and the attack unmasked, Colonel
Rennie promptly ordered a charge, for he had already been discovered
by Commodore Patterson in the _Louisiana_, whose guns were decimating
his ranks. The riflemen were immediately met by such a hail of bullets
and grape from the breastwork guns and the backwoods rifles that they
hesitated, halted, and the few that remained erect finally sought safety
in flight, leaving General Keane, Colonel Rennie, and two-thirds of their
number killed or wounded on the field.

Owing to some misunderstanding, the attack of General Gibbs’ column was
delayed, but, after some hesitation, advanced to within one hundred yards
of the works, where they were met by such a storm of American lead as to
kill General Gibbs and to cause his men to melt away like snow before the
summer sun.

Word of all this came to Sir Edward, who was with the Highlanders, and
Colonel Dale was at once ordered to advance ahead of the wreck of General
Gibbs’ force, which command was at once obeyed by the Scots, who started
forward steadily and with bagpipes playing, only to be engulfed in the
rout of the comrades in retreat. Colonel Dale was killed, Sir Edward
Pakenham fell pierced by three balls, and, as all that remained of the
other columns were in retreat, the fight was lost beyond repair.

The brave and thoroughly disciplined Highlanders alone remained. They
could not advance, they would not retreat, so they remained where they
were, under the galling fire of the long rifles, until out of the
original nine hundred and fifty scarce four hundred remained alive and
erect. Lieutenant Lavack achieved the distinction of being the only
Englishman over the walls that day. The remaining Highlanders surrendered
and no hostile British soldier remained upon the field. The fight was
short, sharp and decisive, lasting but thirty minutes.

General Lambert, with the reserves, did not come within range, but of
the six thousand British actually engaged, two thousand one hundred had
fallen—more than one in every three. Of the fourteen hundred wounded, six
hundred died within the week. Seven hundred and thirty dead were buried
where they fell.

The American loss was only eight killed and thirteen wounded by artillery
fire. The British retreated to their ships and sailed away, and New
Orleans was saved, but discipline only could have caused that magnificent
charge of Dale’s Highlanders at a time when they very well knew the
battle was lost and the way in which they were to go was strewn with the
bodies of those who had gone before.




THE FALSE FRANCISCO

By William A. Branan


Jones felt bad about it. Demurely distant, she sat in the patio of her
father’s _casa_, black of eye and red of lip, the most interesting sight
he had seen south of the Rio Grande; and not a decent word could he say
to her in her own language.

For Jones had never been in Mexico before—nor did his course at Columbia
embrace the study of Spanish. Had his knowledge of baseball, football and
highballs been a source of honor, no doubt he would have graduated at the
head of his class; but to his everlasting shame be it said, he was sadly
deficient in the languages. So he gave vent to a few remarks of some
warmth—in English, of course, confident that the little _señorita_ would
not detect the quality of his foreign expressions.

Now, Jones was not in Chihuahua for his health, either in the strict
or common usage of the word; in fact, his shoulders were rather broad
for his height, and the healthy color of his cheek carried no sign of
affliction. And as for the other use of the word, Jones had departed
from his home in the States with ease and without undue haste—nor had
a description of his person been wired to the Mexican officials on his
departure.

But Jones was a tourist in the truest sense. He had nowhere in particular
to go, and he took his time to get there. In less than three days after
his arrival in Chihuahua he was worse than a _peon_ about the sunny side
of the house; in less than a week he had caught the spirit of _mañana_
and could lie like a native when the occasion required; in truth, he was
an idler in an idle land.

After a few days in Chihuahua Jones had secured apartments at a Mexican
hotel of the smaller sort, the better to get in touch with the language
and customs of the people as soon as possible. His landlord was one of
the wiry, working class of Mexicans, with a genial smile that never
called for less than _un peso_; but it was the landlord’s dark-eyed
daughter who caught the eye of Jones.

Now, she was seated on one of the long, low benches in the patio of her
father’s hotel, her head slightly shaded by the flowers and foliage
behind her, while the sun streamed in spots and showed the clear color
of her face and hands. Jones thought he had never seen anything quite so
charming as the play of sunshine and shadow—and the pretty head with its
black lace mantilla. But how was he to express emotion? or admiration? or
anything? Certainly not in Spanish—if so, it must of necessity be a brief
and painful expression.

Still, Jones was of a sturdy New England stock that had despised
difficulties as far back as the Mayflower, and was not to be deterred by
the lack of a common medium. He cleared his throat, shuffled his feet so
as to attract attention to his maneuver and crossed the patio to where
she was seated.

“Do you _habla_ English, _señorita_?” he began, bravely enough.

“_No, señor_,” she said, with a demure droop of the eyes and a little
smile.

“The deuce you don’t!” he started to ejaculate, but wisely refrained,
aware that its appropriate application would hardly appeal to her.
Instead, he began again: “Ahem!—perhaps—er—I might _hablo_ Spanish, then:
_no sabe mucho_ myself,” he added, as if with a sudden inspiration.

But the maid merely tapped the stone floor with a small slipper to
the distant music of a band in the plaza around the corner, and made
no effort to help him in his dilemma, though she sent him a smile of
reassurance when he flushed and made a move to withdraw.

And then a glorious idea occurred to Jones. There was Francisco, the
remarkably radiant Francisco, all smiles because of his connection
with the _casa_! Francisco was not only chief cook, but enjoyed the
distinction of serving his own dishes in the dining room—and washing them
afterwards.

Jones remembered with satisfaction the smattering of choice English, with
a French flavor, that Francisco was wont to perpetrate on the guests of
the house. Francisco’s English was bad enough, thought Jones, but not
quite as bad as it might have been—especially in those lucid intervals
when he was anxious to see if the _Americano’s_ purse-string pulled _con
mucho gusto_. Certainly Francisco should be given a chance; he should act
as interpreter; he should tell the _señorita_ what he (Jones) thought of
her, and perchance he (Jones) might find out what she thought of him.

“Eet ees that the _señor_ weeshes that I make the speech for heem?”
Francisco inquired, with a polite shrug of the shoulders, when Jones
explained to him the emergency of the situation.

“That’s just it,” Jones answered; “you see, neither of us understands the
other, and—well, I rather like her looks, you know, Francisco. _Sabe?_”

“_Si, señor_,” and Francisco cleared away the remainder of a highly
seasoned supper—then the two left the dining-room together. There were no
longer any sunbeams to bring out the beauty of the flowers in the patio;
but the landlord’s daughter was still sitting there in the twilight.

“_Señorita_—” Francisco paused with eloquent eyes, then turned to Jones
for further instructions.

“Tell her,” said Jones, in a hoarse whisper, “tell her that she’s the
most exquisite—no, no, don’t tell her that—tell her that she will catch
cold out here in the patio,” he stammered.

“_Señor_, the _señorita_ will run far eef you espeak like that,”
Francisco remarked, with a deprecatory gesture of his brown hands.

“Well, tell her that I am delighted to see her looking so well,” was the
next effort of the persistent Jones.

“But yes—that ees more well.” Then Francisco turned to the daughter of
the house, indicated Jones with a curve of his thumb and spoke rapidly
in Spanish. It might as well have been Dutch for all the good Jones got
out of Francisco’s enthusiastic expressions. But the _señorita_ smiled
sweetly enough, and gave a glance from under her long lashes that was
worth a world of trouble to Jones.

“A-ha!—we’re coming on, eh—Francisco? Now, tell the young lady that
I—that she looks like a lovely little—er—rosebud.”

Again Francisco jabbered eloquently, eyes, hands and tongue making his
meaning clear, apparently, for the _señorita_ shyly drooped her head and
replied coyly.

“Tell her,” prompted Jones, devouring the star-like face, set in its
frame of jetty ringlets, “tell her I am going to walk around the plaza.
Ask her if she is going.”

“She says she cannot to go this night,” was the translation he received.
“She ees painful.”

“Well—er—tell her—er—”

“That you go to dream of her, you theenk of her alone only?” suggested
the accommodating Francisco.

“Yes, and—er—tell her that I—that we—will talk again. Tell her that—will
you, Francisco?”

After Francisco had conveyed this expression in its proper form, with
all the courtesy of the occasion, the two retired—Francisco to the
_cocina_, where the dishes were waiting to be washed, Jones to promenade
in the plaza and swing his cane to the music of La Paloma. Visions of
further conversations with the distracting beauty flitted before him as
he strolled under the orange trees—visions wherein the useful Francisco
figured not at all; wherein he saw himself holding a little rose-leaf
hand and uttering sweet nothings which needed neither bad Spanish nor
broken English for their interpretation.

Jones was shocked, to say the least; and for a moment he could hardly
catch his breath, much less command the attention of the lovers. There
they were, two of them—in fact, it usually takes two to complete such
a scene. The young Romeo was leaning against the bars of her casement
window, his face upturned to hers; their hands were clasped through the
grating, their heads were close together, and every now and then Jones
thought he saw—

It was an ideal scene—to the participants—re-acted there in the moonlight
from some Shakespearean play, till Jones rang down the curtain with a
laugh of ominous portent. For one of the lovers was Francisco and the
other—well, the other was the landlord’s daughter.

“Hello, there, Francisco, you rascal—what are you doing there?” Jones
demanded. It was eleven o’clock and Jones had just returned from the
plaza.

Francisco turned quickly, dropped the little hand held in his own, said
something of sinister sound in Spanish which could hardly be translated
into English, then—“Eet ees you, ees eet, _señor_?—so surpreesed am I!
I—I was—how the Engleesh?—hold hands weeth the _señorita_, ees eet not?”

“It is,” commented Jones, rather emphatically: “but I would like to know
what right you—you—”

“You see,” interrupted Francisco, cheerfully conscious that explanations
were in order, “the _señorita_ have made the promeese to marry weeth
me. We have eengaged—ees eet not?—to marree us if the _papa_ of the
_señorita_ wills.”

“Ah, I see!” and Jones gave a low whistle of dawning discernment. Then a
sarcastic smile spread over his face.

“But may I be so bold as to inquire, Francisco,” he resumed, “what part
you played in that interesting conversation of ours this evening? Why
didn’t you tell me you were engaged to her?”

“Eet was thees way, _señor_. Eet was the leetle trick of mine to see
the _señorita_ and say the speech for myself. When you say to me to tell
the _señorita_ that you are delighted to see her look so well, I say
the Americano ees deelighted to see you look so well, _señorita_—and
Francisco lofe you!”

“Well, I’ll be hanged! You infernal—” but Jones checked himself.

“And when the _señor_ say to tell the _señorita_ that he will be glad to
say the speech some other time, I tell the _señorita_ that Francisco will
be glad to meet her to-night at her weendow on the Calle Aldama. For I
love the _señorita_—ees eet not so, _queridita_?”

For answer a small hand found its way through the bars of the window to
the false Francisco, and Jones heard a low laugh of love and music.




THE STATE HOUSE OF MARYLAND

By George W. McCreary


The most historic building in Maryland is the State House at Annapolis,
the present one having been preceded by two others. The first was built
in 1696, and a curious account of its condition is to be found in Volume
20, of the Maryland Archives. This building had a short but somewhat
tragic history.

In the Journal of the House of Delegates for 1699, it is recorded:
“Memorandum that on thursday, July 13, about four or five of the clock in
the afternoone a violent flash of Lightning broke into the State House at
Annapolis, the house of Delegates being there sitting, which Instantly
Killed Mr. James Crauford one of the members for Calvert County & hurt
& wounded Severall other members and Shattered & broke most part of the
Dores and window Cases belonging to the said house & sett the said State
house on fier in one of the upper Chambers & Severall other Damages but
the fire was presently Quenched by the Diligence & Industry of his Excy.
Nathaniel Blakistone his Majtyes. Govr.”

In the Journal of 1702 it is referred to as a “Stadt House.”

In 1704 the State House burned down, but how the fire originated neither
the records nor tradition show.

The second State House was finished in 1706, and stood where the present
one now stands. It was in the form of an oblong built of brick, and
entered by a hall, opposite to the door of which were the judges’ seats,
for this building seems to have been used as a courthouse as well as a
State House. Over the judges’ seats was a full length portrait of Good
Queen Anne.

A cupola or dome surmounted the building, and was surrounded with a
balustrade and furnished with seats for those who wished to view the
scenery.

On the north of this State House an armory was built, in which the arms
of the Province were arranged, and when the room was lighted up by the
wooden chandelier, the effect must have been brilliant.

Portraits of Queen Anne and Lord Baltimore hung in this room, which was
often used as a ballroom.

On the west stood the famous King William School, established under
an act of 1696, and afterwards succeeded by the well-known St. John’s
College.

In 1769 £7,000 sterling was appropriated to erect the present State
House, the corner stone of which was laid by Governor Robert Eden on
March 28, 1772.

David Ridgely, the annalist of Annapolis, tells us that “there is a
tradition that on Governor Eden’s striking the stone with a mallet, which
was customary on such occasions, there was a severe clap of thunder,
although not a cloud was to be seen, the day being clear and beautifully
serene.”

In 1773 a copper roof was put on, but was blown off in 1775 during a
violent gale.

The dome was not added till after the Revolution, and is built of wood.

The height internally to the top of the dome is 113 feet, externally to
the tip of the spire is 200 feet. The length of the building is 120 feet,
the depth 82 feet. The architect was Joseph Clark.

An excellent view of the State House with grounds, plans, etc., with
surrounding buildings as they then stood, is given in the _Columbian
Magazine_ for February, 1789.

Its magnificent site, fifty-eight feet above sea-level, with its simple
architecture, has at all times excited the admiration of strangers and
citizens alike.

From time to time various additions have been made, the latest being the
addition ordered by the Legislature of 1902, in order to accommodate the
General Assembly.

Through the efforts of Governor Warfield, an ardent lover of all that
is patriotic, the old Senate Chamber in which Washington resigned his
Commission in 1783, has been restored to its original condition. The
scene of this act is depicted in the well-known picture by Trumbull.

The treaty of peace with Great Britain, and the convention of 1786
were both held in this building, which is especially sacred to all
Marylanders, on account of the associations which cluster around it.

[Illustration: CAPITOL, ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND]




[Illustration: MEN OF AFFAIRS]


Of the younger classical scholars in America, one of the best known
is Professor Mitchell Carroll, of the George Washington University,
Washington, D. C. Mr. Carroll was born in North Carolina and reared in
Virginia. His father was Rev. John L. Carroll, D.D., a prominent Baptist
minister. He received the degree of Master of Arts from Richmond College
at the age of eighteen, being the youngest student of the college ever to
attain this distinction. After some experience in teaching, he entered
the Johns Hopkins University for the pursuit of graduate studies in Greek
and Latin, where he was successively scholar and fellow, and in 1893
received the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. He has since passed some
years in study abroad, one at the Universities of Leipsic and Berlin,
the others in the American schools at Athens and in Rome. He was for two
years Professor of Greek in Richmond College, and since 1899 has been
head of the classical department in the George Washington University. He
has taken a prominent part in the recent development of the University,
especially in the promotion of scientific publications, of which he is
Director.

[Illustration: DR. MITCHELL CARROLL]

Professor Carroll is also one of the national secretaries of the
Archaeological Institute of America, and has traveled extensively in its
interests, founding affiliated societies of the Institute in St. Louis,
Cincinnati, Salt Lake City, San Francisco and in the Northwest. He holds
membership in the American Philological Association and in many other
learned societies.

Mr. Carroll is an official in the Calvary Baptist Church, of Washington,
and is the teacher of the celebrated Vaughan class for young men, which
is one of the largest and best organized young men’s classes in the world.

He is also a lecturer and an author. In addition to his contributions to
the literature of classical philology, he has published two volumes on
the history of Greek women, and was one of the editors of the “World’s
Orators.”

In September, 1897, Mr. Carroll married Miss Caroline Moncure Benedict,
daughter of Major E. D. Benedict, of Brooklyn. Their home, “Belair,” is
in Cleveland Park, one of Washington’s loveliest suburbs.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Buffington is an excellent example of the generation that was born
after industrial conditions in the South had been altered by the Civil
War. He was born in 1863, in Huntingdon, West Virginia, his father
belonging to a prominent family there, and his mother being a member of
the Nicholas family, of Culpeper County, Virginia. After the close of the
war, Mr. Buffington’s father moved his family to Covington, Kentucky, and
he spent his youth in that city, studying in the public schools and at
Chickering Institute, Cincinnati. In the year 1881 he entered Vanderbilt
University, where he remained for two years, returning to Covington
to engage in the manufacture of wire and nails. Close application to
business, earnestness and an unlimited capacity for pushing his work
along, built up the business, and in 1890 his company moved to larger
quarters in Anderson, Indiana. After eight years of telling work in
this new and enlarged field, Mr. Buffington was called to assume the
directorship of the American Steel and Wire Company in Chicago, and a
year later was made President of the Illinois Steel Company, the largest
concern of its kind west of Pittsburg.

[Illustration: E. J. BUFFINGTON]

Mrs. Buffington was Miss Drucilla Moore, daughter of Judge Laban T.
Moore, of Catlettsburg, Kentucky. Their handsome home is in Evanston,
where may be found quite a colony of Kentuckians.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was eminently fitting that the most intimate friend of the late
Sam Jones should succeed him as mayor of Toledo. Mr. Whitlock, while
understanding better than any other man in Toledo the political beliefs
of “Golden Rule Jones,” is, like him, a man of marked individuality, and
will not be bound by the traditions of any man or party. Like Mr. Jones,
he owes his nomination and election directly to the people and pays no
allegiance to any political machine, boss or party. Like Jones, his
only ambition is to make Toledo a city where the Golden Rule is really
the governing principle and not merely an empty phrase; and to make the
men of the city realize and live up to the liberty and independence of
their manhood. At the death of Jones, the corruptionists flocked to the
city hall and endeavored to resume their old-time control of municipal
affairs, but the common people, whom Jones had taught to recognize the
rights and duties of citizenship, went unorganized, but solidly, to the
polls and elected Brand Whitlock.

[Illustration: BRAND WHITLOCK]

We know Mr. Whitlock by his literary work. He has been a newspaper man
for years, and has published three successful novels—“The Thirteenth
District,” a novel of politics; “Her Infinite Variety,” and “The Happy
Average,” the last said to be autobiographical. He is also a lawyer and
is a close student of current affairs. He is an idealist who believes in
the present fulfillment of his dreams, and believes that all the problems
of life, whether social or political, depend for their solution on the
intelligence of the individual. To him the people are the foundation of
public power and public officials but their hired servants. He maintains
that the people can and should conduct their own government without the
aid of political machines, and that representative government is possible
in the present day. His only message to the people is that the power is
theirs and that they should never allow any man or set of men to take
it away from them. He makes no promises, simply pledging himself to
represent the whole people.

There is one thing of which Mr. Whitlock allows himself to be proud.
It is the Juvenile Court Bill, of Ohio, which he drew and was greatly
instrumental in having passed by the legislature. It provides for a
separate court for the hearing of children under sixteen, and it is Mr.
Whitlock’s earnest hope that a state “junior republic” may be the final
outcome of the work.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dr. W. M. L. Coplin is another Southerner who has attained distinction in
the city of Brotherly Love. He was born in Bridgeport, West Virginia,
in 1864. He was educated at Lindsay Military Academy, Fairmont State
Normal School, Mt. Union College, and later at Jefferson Medical College,
Philadelphia, from which institution he graduated in 1886. After
practicing his profession for nine years, he accepted the position of
Professor of Pathology and Bacteriology in the Vanderbilt University,
Nashville, Tennessee, where he remained one year. He then returned to
Philadelphia to assume the duties of a similar chair in the Jefferson
Medical College and to become Director of the Laboratories of the
Jefferson Medical College Hospital, positions which he still occupies.
He has held professorships in three medical colleges and a number of
national, state and municipal positions. For the last ten years he has
devoted his entire time to teaching and departmental organization, in
which he has shown peculiarly successful capabilities.

Dr. Coplin is an ardent research worker, and has conducted numerous
investigations along scientific lines; his experiments have rendered
the medical world invaluable aid in solving some of its most difficult
problems. He is a voluminous writer on subjects connected with Pathology,
Bacteriology and Sanitation, and is widely known by his contributions to
magazines. The fourth edition of his Manual of Pathology has just been
issued, and the Manual of Practical Hygiene is in process of revision.

[Illustration: DR. W. M. L. COPLIN]

In November, 1905, the mayor of Philadelphia bestowed upon Dr. Coplin
the highest honors which his adopted city could tender a physician—the
appointment of Director of the Department of Public Health and Charities,
a position for which he is peculiarly fitted, on account of his rare
administrative qualifications.

       *       *       *       *       *

Probably the most uplifting tendency of the times is that looking towards
the nationalization of instruction in the universities of the chief
countries of the world, shown by the Rhodes scholarships at Oxford; the
Roosevelt Chair of American Institutions at the University of Berlin,
endowed by an American banker; Mr. Stillman’s million-dollar gift to
the Beaux Arts in Paris and the American Academy of Art at Rome; the
Hyde foundation for Harvard professors at the Sorbonne; the Baron de
Coubertin’s prizes at Princeton, Leland Stanford and Tulane Universities;
the Duc de Loubat’s foundation for the study of American Antiquities
at the National College of France; and the opening, in the University
of Paris, of a department for the study of the History and Outlines of
American Law.

[Illustration: CHARLES F. BEACH, JR.]

The Paris Law School has five thousand students—about seven times as
many as our largest law schools—and they are drawn from every country in
Europe. The effect of such instruction on such a large and influential
body of opinion can scarcely be estimated. The lecturer chosen for
this course by the University was Mr. Charles Fisk Beach, Jr., who had
already discharged similar duties in an American law school and whose
writings on American economic topics have been widely quoted. Mr. Beach
was born in Kentucky, fifty-two years ago, and is a graduate of Centre
College. After completing a law course at Columbia University he went
abroad and studied at the University of Paris. He then returned to his
native country and began the practice of law, paying especial attention
to railway and corporation law, and acting as counsel for various
corporations and lecturing on Civil Law and Equity Jurisprudence.

In 1896 he established himself as consultation lawyer counsel in London
and Paris, this experience further adding to his fitness for the post to
which he was chosen by the French university. Mr. Beach’s first year’s
work proved so successful that the university extended its scope to
include American institutions as well as the history and general outline
of our legal system. His field of efforts has been extended also to
include alternate lectures at Paris and Lille the first half of the term
and at Bordeaux and Toulouse the latter half.

At the time of the great expansion of American commercial, financial and
political influence in Europe, and especially just now, when efforts are
being made to induce trading in American securities on the Paris Bourse
and to influence French investment in America, this phase of educational
reciprocity, conducing to a better understanding of our institutions,
promotes the welfare of the world, and particularly our own special
interests abroad.

[Illustration]




INDUSTRIAL EDUCATION IN THE SOUTH

II

COLLEGE OF INDUSTRIAL ARTS, DENTON, TEXAS

By Lillian Kendrick Byrn


[Illustration: SPECIMENS IN DRAWING AND DESIGN]

The history of a nation is determined by the home life of its people.
Just as the prosperity of the individual home depends upon the efficiency
and care of the partners in its making, so does the welfare of a nation
hang on the ability and earnestness of the individual citizens. The rise
of our own nation is due to the determination of our forefathers to found
a government which, from the national down through the state, county and
city forms, should be based upon the simple principles of upright family
life. Our ideas of social life and social equality could not have been
conceived under the influence of European institutions. Here, where those
in the humblest walks of life may be the nobility, and where honor is
conferred for merit alone, we have developed social customs to correspond
with our American spirit, and, proceeding on independent and original
lines, we have made our industrial and commercial system to control the
busiest marts, to break the records of history, to fairly alarm the world.

The chief element of the American spirit is the appreciation of high
ideals, not only in the national life, but in the education, the culture
and the industrial life of the individual. When we see new openings on
already established lines, it is characteristic of us as a people to
pursue these openings, even though they lead in directions directly
opposed to those which we have hitherto followed. Thoroughness and
earnestness are the keynotes of American progress, and these are the
characteristics which to-day give us our commanding position among the
nations.

Is it not fitting and necessary that a nation of such religious,
social, political and commercial originality and progress should
develop co-ordinate with these a system of education? The free public
school system is among the purest and most effectual of our democratic
institutions. It has fostered the American spirit, it has laid the
foundation for an American culture; it has, in large part, made possible
the present success in American industrial life.

Although it is many years since the doctrine of learning through doing
was first promulgated, it has remained for the present generation to make
the general application. Educators have been slowly, but surely, arriving
at the conclusion that the university ideals of Europe, which naturally
dominated our higher educational institution during the first century of
our history, and which still hold sway in certain of our colleges, are
not sufficient for our needs. Present-day conditions demand an education
which will afford culture and practical preparation for the common duties
at the same time. There is a loud and emphatic call for our schools to
cultivate the executive quality in our young men and women and to prepare
them for immediate, well-directed action in the affairs of life. Many
of our states have answered nobly the call for schools where boys can
be trained along practical lines which make for success and usefulness.
Nearly every state has its Agricultural and Mechanical College. This is
all very well for the boys, but how about the girls?

In past years institutions which were organized primarily to meet the
needs of men for their professional or business training have, largely
from a spirit of chivalry and esteem, been opened to women. Also, largely
from a spirit of social concern, some of the best friends of womankind
have, in a degree, popularized the typical woman’s college. In both cases
much good has been accomplished, but in neither case have the needs of
the education of women been fully met. Men’s colleges that have been
opened to women have given them the same training as is provided for men,
and the majority of the women’s colleges have patterned their curricula
after the same assumption. This theory leads women to contemplate man’s
occupations and professions as their only field of action, and, while it
may be the best in many individual cases, it does not provide for the
mass of women the kind of higher education mostly needed. From a social
standpoint, I believe in the co-education of the sexes, for education is
but a preparation for life, and it seems the plain plan of creation for
men and women to mingle, but from a practical standpoint co-education is
not always advantageous, resulting too frequently, as stated, in making
woman the competitor of man, instead of fitting her to work on her own
peculiar lines.

[Illustration: BASKETRY WORK BY STUDENTS]

The young woman whose education has been based upon efficient
scholarship, together with domestic and industrial training of a
practical type, brings into the marriage relation a comradeship which
grows out of her ability to sustain her part of the partnership. It is a
womanly instinct to want to enter her legitimate realm—the home. Equipped
with the training which gives her a righteous sovereignty, the integrity
of that home is assured. Is it not worth our while to promote as many
such homes as possible?

What is a rational education for the home-maker? If the ideal mother must
have, in addition to a literary education, a knowledge of kindergarten,
general needlework, including dressmaking, art in at least its elementary
forms, bookkeeping, the chemistry of foods and practical cooking, house
cleaning, first aid to the injured and nursing, and yet have the time
and strength to be a comfort and companion to her husband and a teacher
to her children, is it not asking too much of women?

[Illustration]

The answer is plain. While many of our household industries must
necessarily be placed in outside hands, the power controlling these
industries must remain in the hands of the home-makers. These demands
are not more than a woman can meet, for the same training that enables
her to know all this teaches her the laws governing her physical self,
how to control and conserve her energies so that they may be expended
to the best advantage. It prepares her for making and maintaining a
good home, the highest and best profession that a woman can enter; and
the mother in the home, teaching, as she does, by precept as well as by
example, during the greater part of the twenty-four hours, has need of a
scientific training for her lifelong occupation.

There are many women who do not surround themselves with the security
of home, there to peacefully work out life’s problems. Many find
it necessary to enter the industrial and commercial fields, and a
preparation which commands for these a living salary is imperative.

Texas, one of the youngest states, but already outstripping many of her
elders in the spirit of progressiveness, has taken up the question of
the industrial training of her girls with characteristic vigor. With a
system of state public schools provided for by the allotment of public
lands, whose revenues furnish a magnificent school fund, with a State
University in the first rank among its kind, with State Normal Schools
in every district whose population warrants it, with an Agricultural and
Mechanical College second to none, and with manual training in practice
in city schools all over the state, she established, by an act of the
Legislature in 1901, the school known as the College of Industrial Arts.
Denton, situated about midway between Dallas and Fort Worth and somewhat
north of them, was selected as the site of the school. The idea met with
hearty support all over the state, and it opened in September, 1903, with
one hundred and eighty-six students, representing eighty-eight out of the
two hundred and thirty-four counties of the state.

[Illustration: TYPEWRITING.]

These girls come from the country, town and city; from the homes of
bankers, lawyers, real estate men, mechanics, contractors, stockmen,
teachers, druggists, farmers, ministers, merchants and physicians. Some
are the daughters of widows and some are orphan girls. Some have earned,
in whole or in part, the means by which they maintain themselves, while
some are contributing to their own support by working while in school.
Some of them entered on teachers’ certificates, some on high school
diplomas, but the great majority entered on examination.

The student body is not only thoroughly democratic, but it is composed
of earnest, conscientious, hard-working students, who appreciate their
opportunity of obtaining a thorough, practical education.

The college is situated on the outskirts of Denton, in a campus of
seventy acres of rising ground overlooking the city and surrounding
country. It is well supplied with large, shady trees, and is covered
with Bermuda grass. In the rear is a fine grove of oaks, where it is
proposed to erect additional dormitories and class-rooms when the
financial growth of the school admits of it. At present only the main
building has been finished.

[Illustration: GARDENING.]

[Illustration]

In the basement of this is found the creamery, equipped with churns,
separators, cream ripeners, butter workers, cream testers, bottling
apparatus and scales. All is deliciously clean and dainty, and visitors
are allowed to enjoy the products as they are finished. Here the girls
are given a scientific, practical knowledge of butter and cheese-making
and the care and handling of dairy products for the market, including
pasteurization and sterilization; the use of hand and power separators
and testers, acid testing and churning, beside instruction in dairy
bacteriology and the composition and good value of milk, butter and cream.

In another well-lighted apartment, with cement floor, is the laundry,
with complete outfits for hand and machine work. Here again the practice
is supplemented with lectures showing reasons for washing—sanitary
and aesthetic; study of fibres and how to cleanse each, illustrated
by practical work in cotton, linen and silk; the effect of soft and
hard water and how to treat them; the preparation and use of different
cleansing agents.

[Illustration]

The basement also contains the manual training rooms, where wood
carving, wrought-iron work and modeling are taught. In a broad sense,
all of the manual and laboratory work in the curriculum is in the nature
of manual training, but especial attention is given to the branches
mentioned and to weaving and basketry and other work which prepares
students for positions as manual training teachers in the public schools.

On the first floor are the President’s, Secretary’s and other offices,
and the art room. This department provides technical courses in drawing,
applied design and painting. The work is designed to develop the
imaginative and creative faculty from the first, and to give thorough
training along industrial lines. Lecture rooms and the library occupy the
rest of the first floor, while the second is devoted to the chemical and
photographic laboratories and the commercial school.

[Illustration: CLASS IN BEE CULTURE]

This department is always well attended, and the course is exceptionally
interesting, including, as it does, a study of the routes and growth of
commerce, the production centers and markets of the world, the relative
value and importance of staple articles and where they are obtained;
bookkeeping, including household accounts; business correspondence;
penmanship; filing and other clerical work; reporting; stenography. It
is intended to meet the demand for more broadly intelligent and more
accurate office workers in commercial lines.

On the third floor are the cooking and sewing schools. An electric
program clock in the main office automatically calls off the time for
changes of classes in the corridors on all the floors.

One of the most thorough departments, and one which opens up new avenues
for woman’s work, is that of the Rural Arts. The spring term of the
first year is devoted to a study of the principles of fruit, flower and
vegetable growing. Each student has a garden for practice, and the care
of the products until maturity and their packing for shipment are shown.
Bee culture is another branch of this department. The students set up
hives, examine bees, select queens and learn how to manipulate swarms and
take the honey. Poultry keeping belongs to the list of popular studies.
Nearly every woman has a natural interest in the care of chickens. The
class has incubators and brooders, and looks after the houses and runs,
feeding and improvement of stock and preparation for cooking or market.

In all of the courses literary work has a prominent place. Industrial
training is most valuable, but, taken by itself, it is not sufficient.
The work at the College of Industrial Arts is arranged in proper
proportions for the best, all-round, practical training for life’s work.
In the early part of the course the literary feature naturally receives
emphasis, connecting with school work previously done by the students,
and preparing them for the deeper appreciation of the scientific features
of the industrial courses.

Nor are the lighter arts neglected. Vocal music, physical culture,
expression and modern languages—all find a place in the curriculum.

The health of the girls is a first consideration. The college physician
teaches physiology and hygiene, and renders his services to the sick.
With pure water from a deep artesian well and the delicious home products
of the school, however, combined with the exercise and regular life of
the students, there is a minimum of sickness.

Tennis and basketball seem to be the most popular games. A student
Glee Club furnishes a social feature, while there are several literary
societies and a flourishing Young Women’s Christian Association.

Who may attend the college? All white girls of good morals who have
attained the age of sixteen years, who have a fair knowledge of the
common school subjects, who wish to continue their education, including a
thorough, practical training, and who come to the college with the clear
and earnest purpose of doing their best work.

The living expenses are small, there being a number of co-operative
clubs in the town, and all expenses being reasonable. The college has no
appropriation for paying the way of pupils without means, but there are
a number of ways by which the cost of living may be reduced or made by
extra work.

President Work thus summarizes the mission of this institution: “We want
to meet the need of our times in training women who will be competent,
intelligent and refined; well fitted for self-support, if this should
be necessary; thoroughly prepared for woman’s work in the industrial
and commercial world, if they so choose to labor; well trained for
companionship with worthy manhood and for motherhood.”




THE MEASURE OF A MAN

By John Trotwood Moore

CHAPTER VII


It was early in December, 1814. It had been a hot summer in New Orleans,
and the fall had brought little frost, scarcely enough to kill the
vegetation. A sallowness lay over the landscape, a callousness and an
unknown dread.

All the fall this dread had lain over the city—the dread of the British.
And strange rumors had been mingled with that dread—rumors which shook
the fair Creole city to its depths, for they were a gallant and romantic
people, and the things which touched their women touched them; and never
before in all their history had any such foe threatened them in any such
language as came mingled with the rumors of the approaching British—this
threat which they had sent of “Beauty and Booty.”

And never had any threat so stirred a people to desperate resistance;
for the French Creole is chivalric and his woman is his god. And the
Southern-American—who was fully one-half of the people at that time in
New Orleans—is more than chivalric—he is a fighter.

At first, in the sallow, stagnated city, they had heard vague things with
scarcely any confirmation—of the British landing at Pensacola and Mobile,
and the Creole city gave a sigh of relief, for it was higher up the coast
the dreaded British would land, and not in their fair town.

Then came a rumor which thrilled them and threw them into a fervor of
patriotic enthusiasm—they were wild in rejoicing—it was too good—it could
not be true! But it was, and they knew of it the next day—positively,
surely, from Lafitte, the Baratarian pirate, whom Jackson had pardoned
and given the rights of an American citizen. It was Lafitte who told
them that for the first time in this war the British had been whipped
and driven out, both from Pensacola and Mobile, and that by a backwoods
fighter who was already headed for New Orleans and with the same troops
which had annihilated the Indians and driven the British from Pensacola.

There were bonfires and rejoicings that night. And Lafitte also was a
hero, though his crimes had been many and his robberies more.

And they had pictured great things of this Jackson in the interval;
surely he was a man magnificent, in gold tinsel and booted and in velvet
and stars—a new Napoleon, a Louis the Fourteenth, armed cap-a-pie, in a
new land to avenge their old foe. They would now defy the British—let
them come!—long live Jackson!

It threw them into renewed spasms of exertion. Things had been dead, but
now they were alive again; and Major Planché, the intrepid, rushed around
to harangue his brave guards and call upon them to defend their country
to the last!

It was several days later before they saw him, and then their enthusiasm
went the way of all French ebullition. For it was a small party of
horsemen who came in on the road leading from old Fort St. John to the
city, a gray-haired, sallow, emaciated, gaunt, but terribly in earnest
man, riding at their head. One glance from the Creoles and they knew he
needed treatment for malaria, and they wondered how he sat his horse at
all. And his dress—this proud Napoleon—it was absurd! Great boots, too
big for his feet and legs, threadbare uniform and a little leathern cap
on his head!

But his eyes—his way of going at things, his quick cut to the heart of
things, his quiet assurance to the people who crowded around him—so sure
that it carried absolute certainty and so bravely said that it fired them
to the fighting pitch: “They’ll not enter New Orleans save over my dead
body!”

Juliette had been in New Orleans long enough to love the place—as all
who live in it long enough do—when one morning she received a note from
Mrs. Edward Livingston to come over and help her entertain General
Jackson and his staff at dinner.

“My husband,” the lady wrote, “has been appointed his aide-de-camp, and
we shall give them a royal welcome. But I do confess, my dear, that I
scarcely know how I shall be able to entertain this wild General from
Tennessee—so do come and help me.”

Juliette smiled and flushed indignantly. “A wild General from Tennessee!
Mother,” she said to the older lady, “listen! Is there not a surprise in
store for her?”

The Livingston mansion, the most fashionable home in the city, had been
lighted with many candles when Juliette arrived. From its wide-pillared
portico a negro butler ushered her in where a hum of feminine voices
greeted her and a beautiful sight met her eyes. Besides herself, a dozen
of the most beautiful society women of New Orleans had been asked to help
receive the noted Indian fighter.

“Oh, what does he look like?” cried one, as soon as she saw Juliette
and greeted her, “and how shall we do to please him? I am told you know
him well, _ma chérie_—does he wear coon caps, and, O, what do you call
it?—furs?”

Mrs. Livingston came up, smiling: “Now, my dear, you must act as my
aide-de-camp. You must introduce me and all these girls to the General
and his staff, and do taste the punch and see if I have put enough
whiskey in, for they say he drinks it straight out of a dipper!”

There were sounds of footsteps on the portico and the clatter of swords
against spurs. The bevy of pretty women fell back in line behind their
hostess, with:

“There they are, now!”

Juliette fell back with the others, her face pale, for just as they came
into the door her quick eye had seen them, Major Livingston ushering them
in—and Trevellian among them.

Then her heart began to thump so loudly—her breath to come so quickly
that she felt as if she should faint.

She had heard of his deeds and his rapid promotion. Mrs. Jackson
herself had written her over a month ago—how he had led the troops into
Pensacola, taking a battery which was threatening them with a squad of
men. How he had helped at Ft. Bowser, driving the British out and (for
Mrs. Jackson would not omit this, since she had written the letter for
no other purpose)—he had been promoted to the colonelcy of the Tennessee
regiment in place of Bristow, captured by the British and taken off in
their man-of-war as it ran out of Pensacola: “And Mr. Jackson says,” she
wrote, “that he had met them secretly and was acting without authority at
a critical time.”

All this had gone through her mind as she saw them advancing. She smiled
when she saw General Jackson’s magnificent bow to Mrs. Livingston, and
that lady’s look of surprise, as with courtly grace, he turned and
introduced to her each of his officers. In turn she introduced him to the
ladies and when he reached Juliette he stopped, raised and kissed her
hand, saying:

“I am delighted to see you so soon after my arrival, my dear, for I was
just going to look you up,” and then with a wonderful memory for French
and American names, he turned and introduced each of his officers to the
younger hostess and the younger ladies, pronouncing their names as if he
had been familiar with them always. Taking Mrs. Livingston by the hand he
conducted her to a sofa and seated her amid the hum and hubbub of younger
voices mingling. Juliette turned. It was a pretty girl whispering in her
ear.

“Is this your backwoodsman? He is a prince.”

She turned, looking for a corner—anywhere to be rid of Trevellian’s eyes.
She saw him coming towards her, led by General Jackson. Seizing her by
the arm as if to prevent escape and holding Trevellian also for the same
purpose: “I wish you to greet and congratulate Colonel Trevellian, my
dear,” said the general, his eyes flashing proudly.

“I am happy to congratulate you, sir,” she said, her face paling, her
knees trembling.

He took her hand, pressed it and turned away.

But in that pressure she knew he loved her yet and she—never had hated
herself more, for she loved him.

The evening was nearly over. It had been a memorable one for all, for
Jackson’s assurance had made them all assured.

“Oh, he will whip them,” said Mrs. Livingston to Juliette; “he can
do anything. Backwoodsman?—he is a prince. What reserve power, what
force—what natural leadership! And do you know,” she pouted, “he has not
touched any of my fine dishes—he is sick—he eats only a little rice and
milk. Oh, I wish I could keep him here and nurse him! But I know, dear, I
feel the city is safe.”

Trevellian had talked to each of his hostess’ guests; he had spent the
evening seemingly satisfied with the chattering, jolly beauties around
him, but his thoughts were continually with Juliette. For it had been
many months since he had seen her, and he, too, had yearned. And then
when she shook his hand—that pressure, ever so slight, but it meant, and
he knew it—that she loved him.

Could he seek her and speak to her again? Had she not said and done
enough to cause a renewal of his advances?

While she was thinking he walked over mechanically, but his heart
beating as it never had before. She was alone, near the window on the
vine-covered veranda looking over the cooling, dew-gathering landscape of
the mild December night.

“I hope you have found it pleasant living here,” he said, “and that you
will suffer no fright from the fear of the British.”

“I am not in the least afraid,” she said, smiling toward General Jackson,
who, fatigued, was stretched out on a sofa before a small fire, while a
number of young people listened to his talk.

Trevellian shook his head. “It is a terribly serious thing. Half our
troops are still in the woods marching here. The Kentuckians have not
yet arrived. We have only 2,000 troops of all kinds yet in the city, and
Lafitte places the English he met on the sea at 10,000 alone, to say
nothing of their sailors and marines and ships of war. But the General,”
he went on proudly, “I believe he thinks he could whip them himself, and
he would try it. I do not say this to frighten you, but I wish you to
be prepared. If the British were to land before our other troops come,
God only knows how we could stop them. I think we should all have to die
here.”

She looked up at him quickly and in that look he saw all the sorrow of
love in her eyes.

“I, myself,” he said, “do not expect to live through this fight. I do not
want to, and that is why I have come to speak to you for the last time.”

He saw her frame quiver and tears spring to her eyes, but he went on:

“I shall leave with General Jackson a letter my father wrote to me before
he died, and which I found among his papers a few days after I first
met you. After this fight is over I want him to deliver it into your
hands—then you may think differently,” he added, “and I should not want
you to think evil of me after I am dead.”

“Tell me now,” she said, and turning she came up and stood looking into
his face, her eyes moist and yet afire with love and hope. “Tell me now.
I do so wish to hear you say.”

He could not restrain himself. He stooped and laid his lips on hers.

“It is my first—my last,” he said, and though she clung to his neck
for one brief moment and he heard her sob, he shook her quietly off,
and answered the call to horse that was sounded in the yard where his
commander and his aides had mounted and were ready to go.

“Goodbye, my darling,” he whispered. “I shall go on, knowing I have your
love and if I fall know that you were mine—forever.”

[_To be continued._]




A VISION


    My thoughts were earthy, and the tainted springs
      And ugly chattels of the city lay
      Along my path—when, as one doth obey
    A subtle call, soul-heard, that instant brings
    A voice, a vision of diviner things—
      I looked, and, lo! the sky, of softest gray,
      Was radiant with roseate tint and play
    Of light on clouds like wide, seraphic wings.
    Then faded all around me while my heart
      Was fixed on that bright cloudscape, passing fair,
    Tranquil and shining o’er the sordid mart
      As tho’ the embodiment of purest prayer.
    Ah, Master of all Beauty, would that we
    Each day some vision of Thyself might see!

                                                       _Ingram Crockett._




THE FIRST CAMP MEETING IN AMERICA

By Helen Harcourt


How and when did the now familiar camp meeting originate? Very few among
us can answer that question. Very few know that this unique means of
attracting the masses, especially those who, from necessity or choice,
rarely enter a church door, took its rise in this country in the year
1799. Those were early days, and primitive customs, and quiet, rural
simplicity were the rule, for the population of the young republic was
still small and scattered, but for the most part, that very simplicity
made the people all the more susceptible to any unusual religious
influences.

In the eastern part of the country, in the last year of the eighteenth
century, a remarkable revival spread from hamlet to hamlet, from town
to town, but the tidal wave of religion was not long confined to
that section. It quickly flowed westward and southward. Kentucky and
Tennessee, which were then attracting many home seekers, were especially
affected by the wave of religious enthusiasm that swept with resistless
power all over the United States. Veritable cyclonic centers of religious
forces appeared at the same time in many parts of the country, north,
south, east and west. Everywhere the power was seen and felt. Escape
from its overwhelming presence was impossible. “The great revival” was
the universal subject of conversation, and of wonder. Wherever a few
houses were clustered together, wherever a single pioneer’s hut arose in
the wilderness, there would soon be tethered the horse of the itinerant
preacher.

An apt illustration of this truth is given in an anecdote related by Dr.
Abel Stevens, the historian of Methodism. An itinerant preacher once
hailed one of these solitary pioneers, and asked permission to preach in
his cabin.

“What,” exclaimed the astonished pioneer, “are you here, too? I lived in
Virginia and a Methodist preacher came along and my wife got converted. I
fled into North Carolina, where I had hardly got settled before another
preacher came along and part of my family were converted. I went to
Kentucky, and they followed me there, but I thought this time I would get
beyond their reach. And now I have hardly got to this settlement till
here comes another preacher, wanting to preach right in my cabin.”

“My friend,” said the itinerant, “I advise you to make terms of peace
with the Methodist preachers, for you will find them everywhere you go in
this world. And when you die, if you go to Heaven, you will find plenty
of them there, and if you go to hell, as you will if you don’t repent, I
fear you will find some of them there, too!”

The pioneer thought it best to surrender.

In this great religious outburst, strict denominationalism was swallowed
up, and lost to sight. The discussion of mere creeds was forgotten in the
deeper demonstration of true Christianity. In the Southern States, more
particularly in Kentucky and Tennessee, the movement was particularly
strong. The sturdy Scotch-Irish element which was there in force, came
together at the meetings with skeptics, and non-professors of all shades
and degrees. All-day services were held on week days as well as on
Sundays. Throngs gathered from far and near, until their numbers became
so great that no building could shelter them. Still there was no thought
of camping on the spot. After the conclusion of each service, the people
sought their respective stopping places remaining there until time for
the next meeting.

It was late in the year 1799 that two brothers, John and William McGee,
the first a local Methodist preacher, the other a Presbyterian, started
on an evangelistic tour from Tennessee into Kentucky. On their way
they attended a sacramental service held by a Presbyterian minister
named McGreechy, on the Red river. The events that followed were a new
experience to the brothers, and were never forgotten. William McGee, who
was a personal friend of McGreechy’s, and, also, as we have noted, a
Presbyterian, introduced his brother, John, and the latter was invited to
“address the congregation from the pulpit.” He accepted the invitation.

“I do not know,” he writes of this incident, “that God ever favored me
with more light and liberty than He did each day while I endeavored to
convince the people that they were sinners, and urged the necessity of
repentance, of a change of nature to one of grace, and held up to their
view the greatness, freedom, and fullness of salvation which was in
Christ Jesus, for lost, guilty, condemned sinners.”

There were five preachers present, taking part in the daily services by
rotation. Four of these were Presbyterians, McGreechy, Rankin, Hodge and
William McGee, the fifth being John McGee, the Methodist. The effect of
their earnest exhortations was marked, and the frequent tears of their
hearers gave evidence of their power in awakening sleeping consciences.
On the last day of these revival meetings, during the “useful discourse
of the Rev. Mr. Hodge a woman in the east end of the house got an
uncommon blessing, broke through order and shouted for some time, then
sat down in silence.” Thus writes the Rev. John McGee.

This woman, whose name has not been recorded, thus has the doubtful honor
of being the pioneer shouter at an American revival meeting. As we all
know in these days, she was but the first of thousands. But at that time
it was altogether so new and out of order that during the interim that
soon followed, after which it was John McGee’s turn to preach, McGreechy,
Rankin and Hodge went out of the house, their sense of ecclesiastical
propriety having suffered a severe shock at the violent demonstrations
during the services. They felt compelled to withdraw their countenance
from what they considered an exhibition of irreverence.

The two McGees were thus left alone to address and guide the aroused
congregation. For a time they sat in perplexed silence, the people
remaining in their seats. All over the house there was a subdued sound of
moaning and weeping. Everyone seemed to be waiting for something more to
happen, though no one knew what the something might be. William McGee,
who, as we have noted, was a Presbyterian, presently quitted his seat on
the platform, and deliberately seated himself on the floor, evidently too
absorbed in thought to be conscious of this odd proceeding. Yet no one
smiled, or seemed to wonder at his act. The strain of waiting was too
severe, too intense, for smaller matters to intervene.

As for John McGee himself, he tells us that “a power which caused me
to tremble was upon me.” He told the story of that unique experience
in a letter written on June 23d, 1820, to the Rev. Thomas L. Douglas,
presiding elder of the Nashville district of the Tennessee conference of
the Methodist Episcopal church.

“Having a wish to preach,” he says, “I strove against my feelings. At
length I rose up and told the people that I was appointed to preach, but
that there was a greater than I preaching.” Then followed, instead of
the usual form of sermon, a recital of experiences effected by the power
of the spirit. McGee’s words were so earnest and impassioned that of his
hearers many broke silence. “The woman at the east end of the house
again shouted tremendously. I left the pulpit to go to her, and as I went
along through the people it was suggested to me ‘You know these people
are much for order. They will not bear this confusion. Go back and be
quiet.’ I turned to go back and was near falling. The power of God was
strong upon me. I turned again, and losing sight of the fear of man, I
went through the house shouting and exhorting with all possible ecstasy
and energy, and the floor was soon covered with the slain. Their screams
for mercy pierced the Heavens and mercy came down. Some found forgiveness
and many went away from that meeting feeling unutterable agonies of soul
for redemption in the blood of Jesus. This,” concludes the letter of the
Rev. John McGee, “was the beginning of that glorious revival of religion
in this country which was so great a blessing to thousands, and from this
meeting the camp meetings took their rise.”

In this quaint narrative, therefore, we see the inauguration of the
great revival meetings which soon came to be so largely attended that it
was necessary to build open arbors to accommodate the attendance. The
movement gathered strength as it spread north, south, east and west,
and camping on the spot followed as a natural result of the sustained
enthusiasm. From its first inception the plan and idea of camp meeting
life was to lift the mind for a season out of, and beyond all worldly
cares, and thus to permit the soul to feast on things spiritual. The
idea appealed at once to the primitive people of the rural communities
even more than to those of the cities. The simple life of the camp was
something they could understand and were used to. It was a mode of life
that they loved as well. Its popularity was such from the very outset
that it was no uncommon thing for the farmer who could not provide for
the attendance of all his family at the meetings, to load his big wagon
with cots, bedding, provisions and his family, and live in it, and under
it on the camp grounds, if he could not procure a tent, contented with
any sort of a shelter, so long as the meetings continued, which was
sometimes for several weeks.

The early camp grounds were attractive, yet very simple in their
arrangements. A thickly wooded site was always chosen, preferably on the
banks of a river or lake. Always, of necessity, there was water near
by, even if the camp could not be directly on its shores. Willing hands
cleared away the underbrush, made rude benches of logs, the ground under
them being strewn with new mown hay, fresh straw or pine needles. Other
willing workers marked off the boundaries for the circle of tents and
prepared the place for the preachers, building a platform and a rustic
pulpit. Then there was the “mourners’ bench”. This was an important
point, and was never omitted. It was a big log supported by stout forked
branches driven into the ground in front of the pulpit.

Gleaming through the dark, flickering shadows of the dense foliage
overhead, were seen the white-tented temporary homes of the people, while
behind them rose the blue smoke of the many outdoor kitchen fires, where
green branches and twigs served for fuel. Iron kettles on rustic cranes
hung over the fires, and in the hot ashes the savory odor of roasting
potatoes or apples rose on the air, mingling with the aroma of coffee,
the smell of roasting or stewing or frying meats and fish.

The program for each day was varied, although almost continuous. First
came a sunrise prayer service, at which the young people were most in
evidence, as also at the vesper service, which preceded the regular
evening sermon. At 9 o’clock were held “tent meetings,” preparatory to
the general service and morning sermon at 10:30. At 2 o’clock was held
the second service of the day, with a sermon. Before the evening service
began family prayers were held in the tents, while out of the twilight,
from tent and woods, resounded various hymns blending in a wild harmony
of praise. Then came a short period of restful silence, while the call
of the horn, or a voice from the pulpit, was awaited. At the sound tent
doors were thrown open and the eager throngs hurried to the place of “the
preaching.”

The night scenes at these camp meetings were really awe-inspiring. The
congregation was literally surrounded by a circle of fire. Even the trees
back in the shadows were festooned with candles, while small fires, the
remains of the supper-getting, smouldered in their midst. On each side,
and to the rear of the seated throng, were half a dozen or more large
platforms, eight or ten feet high, supported on heavy tree trunks. They
were covered a foot deep with damp earth, and on this roaring fires were
built of full length logs. The fierce crackle and thunder of the flames,
the clouds of sparks that flew up to be lost in the overhanging foliage,
the dense smoke that mounted to the skies, and the weird, uncanny shadows
that seemed to be instinct with life as they crept out of the inky
darkness beyond the flickering circle of light, united to make the scene
eloquent of awe.

After each of the three sermons of the day, the preachers “exhorted” and
urged the penitent, sin-convicted soul to kneel at the altar, and to
seek the mourner’s bench. These “after meetings,” as they were called,
were really the most strikingly characteristic features of the camp. So
mighty was the power at work in individual hearts, so great the effect
of mental and physical exhaustion, that many fell prostrate in the straw
before the mourners’ bench, and lay there as if dead. Others, again, were
differently affected, and uttered wild shouts of “hallelujah” and “amen,”
which, so far from disturbing the preacher, seemed rather to urge him on
to use yet more force in the delivery of his message of salvation for the
penitent sinner.

The singing at these camp meetings was in charge of a regular chorister,
but he was often unable to guide the great volume of sound that broke
out again and again from the hearts of the excited people, who sang
with more spirit than knowledge or rhythm. The leaders who guided
and supported the meetings were sincere and devout, and many of them
were of social and political prominence. Men and women of the first
respectability were constant in attendance, and many of them joined
in the work as earnestly as the preachers themselves. The peculiar
manifestations of the “after-meetings” are thus referred to by John McGee
in the letter previously mentioned to his Presiding Elder:

“The nights were truly awful. The people were differently exercised, some
exhorting, some shouting, some weeping, some praying, and some crying for
mercy, while others lay as if dead on the ground. Some of the spiritually
wounded fled to the woods, and their groans could be heard all through
the grounds, like the groans of dying men. From thence many came into the
camp rejoicing and praising God.”

Such scenes prevailed wherever camp meetings were held, the people,
ministers, laity, saints and sinners yielding miraculously, as it
seemed, to the sway of some strong spiritual influence. That many wild
and eccentric things were done and said, and that the borderland of
fanaticism was often overstepped, cannot be denied. But, in spite of
these extravagances of speech and action, which were certainly hindrances
rather than the opposite, the good effects of the camp meeting were
almost universally acknowledged. The moral transformations that followed
it in many communities were conspicuous, although, alas! such is human
nature, they were not always permanent in all cases of sudden and violent
“conversion.” But, in spite of backslidings, many and often, the camp
meetings of early days, as well as those of the present, were, and are,
productive of good, and serve their purpose of awakening the slumbering
conscience. The eccentric manifestations of feeling so characteristic of
the earlier meetings have, as a rule, toned down in these modern and more
repressive times, but they are not yet wholly subdued.




[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.

After some weeks he does so, being wounded in the flight. At this time
his dragoon pigeon being accidentally loosened by Mrs. Adams, returns
to Dunvegan and Helen Preston leaves her father, who is at home on sick
leave, to nurse her lover. Arriving at Charleston, she learns that his
friends there suppose him to have been destroyed in the sinking of the
_Housatonic_, but the faithful girl continues her search until she finds
him on James’ Island and nurses him back to health.

In the meantime Mrs. Corbin and her family have fled to Columbia and are
among the sufferers when that city is burned. Charleston surrenders and
the _Chronicle_ is confiscated.


CHAPTER XLVI—CONTINUED

Their officers, captains and colonels, stood by them and watched the
doomed city burn. A woman with her clothes on fire rushed screaming from
the door of her home. Hoarse cries for help came in the darkness. A lost
child called piteously, “Mother! Mother!” Drunken negroes fired pistols
into the faces of the women. As they bore Bessie on, seeking for a quiet
place, some drunken men, thinking they were bearing treasures, flashed
their firearms in the women’s faces and cried:

“Stop—hand over your silver and gold!”

Like the spring of a tiger, a blue arm shot out and a pistol flashed. One
of the men sank, stunned, on the sidewalk, and another with a shattered
arm rolled backward.

“The brutes!” “Old Secesh” muttered, “and to think that these boys wear
the blue!”

They were passing a graveyard, and Mrs. Corbin touched Helen’s arm.
“Look!” she exclaimed, in amazement. They were opening the graves.

They laid Bessie down on the grass, not far from the old convent, and as
they looked up they saw nuns and girls filing sadly out, the priest, with
uplifted crucifix, leading the way. The convent had been fired.

“I must see General Sherman!” Helen cried. “Auntie, stay here. I will go
for a doctor and get aid, too.”

“I will stay and guard the lady,” said “Old Secesh.”

“I’ll go wid Miss Helen.”

They turned and looked. Old Joe had found them. So they went in search
of aid and a physician. They had gone scarcely a block, when Helen
recognized Mandy, a neighbor’s cook. She was sitting on top of a great
wagon full of furniture and household goods—mahogany chairs, china,
paintings—and the coachman was driving the wagon. Thinking that Mandy had
bravely rescued her mistress’s goods, Helen cried:

“Mandy, where are you going?”

“Laws a-massy,” came back the answer of the fat negress from over the top
of the pearl-handled fan she was using, though it was the dead of winter.
“Laws a-massy, chile, I sholy is gwine back into de Union.”

And almost simultaneously Helen heard a moaning voice call to a neighbor
in the darkness:

“They have broken the chimes of St. Michael’s! What will Charleston do?”

As they went on, scenes of horror were on every side. Stores were being
gutted and their contents strewn into the streets. Hose, pierced with
bayonet holes, lay over the sidewalks. Flaming camphine balls were firing
every house that the wind had spared. Suddenly they were stopped by a
crowd of men which blocked their pathway. In their midst was a reverend
gentleman, and by his side was his wife. It was Mr. Shand, pastor of the
church.

“Open that box,” a soldier said.

“Gentlemen, I have not the key,” the minister replied.

“What’s the use o’ lyin’? What you got in there?”

“It is the communion service of our church.”

“Ach, mein Gott,” another broke in. “Vat a pious shentlemen!” A coarse,
loud laugh followed.

“Look here, hand us that key.” One of them took him by the collar.

“I have told you I have not the key.”

“Well, your watch, then.”

“It is in the ashes of my home.”

“Search him!”

But they found nothing.

Then the Dutchman spied old Joe, dressed in his best suit.

“Hello, you tam plack nigger! Vot for you haf some fine shoes on your tam
plack feet?”

Old Joe looked bewildered.

“Zhuck off dem poots.”

“Marster, sholy you ain’t gwine ter take mah onliest pair o’ boots?”

“Zhuck off dem poots, I tell you. Look at dees!” and his bayonet came
alarmingly near Joe’s head. So the darky sat down regretfully and pulled
his boots off.

“Ach, py tam, vot for a nigger haf zocks, dagleich? Zhuck dem off oncest!”

“Laws a-massy, you sholy ain’ gwine take mah socks, too, is you, marster?”

“Ach, you plack pup, vere did you get dem goot glozes already? Come away
from the ladies already oncest. Py tam, I vants dem zoots, too!”

So he drew the reluctant darky aside, and in a few moments old Joe came
back a soldier, lugubrious enough in his baggy trousers and short-armed
coat. By that time the men, failing to open the chest of communion
vessels, had borne it off in triumph on their shoulders.

“Mr. Shand, oh, sir, can you tell me where General Sherman is?” Helen
asked.

“I saw him a moment ago, Miss Brooks, just around the corner,” the
outraged pastor declared.

They fled on, and as they turned the corner they suddenly heard loud
cries, and saw a group of men in front of them. A negro lay dead in the
center, and General Sherman was asking of the mob:

“Men, who did this?”

“He slacked us,” one of the soldiers replied.

“Well, men, it is bad. Don’t let it occur again.”

By this time Helen reached them and stood near to the General.

“Are you General Sherman?” she asked.

“I am, madam,” he answered, stepping over the dead body of the negro to
her side.

“General Sherman, I am Helen Brooks, sister of Captain Henry Brooks, whom
you know.”

“I am happy to know—”

“General, this is no time for pleasantries. In the name of the lowly
Jesus, I beg of you stop this horrible outrage!”

“It is not my doing, Miss Brooks. I would stop it if I could, but it is
beyond my power.”

“Beyond your power, General Sherman? Do you think these men would dare
to do these things without your assent? Do you mean that your captains
and colonels and lieutenants would rob, and loot, and pillage, and
murder, and allow their men to do it, if you said it should not be done?
Is this the power you have over your army? Look at those men throwing
their firebrands on that house here under your very eyes! Do they fear
Sherman’s anger or court Sherman’s favor?”

“Do you want a guard, Miss Brooks?”

“Want a guard! What mockery! General, I have just come from a house where
the guards you sent set fire to the house they were guarding and burnt it
down over the head of a young mother while she was giving birth to her
first-born. Shame, shame on you, sir, and yours!”

“Madam, this is war! We did not commence it.”

“General Sherman, you know my family, or you would not have listened to
me so far. You know how my father has sacrificed half his fortune for the
Union cause, and how my brother well-nigh gave his life. And now—mark
my words, sir—this is not a deed of war or necessity, but of infamous,
vindictive hate, and the time will come when even in our loved Northland
men will repudiate your deeds!”

There was a crash as a house near by fell in. A great mass of sparks and
smoke belched upwards.

They passed through the burning streets, past squads of drunken soldiers,
and at last found the little group gazing sadly at the sick woman.

“How is Bessie?” Helen asked.

“She—is—dead.”

“And the child?”

“It is unborn.”

The gleam of the burning houses lit up her pale face and tinged the brown
locks with gold. Helen knelt and kissed the lips cold in death, and “Old
Secesh” turned away with a groan.


CHAPTER XLVII

There are those who think that they have seen the face of her whom men
call Tragedy. They see an old man, and his quivering lips are still
whispering the name of her whom they used to touch so passionately. In
his trembling hand is a letter, faded, brown, tear-stained. He reads and
reads, though he might have thrown it away thirty years ago, and not a
word would have been lost, so deeply are they cut in his heart. “Look!”
say they, “he is praying still for her return,” and the colonel would
start in fright, so sure would he be that they had seen him. “Surely,”
say they, “this is Tragedy.” It is not. It is her cousin, Hope.

They see a woman, and she, too, is waiting, but the man stands by her
side. Each of her myriad dreams used to fly to him; now they cannot; they
are dead. They are dead, and so is he—the man she loved—tho’ many years
after she is buried, his pulse will be strong and his step elastic. A
catafalque, gilded, perhaps, but within a dead thing lies—a human heart,
and it is her husband! It used to beat for her joyfully in the days when
she needed it sorely, but, oh, not so sorely as now! It will never thrill
for her again. Then these wise men look up and say: “Love has died, and
yet his body remains unburied. Is not this Tragedy?” It is not. It is but
an older sister.

They follow the tracks of one who has fled far back into the blackest
cavern of the darkest woods, fled with a little babe in her arms, fled
to hide her shame. Its father is not there, though he swore never so
faithlessly to be a loyal lover, and then a loving husband to her who
holds the little one in her arms, kissing it, and then despising it, and
then kissing it again and again. She loves this child of shame while
he—he breaks the vows which once he intended to keep. Then the wise men
turn and say: “Truth is dead and will not live until God awakes and
asks Lucifer who defiled this lily of His own garden in the pool of his
passion. Is not this Tragedy?” It is not, but it is her shadow. She is
near now. Come and see her form.

Runs a boy, blowing kisses to the butterflies, and teaching the honey
bees where to search for the flowers, whence the sweetest nectar may be
drawn. Thus clearly has he discovered all else save her who is seeking
him. Lo! He is a youth now, and daily he hears her whisperings in his
ears, and sometimes so close does she come that her gentle touch may be
felt on his cheek, and her soft fingers rest lightly on his shoulder.
Many years he lived, but love came not into his life. At last he is
white-haired and knows—that he is old. His gasp and his heavy breathing,
his pulse—they are feeling it anxiously. They know that it is taking two
steps backward and one forward. They need not feel his brow nor his feet.
They, too, at last are cold. Then they say: “This is Tragedy! A man dying
who has never seen love—surely this is Tragedy!”

It is.

Such were the thoughts of Colonel Masters as, with a slow and halting
gait, he had wandered down to the burnt district and reached the Battery,
now overgrown with weeds. The great game was over! With the hand of a
past master, he had played his cards—and lost. Was it his fault?

So now, when his plans were in ruins and his eyes in tears, when his
heart was breaking, and his back bending low beneath the burden of
accumulating toils, he murmured slowly:

“Return ye, O memories; return ye and quickly come like a whisper of
God from His far off garden of joy! Die not in all the years that shall
elapse before I shall burn new kisses upon new lips—kisses long feigned
and passion-wrapt, nor let your spirit of love grow dim, nor your spirit
of power abate! Come ye, as in time past, ye have come—sweeping away the
clouds that gather over the head of earth’s lonely pilgrim, stilling the
breakers that form in madness on life’s reefs, hushing the storms that
roar and howl and threaten in the darkness! Still may ye come, ye echoes
of the voice of God, bidding me be true, pleading with me to hope and
trust, gently lifting my thoughts to the blue empyrean above, where there
shall be no more night!”

“Colonel Masters!”

He looked up in astonishment.

“I have been looking for you all over the city, sir,” the young telegraph
boy explained.

With trembling hand the white-haired editor took the brown message. His
lips quivered as he tore it open. Would it be some new sorrow?

    Col. Masters, Charleston, S. C.:

    Columbia razed. The Cause is lost. Father killed in battle.

                                                              HELEN.

“Oh, God, it is not true—it cannot be true!” The massive form of the
great man shook as a tower that is falling, and his face seemed to be
fast taking on the lines of the ghastly few who survived the black hole
of Calcutta.

“Forgive me, Colonel, but we read the message at the office!”

In his soul, the rosy-lipped dawn was kissing away the dewy tears of a
long, weary night, and Ioskeha had claimed Attacoa.

But the boy was looking at him in amazement. Great wells of joy were
evidently springing up in his heart. A new man was being formed before
the lad’s eyes. Slowly the stature increased; the stoop of the shoulders
that had labored despairingly disappeared. Only a deadly pallor told of
the past.

“Go!” he cried to the lad. “Quick, go!”

Then he leaned heavily against the twisted iron rail of the Battery
promenade, that some cannon ball had struck spitefully.

“It is a lie,” he said, slowly, but his face was burnished with joy.
“It’s too good to be true!”

How long had seemed the waiting till God should shift the scene! And
how vain the straining of the eyes for the faintest movement of the
proscenium! He had used to think as a student that he understood how slow
the Unchanging One was in doing things, but he had not then put it away
in his heart, nor meditated over it in sorrow. He had almost ceased to
expect another act, though he believed in it, and it hurt him when the
curtain quivered as if it were lifting at last.

Sometimes he wished he knew that the play was over altogether and that
he was on the untrodden way homeward; but when the melancholia passed he
heard distinctly the rumble of the scenery behind the curtain, and it was
as if the footlights were already aglow. Once there had been music while
he waited. It was when Helen, her daughter, came to visit Charleston.
Yet her coming would only add tragedy to the denouement. It introduced
another complication into a play already tangled, but it lightened the
burden of his accumulating toils.

Now at last the curtain had risen and the final scheme stood revealed.
The old actors who had begun the play with him had all vanished save one,
and the stage was almost empty. The chairs were there—vacant—chairs that
other playgoers had loved in previous acts. He, almost alone, had been
chosen by the great Playwright, to live and be, and perhaps triumph.


CHAPTER XLVIII

By the window of Beacon Street, that looked over toward the west and the
south, there sat a lonely woman. “After all,” she said to herself, as the
bitterness of her thoughts puckered her heart more and more, “this world
is but one of the seventy-four comedies with which the Eternal amuses
himself.”

The deep tragedy of her life had embittered her soul and of late she had
grown more and more to tell herself alone her thoughts. Now that her
husband was dead, each wound would re-open. Yet memory came with little
pictures of the Ashley, of the golden rice fields, of one who had loved
her there. And these pictures made the dull gray of the Boston evening
slowly light up with glory. A mocking bird swings in the orchard bough at
Camellia-on-the-Ashley, the mellow notes of the cotton pickers are wafted
softly, lowly—

    “Swing low, sweet chariot—comin’ for to carry me home,
    Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me home.”

Thus her thoughts were gentle, sweet, like the cooing of a mother’s
first-born, winsome as his first smile, which makes her forget her hour
of travail.

A dog bays in the distance, a deer bounds again into the forest—a young
man comes from the chase—a smile, a kiss—an—

She waked suddenly from her dream. Some one was coming up the street,
staring earnestly at the numbers. He was an elderly man, who moved as
softly toward the grave as the gentle notes of the flute sinking along
the last octave. Yet there was life in his step, and she could see that
he handled himself well on the slippery pavement, where the half-melted
snow had frozen again. There was a look about his face that touched a
chord down in her heart, and the expression he wore as if he, an old man,
were almost a youth again, set her once more to dreaming.

The bell rang. “A gentleman to see you, ma’am,” said Hilda, entering. “He
will not give his name. He says he is from Charleston.”

A man in whose eyes an infinite fire seemed burning, entered close on
Hilda’s heels.

“Mrs. Brooks,” he said, and his voice made her think of the notes of
a passion swept violin, “I trust you will pardon my intrusion in this
manner, and I scarcely know how to explain it so that it will seem less
rude.” He was staring intently at the woman before him. His deep eyes
took in the details of her mourning garments, her face with its fine
lines of settled sadness and the abundant threads of white sprinkled
through the thick brown braids, gathered under her widow’s cap.

Her mother’s heart prompted the swift question:

“You come from Charleston? Helen—is she—?”

“Your daughter is quite well, madam, and safe in the little hamlet of
Dunvegan, in North Carolina, whither I—whither she and her aunts were
conveyed after the burning of—.” He paused, knowing the thoughts that the
name of Columbia would awaken.

Sighing deeply, Mrs. Brooks motioned her visitor to a chair and looked at
him inquiringly. “I am pleased to see you, sir,” she said courteously; “I
knew and loved Charleston well in my girlhood.”

“You were, before your marriage, Miss Lezare? Forgive me if I seem rudely
inquisitive.”

“Yes, sir, Lezare was my maiden name.”

“Ah, yes—Lezare of Camellia? While you were living there was there a
man—Masters, Charles Masters?”

“Stop, sir!” she interrupted. “What right have you to bring back that
name into my life—what—?”

“Has it then left your life?” he asked, with a touch of fear in his
voice. “Forgive me if I have given you pain, madam. My honor is my pledge
that I mean no wrong. It is necessary—do you understand?—absolutely
necessary for me to proceed.”

She was silent and seemed as one lost in a deep forest who seems to see a
face in the darkness about.

“This man Masters was among those who went to Texas in her struggle for
independence, was he not, madam? And after the battle of San Jacinto was
reported among the killed? He loved a young lady of Charleston, one whom
you may know—a young lady whose proud family were opposed to her union
with one who had come to Charleston a penniless youth and had been the
architect of his own fortunes—they preferred a wealthy young Bostonian,
who brought letters to every family of influence in the state. You knew
this, madam?”

His eyes asked pardon for this direct question and his voice was low with
tenderness.

“Yes, yes, I knew this,” she responded, lacing and interlacing her slow,
slender fingers. “What—what more?”

“You doubtless know, too, madam, that the report of his death was false
and that he returned after peace was declared, to find his sweetheart had
wedded his rival and gone to Boston to live. What you do not know”—here
his voice took on a deep, full ring of joy—“is that he never, for one
moment, never did and never has, doubted his sweetheart’s truth. To many
men it is given to pass with unseeing eyes the holy worth of a woman’s
love, but to Charles Masters it was given to know, when he had plighted
his troth in the garden at Camellia, the sacredness of the gift that was
his. Never once since then has his reverence for it or his belief in it
failed.”

Colonel Masters was doing more than telling a harrowing story—he was
reading his own fate in her eyes.

“Sir,” Mrs. Brooks started from her chair, “I will give you all I have
in this world, I will give you all God gives me in Heaven to say those
words again!”

Word by word her voice had risen, growing stronger under the intense
passion of her soul till it touched the highest note of her life, till
it quivered like the tremulous tones of the flute thrilled at the holy
reaches of the Infinite Beyond.

“He still believes!”

“Then where is he? Has he—”

She shrank back from him, for there was a smile on his features, and
though faces grow old, smiles never do.

Reading her thoughts, he lifted her hand to his lips, and it was to her
as when the mute touches the chords of the violin. The music was deep and
plaintive, and the strain was one that makes all things possible.

“He is here!”

A cold, sleety rain was falling on the street outside, and the ice was
forming on the elms of Beacon street. The shadows which sprang from the
window that looked toward the west and the south lengthened themselves
along the floor. Men hastened homeward in the gathering night, and a damp
darkness settled down over the bleak landscape.

But they sat by the window that looked toward the west, and though they
faced the sunset, they saw it not, for the morning had come.


CHAPTER XLIX

Far, far away in the Silver Creek Valley the sun was setting, and the
purple shadow of the mystic Attacoa lay like a mighty altar upon the
land. The Spring had come, and in her bosom she bore myriads of beautiful
flowers wrapped in mantles of living green, as though she would make
less bare the way for the shattered soldier in gray as he wearily wended
homeward; as though she would make less bitter the sight of blackened
chimneys or rotting doorsteps. Scarlet flowers sprang from the red earth
of a thousand battlefields, and the deep periwinkle grew rich on the
bodies of sunken heroes. Slowly and wearily the tattered men turned again
homeward.

And of an evening, when all was so still in the valley that the wood
thrush took heart to flutter to the azaleas by the piazza of Sunahlee, a
young woman walked up the long, red hill that led to the house. Dreamily
she gazed toward the west, where the mighty Attacoa reared its dark bulk.
Something she knew of the legends attached to it. For Ervin, in the
fullness of their sympathy, had told her lovingly of his highland home,
and it gave her a thrill of sweetest pain to fit his descriptions to the
landmarks around. She had been in such close attendance upon her aunt,
who, since Bessie’s death, had been prostrated, that her observations
had been made for the most part from the balcony of the old hotel; but
to-day, for the first time, she walked along the road she knew Ervin had
trod many times and looked out over aspects once familiar to his eye. She
paused before a large gate. Inside she saw a weed-grown driveway leading
up to a dilapidated house, plainly handsome in its prime. As she looked
she heard the sound of something coming up the long, red hill. There was
no sound of hoofs, but as she peered into the gathering twilight she made
out the forms of a number of shaggy dogs drawing a rattling old buggy.

It was Uncle Ben. He did not see her until he had alighted stiffly to
open the rusty gate.

“Howdy, Mistis, howdy!” His old voice, though feeble, had a hearty ring
to it that encouraged Helen to ask him who lived there.

“Dis is S’nahlee, Mistis, Cunnel Tom Preston’s place. I would ax you to
come in, Mistis, ’cause de Prestons dey sholy always wuz hospitable—but
dey ain’t none of ’em lef’ now, ’ceptin’ of de ole Cunnel, an’ he don’
know nothin’ that’s goin’ on—hasn’t even reelized Miss Helen’s death.
This war’s bin awful hard on we-all.”

He sighed, and Helen, who recognized the name, asked:

“Is there no hope for Colonel Preston’s recovery?”

“No’m, I don’t reckon so. Me’n Miz McArthur—she useter live ’cross de
road dar in dat little ole log cabin—we nusses him careful all day an’
all night. But he thinks I’m Marse Tait—he died jes’ ’fore Miss Helen
did—an’ he thinks she’s Miss Helen, an’ he keeps tellin’ us whut a big
hero Marse Ervin wuz wid his battlementary injines, an’ now he’s willin’
fer him to marry Miss Helen an’ take charge of the _Dimocrat_—but, Lawd,
Lawd, whut does people do dese days to put in de paper?”

His dogs had walked through the gate and he now drew it carefully to,
taking off his shabby old hat in response to Helen’s “good-night.”

She turned to the cabin across the road. Standing at the small gate, now
off its hinges, she took in all the surroundings and tried to imagine
Ervin at home amid them. She could fancy the whole story of his youthful
love for the patrician girl at the big white mansion. Perhaps it was
a burning ambition to make a name worthy of her which had led him to
Charleston. Perhaps—but no! Deep in her heart Helen Brooks knew that,
whatever fancies he had known, Ervin McArthur had given all his heart to
but one woman, and that woman herself.

She stood long in regretful self-questioning, yet somehow a spirit of
deep peace pervaded all her being. Twilight had fled before the coming of
the moon, and she drank in eagerly its gentle glory on the scene about
her. In the distance she heard the swift rattle of wheels, this time with
quick hoof-beat accompaniment. At the parting of the roads the vehicle
stopped and she heard the tones of men.

“Good-night, old fellow!” called a cheery voice.

“Good luck to you. We must all do the best we can to build up our country
again.”

Helen turned to leave the gate. A figure came toward her in the dim
light. She drew back again, but as he seemed about to turn in at the
gate, she stepped forward.

“Do you seek Mrs. McArthur, sir?” she asked, thinking it must be a
comrade coming to tell Ervin’s mother some news of her boy’s last hours.

“Yes, madam, I do. Do you know her? Is she well?” He leaned against the
gatepost and Helen could see, despite the deep shadow cast by his broad
hat, the pallor of his face.

“Oh, yes,” she hastened to reassure him, “she is quite well. I do not
know her. I am refugeeing here, but I have just heard that Mrs. McArthur
had been nursing Colonel Preston across the way for some months. You will
find her there.” She hesitated a moment, then asked: “You bring news of
her son’s death?”

“Death? Is he dead? I did not know he was dead.” He had stepped back into
the shadow as though to conceal his emotions, and she could not see the
joy in his eyes, and mistook the heaving of his breast for sorrow, and,
because she could not longer conceal her tears, she bowed her head upon
the gatepost.

“Pardon me, madam,” he said, at length, “but would it be rude in me to
ask you—”

“It is my oversight—Brooks is the name, Helen Brooks. I and my two aunts
and an old negro servant are refugees.”

“Ervin—poor boy—do you know—do you mind telling me how—he died?”

“In the defense of Charleston—have you heard of his wonderful inventions?
He went out one night to sink a ship with his new submarine and his boat
sank, and all were lost.”

“All?”

“Yes, all.”

He was bowed like one in grief, and neither spoke for a while.

“And, Miss Brooks—he—I used to hear regularly from Ervin, he had some
friends—a Mrs. Corbin, I believe.”

“She is my aunt, and is here now.”

“And a Colonel somebody—I—”

“Colonel Masters. He was the editor of the paper where Mr. McArthur
worked.”

“Ah, he loved the old man well. You knew him, too, did you not? Why would
he go in that torpedo boat—why did not some one stop him?”

She was silent while the tears sprang to her eyes again.

“You must pardon my speaking of this,” he continued. “There was a girl
who lived in Charleston—he did not write her name—I only know he loved
her—do you—could you tell me?” He leaned forward, watching her face. “Do
you know who she was?”

There was no concealing it any longer.

“Oh, sir,” she said, “I—he—loved—”

“He loved you! Ah, tell me no more! Then we are brother and sister in
sorrow.”

And Attacoa, the mount where the light had conquered the darkness, looked
down on them as fateful, as inscrutable, as mercilessly silent as the
enigmatic Croatan.

He bowed his head and covered his eyes with his hands, all the while
looking at her intently through his fingers.

“Only one thing may I ask,” he said at length, “did Ervin—did he know you
loved him—when he died?”

“Yes—he—knew—it—only—”

“Only he—”

“Thought there was another—”

“Another?”

“There were reasons why I could not tell him.”

“And those reasons?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“I beg a thousand pardons—from what I know, I judge he must have thought
you loved a man in the Northern army—”

“Yes.”

“And you did not?”

“No, I did. I loved him with all my heart—but—”

“But he didn’t love you?”

“But he was my brother!”

The man quivered as though a thousand arrows had suddenly been drawn
from his bosom, and then quickly came out of the shadow and took her
hands. “Helen!”

With a scream of joyous surprise, because in a moment all the world had
been changed, she threw her arms around his neck.

“Oh, dear God!” she cried. “It is he!”


CHAPTER L

There is a quaintly pious inscription in Dunvegan graveyard, chiseled as
if by a hand that trembled, upon the gray tombstone farthest back of all
those by the side of the Little Church in Under the Oaks. It reads:

                             ERVIN McARTHUR,
                    From Whom the Daemon Was Cast Out.
                      A General in the Army of God.

It was only the last line which was not so directed to be inscribed by
the will of him who lies beneath it.

The visitor smiles as he reads until he hears of the prowess of the youth
who won fame and honor and glory in the city by the sea and meditates
upon how great his after life must have been to have merited so pleasant
a comparison. The story is still easy to hear in Dunvegan, where his
name is often coupled with Dr. Allerton’s, but not to the curious and
gossiping. One must first have left the parlor and have become a boon
companion of the living-room—and one must be a lover of Dunvegan. Then if
the night be dark, so dark that Tawiskara may seem to have come back to
Attacoa, the story is his, the story of Ervin McArthur, out of whom the
Daemon was cast.

They say in Dunvegan that somewhere in the heart of every man there
dwells Tawiskara, the Daemon of Darkness. According to his own way and
in his own time, he manifests his power. To one he suggests, to another
he promises, and the third he compels—and he must needs go whom the
Daemon drives. At the wrong moment, the psychological moment of weakness,
he takes hold of a man and a deed is done, a tiny indiscretion or a
horrible crime, as the Daemon wills.

They believe in Dunvegan that McArthur was but a type of all men,
that the evil heritage of the Shadow of the Attacoa came upon him in
exaggerated form because it was needful that the works of God might be
manifested in him. They still speak with such pious quaintness in the
dreamy village. And they tell their child who shows the evil heart of
how Ervin McArthur fought in his awful death-struggle on Attacoa with
Tawiskara, the Dark One, and endured unto blood, striving against his
sin; of how he, as all men may do, in the strength of Ioskeha, cast the
Daemon out.

It is thus that they apologize for the horror with which his life-story
was laden, it being in their eyes like the black, ill-odored ink of
the press which is yet needful to make the page of each story perfect.
They shudder in the telling of it, as the reader must have shuddered in
hearing—these are they who hear the mutterings of Tawiskara in their
own hearts. And there must be those who dwell in Dunvegan who call the
story precious because that through it they have been delivered from much
tribulation and anguish of spirit which comes to all those who would
perfect the light of their souls by exorcising the Daemons that infest
it. These consider that in the horror of the story lies its true meaning
and value, and they discountenance the softer versions which have sprung
up with the newer generation in the village. If their souls have known
deeper night than that of Ervin McArthur, let them love the parable of
how they were delivered.

So there are pilgrims who sometimes visit the little graveyard where
the shadows are dense at noonday, and where Ervin McArthur lies. They
tread lightly upon the blue periwinkle, and there are those who loose
reverently the sandals from their feet for fear that God may be near in
some wayside bush.

THE END.




HISTORY OF THE HALS

CHAPTER XVIII—HOW THE BISHOP BROKE THE RECORD

By John Trotwood Moore


                                       GREELEY, COL., Jan. 10, 1907.

    Editors Taylor-Trotwood Magazine, Nashville, Tenn.

    Gentlemen:—I write to ask that in the very interesting “History
    of the Hals,” now running in your magazine, you will persuade
    Mr. Moore to include the famous story, “How the Bishop Broke
    the Record.” This was published years ago in the “_Horse
    Review_,” and is the best thing of its kind ever written. I
    know hundreds of people who have said they would like to see
    it again and it ought to be in the “History of the Hals.” Very
    truly yours,

                                                     A. L. CAMP, JR.

       *       *       *       *       *

    (Old Wash is a Baptist and it was with great difficulty and
    many misgivings that I induced him to go out to the Episcopal
    church recently and hear the Bishop of Tennessee preach. The
    old man went wild over the sermon and this is the peculiar way
    he took to tell about it.)

“Wal, sah, I went in dar an’ sot down in dat part of de gran’stand set
off fur de colored folks. I look erroun’ an’ seed leetle bannisters an’
things runnin’ ’roun’ ’bout de pooties’ an’ neates’ mile track you eber
seed, wid de fence all painted wid gold an’ lit up wid ’lectric lights.
B’utiful pictures hung up in de club house gallery an’ de soft light cum
in through de painted winders. I tell you, sah, dese yere Piscolopiums
kno’ how to keep up dey church track, if dey do stick to de high-wheel
sulky, an’ kinder think dat er record made dar, at dat way ob gwine, will
’title ’em to registration in de final year book quicker’n enny yudder
track. An’ it wuz er good un—for it run erroun’ es smooth es er widder’s
courtship, an’ it hed bin harrered an’ scraped an’ rolled till it wus es
slick as er carpet ob banana peels.

“You ain’t nurver noticed how dese church tracks differ frum one
ernudder, hes you, Boss?” asked the old man, with a sly smile. “Wal, dey
do. Now, ef dat hed bin er Mefodis’ track it wouldn’t er had no fence
erroun’ it, kinder free fur all, no money to be paid at de gate, and
free lunch fur ebrybody. If it hed er bin a Baptis’ track it would er
bin out in some big medder bottom, an’ stid ob bein’ roun’ it would jes’
foller de meanderin’s ob de ribber, handy fur spungin’ off de horses.
An’ dey wouldn’t ’low nuffin’ to go on dat track but pacers, either,
an’ dey must all be ob de Hal fambly—kinder close kin, yer kno’. De
Presberterians would er hed dey track es roun’ es it cu’d be, an’ sech
er high, whitewashed fence ’roun’ it dat nobody cu’d see ober it, an’
’bout ebry ha’f hour dey would run out er big fo’-hoss sprinkler, furever
sprinklin’ it, eben fur de yearlin’ races. Oh, it’s funny ter see how dey
all differ!” he said.

“But dar dis one wuz, es pooty es it cu’d be, an’ free fur all. An’ jes’
off to de lef’ dey hed de nices’ leetle jedges’ stan’, all painted in
silver an’ trimmed wid gold, while de timers’ box sat on de right, wid
leetle peep-holes in it an’ pictures ob flyin’ things wid wings jes’
erbove—hosses dat hed broke de records, I ’spec. Jes’ den de ban’ in
de ban’ stan’ struck up de sweetes’ music I urver heerd. It went all
through my soul an’ made me feel like I wus er chile ergin an’ my good
ole mammy, long dead an’ gone, wus singin’ me ter sleep at de cabin on
de ole plantashun to de tune ob ‘De Ole Folks at Home.’ Den de perfume
floated out like de smell ob de jess’mins I useter smell by de cabin do’,
an’ de candles flickered on de quarter posts like de fireflies in de dusk
ob my childhood days, an’ all dese things jes’ made me hongry to heah
sum gospil ergin. Bimeby sum leetle angel boys, all dressed in white,
wid shinin’ collars, cum marchin’ in, singin’ an’ bringin’ programs fur
de races in dey han’s—leastwise dat’s whut I tuk ’em to be. I tell you,
sah, it wuz gran’, an’ es I sot dar an’ tuck it all in an’ looked at dat
shinin’ track wid de golden fence, I sed to myself:

“‘Great Scott! but ef dey can’t go fast on dis track, I lakter kno’ whut
de yuse ob tryin’ enny yudder!’

“When de music stopped, de feller in de jedges’ stan’ made some
’nouncements, an’ den he ’lowed dat de Bishop ob Tennessee would go er
exerbishun mile ergin time, an’ den I heerd de bell ring _tingerling,
tingerling_, an’ de ban’ struck up lively lak, an’ de Bishop cum pacin’
in. Soon es I looked at ’im, sez I:

“‘He’ll do—he’s er good un! Got mos’ too much riggin’ on ’im to suit my
taste, but den ebry man knows whut’s bes’ fur his own hoss. Ef he wuz
mine I’d take off dat sweater an’ white blankit wid red embroidery, dem
knee boots an’ dat obercheck. His gait’s all right an’ true es clockwork,
an’ he don’t need nuffin’ but er pair ob quarter boots an’ fo’-ounce
shoes. But dat’s all right,’ I said ergin, ‘eberybody knows whut’s bes’
fur his own hoss, an’ dem fancy riggin’s am pooty, ter-be-sho’.’

“Graceful? He wus es graceful es er swan on er silver lake, an’ es he
paced up de quarter stretch to sco’ down I seed dat he wuz gwinter gib de
recurd er close call. Down he cum so smooth you cudden’t see his riggin’,
an’ es nachul es er eagle draps frum his mountin’ peak in de valley
belo’. Dey didn’t hafter say ‘go’ to him but onc’t, an’ den he went erway
lak er winged angel on de top spar ob er flyin’ yot.

“‘He that loseth his life for my sake shall save it,’ he said, an’ ebry
lick he hit went home to de ole man’s hart. Oh, hit wuz er clip. He tuck
up Greek art an’ literachure an’ he painted it so beautiful you cu’d
see de statue ob Diana beam outen his eyes an’ de grace ob Apollo fall
frum his hands. Away he went at dat pooty clip till he sud’n’y shifted
his gait an’ struck de follies ob dis wurl, an’ den I seed whut all dat
riggin’ wus fur, fur he turned it into er toga an’ he looked like Jupiter
es he shook de roof wid his speed an’ his stride.

“‘He’s gwine too fast fur de fus’ quarter,’ I sed, as I sot holdin’ my
bref; but befo’ de wurds wuz out he seed it, too, an’ he check up er
leetle, an’ he cum down es gently es de summer winds play—but er-gittin’
dar all de time!—an’ den he tell us how all dis art an’ all dis interlect
wa’nt nuffin’ ef we didn’t lub God an’ do right an’ lib pure libes, an’
his voice wus lak de music ob de winds in de valley, an’ ebrything he
say jes’ peer to be dat way an’ no argyment—and all de time he wuz jes’
er-gittin’ dar—an’ es he passed de fus’ quarter I cudden’t help it,
I jes’ tuck out my ole watch an’ snapped it, an’ dar it stood—thirty
seconds, holy Moses!

“But dat didn’t wind ’im, fur he started in de naixt quarter so fas’ I
tho’t sho’ he gwine fly in de air. But he didn’t. He fairly burnt up de
track ob sin an’ folly an’ littleness an’ meanness, an’ he made de leetle
rail birds ob selfishness fly to de woods, an’ de touts ob scandal slunk
erway, an’ de drivers of trick an’ cheat hunted fer ernuther track,
an’ de timers of folly throwed erway dey watch—an’ all de time he wus
er-gittin’ dar—an’ he nurver teched hissef nur struck er boot nur missed
his clip, an’ he made de ole high wheel sulky trimble all over lak er
leaf in de storm, an’ he showed how ebrybody reap whut dey sow; how de
artis’ lib in art, an’ de poit in poltry, an’ de patriot in de harts ob
his countrymen, all arter dey dun dead an’ buried. An’ ‘Oh,’ he ses, so
sarchin’ lak I see de folks trimble, ‘ef you lib fur de wurl you’ll die
wid de wurl; but ef you lib fur God you’ll nurver die!’ An’ I cu’d see it
all so plain an’ so quick an’ so terribul an’ so true I jes’ pulled out
my ole timer ergin es he passed de ha’f, an’ click! dar she stood—59½!

“‘By de horn ob de tabbernacle,’ sez I, ‘he can’t keep up dat clip! Dat’s
de ha’f dat burnt up Joe Patchen!’

“But I tell you, Boss, his name was P’inter—he had no noshun ob
quittin’. He spun erlong on de straight stretches lak he had er runnin’
mate, an’ you’d wonder whut hilt ’im to de yearth. Den he ease up gently
on de turns ob de track—whar he hit de doubters an’ de ’siety an’ de
fools dat grasp at de bubbles ob wealth an’ folly on de ribber, an’ let
de mighty stream wid all its depth an’ grandeur pass onnoticed to de
ocean’—as he sed, he ease up dar an’ ketch his bref so gently lak, an’
sorrerful, you’d think he gwine stop an’ weep fur ’em, an’ you feel lak
weepin’ yourse’f, fur yore own follies an’ de follies ob de wurl—but all
de time he wus gittin’ dar!—an’ ef he did ease up es he went up de hill,
it wus only jes’ long enuf ter let de light shine down on ’im frum heben,
an’ he seemed ter linger jes’ er minnit in de sweetnes’ ob its glory.

“I wiped erway a tear an’ snapped my ole timer ergin—1:30½! ‘Dat’s good
Baptis’ doctrine,’ sez I, ‘ef it am a trifle speedy. Lord, ef he do
bust de recurd I hope you’ll gib ’im de Atlantic Ocean to spunge off
in—sumpin’ in keepin’ wid his own nachur.’ An’ I sing sof’ly to myse’f
dat good ole hymn, sung by Moses an’ de profets so long ergo:

    Baptis’, Baptis’ is my name,
      I’m Baptis’ till I die;
    I’ve been baptized in de Baptis’ church,
      Gwinter eat all de Baptis’ pie!
          Hard trials,
      Great tribelashuns, chilluns,
          Hard trials,
    I’m gwine ter leab dis wurl’.

“But bless you, honey, he wus jes’ playin’ on dem yudder quarters; he
commenced ter pace now. He got right down on de groun’, an’ dough he
didn’t make no fuss an’ you cudn’t see er moshun, nur eben de spokes ob
de sulky, he talked lak er dyin’ muther to her wayward boy. He scorned
de track ob dis wurl an’ seemed ter be pacin’ in de pure air ob God, an’
yit he didn’t rouse er angry wind, nur bring out de loud shouts frum de
wurldly gran’ stan’, nur de hoozars of victory, nur de wild frenzy ob
delight—but des tears, sweet tears. I cried lak er baby. I furgot ter
time ’im. De sof’ light cum in frum de winder ob God an’ got inter de
winder ob de ole man’s hart. De smell ob de yearthly flowers wus turned
to heabenly ones, an’ when his sof’, ’pealin’ voice died away an’ de
sweet, ’pealin’ music commenced, I cudn’t tell whar de sermin ended an’
de music begun, dey run togedder so. I sot in er sort ob er dream; I
wanted ter go ter heaben; I heerd de white folks all pass quietly out; I
heerd de notes ob de organ die erway, but I sot in de cornder, way off
by mysef, an’ thanked God dat I’d seed de light an’ heerd de recurd ob
salvation busted.”




THE QUEST OF POAQUITA

By Horatio Lankford King


“Traditions?” repeated Buck Eye Pete with inimitable scorn, as he deftly
balanced a battered coffee pot over the camp fire, “them was once
the bane an’ joy o’ my life. I fair radiated with dreams o’ romance,
hidden treasure, an’ sich like. Why, there was a pre-historic time in
my credulous natur when I was looney on Pirate Morgan an’ babbled o’
Montezuma’s sarcophagus o’ buried valuables an’ heagern wives with unholy
an’ covetious eye. An’ that’s what sent me an’ Chinook Bill on that
foolhardy adventcher into darkest Sonora in the quest o’ the fabled city
o’ Poaquita.”

Buck Eye Pete went back to his seat beyond the hot glare of the camp
fire, puffed tentatively at a villainous looking pipe and gazed
mournfully and with lack-lustre eye into the surrounding wall of
darkness. Then, seeing no objection, he continued:

“An’ if this hyere august body votes a majority I’ll be the wag es wags a
tale, es Shakespeare said.”

We settled ourselves in divers comfortable positions and nodded a
unanimous consent.

“To begin, this deed o’ valor, gents an’ fellow mavericks,” pursued Buck
Eye Pete, “was committed in the year of our Lord 1880, an’ me an’ Chinook
Bill deserted the peaceful path o’ cow-punchin’ an’ chucked the fair dame
o’ nameless peril under her purty chin. But be the consequence o’ that
deed o’ valor on my own head, fer Chinook Bill was one o’ them trustin’
children es would turn an indignant rattler from a devilish purpose.
Chinook Bill had that ca’m eye o’ the poet, the voice o’ the south wind
an’ a hankerin’ fer the beauties o’ virgin natur an’ was gifted with a
most marvelous arrangement in his inside which would belch information,
mediaeval er otherwise, like a heifer’s cud, which he would afterwards
masticate with great an’ convincin’ effusion. So this is how it come
about. We had been grazin’ a bunch o’ cattle on the Bear Paw Plateaus,
an’ was some seven weeks out an’ sure lonesome fer company when in a
fit o’ desperation I made a suggestion to allay the fevered angwee o’
our fettered sperits. An’ Chinook Bill fell to with a spontaniety an’
enthusiasm es was plum disgustin’ in a man es had full possession o’ his
mental faculties. But that ain’t sayin’ es how I was took with the dreams
o’ averice myself. It was one fair day, the name an’ date o’ which has
been lost in the remorseless flight o’ time, we come upon a Mexican’s
cabin down in the El Raso Pass, which is still an unknown quantity in
them beautifully colored railroad posters. This Mex had a helpmate, two
ragged urchins in the way o’ off-spring with a mixture o’ mangy sheep an’
a pack o’ dawgs es would back ’emselves agin a convenient angle o’ the
hut, scratch their ears an’ growl while me an’ Chinook Bill held forth
in intellectual conversation with the Mex. They was ha’f Injuns an’ had
lived there since they didn’t know when, but it was some time conjoinin’
that mystic period when the Jesuits evacuated suddent from their mission,
the noble ruins o’ said mission still liftin’ majestic columns o’ doby
brick in the purple haze o’ a poetic twilight a little ways down the
valley. Well, whilst we was enjoyin’ our repast o’ tortillas an’ goat’s
milk in the main dinin’ room Chinook Bill’s artistic eye discovered
a incongruous dis-sim-oo-larity in the Mex’s selection o’ household
furnitcher, which was sure marvelous to look upon to the unconverted
eye o’ good taste, which consisted o’ sacred emblems in onyx, a gilded
throne chair which was fit for a pope, a carved mahogany altar table an’
a stately array o’ books bound in stained sheep skin. Chinook Bill takes
down one o’ them tomes o’ learnin’ an’ grows exultant yet arful perplexed
at the contents thereof. An’ on the cover o’ every one o’ them books was
a mouth with two fingers placed over it, which Chinook Bill opines was
meant to convey their secret import an’ was forbidden knowledge excep’
to them es wore the cassock an’ paced the sacred patio o’ righteous an’
worldly exclusion.

“‘Where you get these?’ says Chinook Bill, polite.

“‘Mission,’ says the Mex.

“‘Buy,’ says Chinook Bill, ‘five dollars’.

“‘_Bueno_,’ says the Mex, an’ we peel him a fiver. Then we packed our
purchases on a burro an’ hikes fer the range.

“It was that night before the camp-fire I was translatin’ the Spanish in
one o’ them tomes o’ learnin’ when I ups suddent like with a yell an’
slaps Chinook Bill a ponderous blow o’ enlightment.

“‘Attention!’ says I, ‘here is an unexpurgated account o’ the mysterious
city o’ Poaquita which lies in the far interior o’ the Sonora wilderness
an’ was once ruled by the descendants o’ Montezuma an’ to which some
monks was led captive in that distant time when the mind o’ man runneth
not to the contrary! Then I read the glowin’ account, and Chinook Bill
waddles his cud an’ looks attentive.

“‘Well’, says he, final, ‘what’s the color in yer pan?’

“‘Gold and hidden treasure’, says I, an’ I read some more from the
forbidden book.

“‘Do you believe it?’ says Chinook Bill arter a pause an’ a long breath,
like a woman.

“‘Believe?’ says I. ‘Is there anything to dispute it? Have you happened
to peroose anything in the way o’ discursive literatchure es would
substantiate the impunity o’ a bitter denial?’

“‘I cyaint say es I have,’ says Chinook Bill.

“‘Well, then,’ says I, ‘it stands that Poaquita is a potent factor es
regyards conjective research, an’ I’m the man es would re-continue that
search with joyful alacrity.’

“Then Chinook Bill, the trustin’ child, rose up an’ voiced to the
impassioned stars a like sentiment.

“‘Here’s the map an’ general directions’, says I, ‘an it’s left fer the
valorous to finish a chapter in this splendid drama es was enacted under
the opalescent skies o’ a new world.’

“So the next sun seen us pushin’ fer headquarters with them long horns,
an’ with our resignations in our pockets.

“Ol’ Señor Mendez meets us ten mile off, demandin’ explanations abundant
an’ sooperfulous forthwith.

“‘What’s this?’ says he, when I hands him the resignations, pompous.

“‘Them es read may run,’ quoths I sweetly.

“‘Then run, in the name of a goat, you _Americanos sin verguenza_! I keel
you, dogs, beasts for bring here back my cattles to starve!’ Then he outs
with a gun an’ begins to punctuate his wrath with methodic cracks at my
boot heels.

“‘This is a shame,’ says Chinook Bill, ‘an’ a arful breach o’ ediket,’
an’ he prompt starts in to retaliate; then I picks up courage an’ adds my
relay o’ lead an’ fluent invective.

“Ol’ José Mendez sets up a howl, an’ says:

“‘How much I owe you _Americanos_?’

“‘Three months apiece,’ says I, ‘which is two hundred an’ forty dol’ fer
the two o’ us, an’ mighty quick.’

“‘_Caramba!_’ says he, ‘I pay you, then you skeep _inmediatamente_.’

“‘We’re arful obliged,’ says I, sarcastic. Then we mounts an’ makes trail
fer Carbola, which was situate about forty miles away, due south. We hit
terra firma only where elevation was considerable an’ generally porphyry
rock, an’ rode into that little unsanctified hamlet in a hooricane cloud
o’ dust.

“‘Whew!’ says I, ‘a golden sunset an’ sich a ’ristocratic quietoode! One
would natcherally concloode they was arful stuck-up.’

“‘Maybe they don’t happen to remember us,’ says Chinook Bill, ominous an’
his feelin’s hurt.

“‘It sure is a insult,’ says I.

“‘An’ nobody to give us a ovation,’ says Chinook Bill, almost tearful.

“‘It’s a snub,’ says I, ‘an’ Greasers at that!’

“It’s too quiet to be real,’ comments Chinook Bill, still ominous.

“‘Terrible oppressive,’ I agrees.

“Then we stops at the edge o’ town an’ shakes hands solemn like. Chinook
Bill gets poetic an’ weeps copious.

“‘Maybe it will be the last chance,’ says he in a small voice, ‘an’ we
will be eat up by cruel Injuns. We cyaint let the opportunity pass,’ says
he. Then he recites some poetry es says opportunity never knocks but
oncet. ‘An’ it ’ud be a shame not to do it.’

“‘A arful shame,’ concedes I, then we shakes hands again.

“‘Are you ready?’ says Chinook Bill.

“‘I’m dancin’ with suppressed hylarity,’ says I.

“Then we put spurs an’ whoops her up, shootin’ promiscuous. When we come
to a halt an’ the smoke cleared, I says:

“‘Did you see anything, Bill?’

“‘Nope,’ says he, ‘but things is lightin’ up.’

“‘Folks is so curious,’ says I.

“‘Plum disgustin’,’ says Chinook Bill. ‘Al’ays interruptin’ an’ no
privacy fer a healthy, robust body.’

“‘It’s a second insult,’ says I, an’ we whoops her up again.

“We uncovered _aguardiente_ an’ keno sommers an’ anchored fer the night.
We played fast an’ keerless, but somehow we couldn’t get shet o’ any o’
our wealth. So we give it up es a bad job an’ apologized fer shuckin’
the dealers. It was arful unsocial, an’ I was fer layin’ over next day
to show ’em we was gentlemen, but Chinook Bill was fer findin’ Poaquita.
So we laid in a stock o’ provisions an’ packed ’em on some burros. Then
we held a conference back o’ the liquor shop with the _alcalde_ o’ the
town. This gent plentytentiary carried a small-sized totem pole in one
hand which was called in Mex a official staff, an’ exoodes a treatise on
the statutes es he wipes the perspiration from his aesthetic brow. We
leans back agin our assortment o’ Chicago tins an’ listens grave. Final
he ceases his harrabaloo an’ says:

“‘The _señores_ will kindly consider theirselves under arrest.’

“‘Fer what?’ asks Chinook Bill, with a snap o’ his baby blue eyes.

“‘Fer disturbin’ the peace,’ says the aesthetic one, wavin’ his totem
pole.

“‘What’s the penalty?’ says I.

“‘Imprisonment er twenty _pesos_,’ says the _alcalde_.

“‘Nixey,’ says Chinook Bill, ‘here’s a fiver.’

“‘_Mil gracias_,’ says the aesthetic one, an’ he bows to the earth humble
an’ kisses his fingers coquettish. ‘An’ may I inquire fer where the
_señores_ mean to depart?’

“‘Sure,’ says Bill, with a wink, ‘Africa.’

“‘_Bueno_,’ says the _alcalde_. ‘Var good. A beautiful country I hear,
_señores_. _Adios._ Now git, _pronto_!’

“So we mounts, gives a last partin’ salute, an’ hits them burros up.
We druv constant fer ten days, an’ it was sure a God forsooken country
we pushed into. First it was mesquite an’ cactus, then cactus and
mesquite, an’ a few deflections in the way o’ hills. Then we begun to
climb devious into regions o’ supernal ca’m, an’ the beautiful panorama
changed its garment ... right in the middle o’ day, gents, an’ there we
was with the tropics below us an’ a numerous supply o’ strange fauna in
the way o’ monkeys an’ green parrots an’ yaller panthers. Then we started
down devious on tother side and hit the deep timber, an’ us cow punchers.
Imagine! An’ every day Chinook Bill got more an’ more worrit an’ turrible
reticent.

“‘You ain’t a-skeered?’ says I, tauntin’.

“‘Huh, me?’ says he. ‘No, suh, but it’s sure annoyin’, this. Here we
are in a natcheral temperate latitoode an’ hotter’n South Ameriky. It’s
Chinook Bill who’s been up agin all the varyin’ shades o’ topographical
insanity, but this is the infinitism o’ phantasy. It will get me nervous
yet, an’ I hate to get nervous. But, in defiance o’ my cringin’ natur
I’m bound to view the ancient glories o’ the fabled city o’ Poaquita.’
Then he takes another swag at that _aguardiente_ an’ shrinks into a state
o’ pensive isolation, fightin’ _stegomyia_ as big as yer fist with meek
fortitoode. Then there come a earthquake, which seismic convulsion yanked
one o’ our pack mules down a chasm, our coolinary implements attached.
Me an’ Chinook Bill sits down on the brink to listen to the musical
cantinkerlations o’ tin kitchen ware fer ha’f a hour afterwards.

“‘If there be any Injuns within a radius o’ fifty miles,’ says Chinook
Bill, ‘that infernal racket will start ’em on the war path.’ An’ we
sure soon come across the immegiate signs o’ them savages, an’ Chinook
Bill got more reticent an’ lookin’ arful pale under the gills an’ wild
in the eye, a drinkin’ o’ that _aguardiente_ an’ the chills. Oncet we
was lyin’ in the shade o’ some rocks tryin’ to get some sleep. Chinook
Bill dozes off an’ his pipe tilts between his teeth an’ the ashes burns
a hole in his jeans. When it struck the sensitive tissue he ups with a
wild screech, both guns cocked, an’ fires promiscuous. I see the light o’
the fever in his eye an’ the tremblin’ frenzy an’ I rolls over behind a
convenient boulder. It was sure distractin’ to witness sich a waste o’
energy an’ precious ammunition, an’ I begins to yell frantic. He glares
tragic in my direction, flops on his stummick an’ begins to wiggle, them
Colts barkin’ tuneful. Then I has a arful presentment o’ homicide an’
shies down the mountain with becomin’ velocity, Chinook Bill in hot an’
lusty pursuit. But it wasn’t no use to run. So I intrenches an’ lets him
burn powder. Arter he’d gone through his cartridge belt I bombarded him
with capsules de quinine an’ demanded him to partake.

“‘Are you the chief?’ says he.

“‘Shame on you, Chinook Bill,’ says I, ‘to want ter assassinate yer bosom
friend.’

“Bill looks sheepish an’ says, defiant:

“‘I been shot in the laig by a atrocious vision what sneaked up from
behint me.’

“‘Shoo!’ says I, ‘it was the fire of yer pipe.’

“Chinook Bill looks at the hole in his jeans an’ grows absent.

“‘If you’ll never tell on me, Pete,’ says he, ‘I’ll bless yer ol’ age
with my gratitoode. Come out an’ shake hands.’

“‘Have another capsule de quinine,’ says I, doubtful.

“‘You don’t trust your bosom friend,’ says he, reproachful.

“I put a hand to my heart an’ repeats:

“‘Your sad plight bereaves me much, dear friend, but I am guided by the
light o’ a deeper understandin’. Have another capsule de quinine an’ rest
yer tired bones in yon cool shade.’

“‘Well, all right,’ says Chinook Bill, meek. ‘I shore do feel like I
swallowed a horned toad frog with a hoss collar adornin’ his neck. I’m a
sick man haunted by turrible hallucinations. But it ain’t the fire water,
Pete, er cowardice. Maybe it’s the curse that visits the avaricious. I’m
sore perplexed,’ an’ Chinook Bill taps his forehead sorrowful.

“‘You been readin’ that forbidden book too much,’ says I.

“‘It’s been a great revelation to me,’ says Chinook Bill, ‘the
sufferings o’ them captured monks es went crazy with the fever an’ tried
to manslaughter one another.’

“‘Suppose I got took down?’ says I.

“‘It’s what been troublin’ me,’ says Chinook Bill, ‘an’ es a matter
o’ precaution I vote we fill our shootin’ irons with blanks before we
retire.’

“‘Chinook Bill,’ says I, ‘that was the voice o’ genius what spoke.’

“‘Arter that we made vows o’ constancy an’ took a swag at the
_aguardiente_ to seal the compact. Then we courted the arms o’ Morpheus.
But it wasn’t long afore I woke up suddent, feelin’ light in the top o’
my head an’ grabbed my brace o’ pistols. I begun to stare wild, same
es Chinook Bill, an’ seein’ Chinook Bill sleepin’ sound an’ a little
elephant sittin’ on his nose I rose up an’ fired, indignant. Then a
whole lot more little elephants jumped down from the trees, an’ there
was some es played jews-harps an’ others es blowed trombones, an’ I
grew speechless and frantic. Chinook Bill wakes up out of a unpleasant
nightmare, an’ takin’ in the sitchooation at a glance, joins in the
fusillade afore inquirin’ politely what might be the natur o’ the
disturbance. An’ it soon oozes through my gray matter that Bill ain’t
taking no notice o’ them little elephants, but makin’ deadly an’ sinister
skirmishes at my sacred person.

“‘You infernal idjit,’ yells I, ‘shoot the elephants!’

“‘I knowed you was the chief,’ says he, ‘but you won’t fool me no more.’

“‘Chinook Bill,’ says I, ‘I have fer you a deep an’ all absorbin’
compassion.’

“‘You was that atrocious vision what sneaked up from behint and shot me
in the laig,’ says he.

“‘Shame on you, Chinook Bill,’ says I. ‘I was only tryin’ to save you
from the vicious tusks o’ them elephants.’ Then there was some more
skirmishin’ an’ parley an’ we agreed to shake hands over a glass of
_aguardiente_ and quinine.

“About sundown we discovered ancient ruins in the side o’ a cliff with
heagern idols in shockin’ dissa_bille_ sittin’ on their hams a-grinnin’
pleasant from their pedestals. We passed the time o’ day with them,
then Chinook Bill, like the great Balboa, poured _aguardiente_ on the
haid o’ one an’ dedicated our discovery in the name o’ the Society o’
Natural History and Palezoic Research. We proceeds thence deeper into
the unknown by the pallid light o’ the moon. Ruins an’ heagern idols was
now plentiful, an’ Chinook Bill opines we was nearin’ our goal fast,
an’ the while the topography was gettin’ queerer. Chinook Bill, still
with the fever in his eye, recites Shakespeare blatant an’ called to
the wilderness to deliver his Desdemona to his grievin’ heart. I laughs
scornful, an’ whilst we was rejoicin’ thus we was suddenly confronted
by a pack o’ ha’f naked Injuns es rose up out o’ the cañon an’ begun to
chunk poisoned arrows at us. Chinook Bill bids me stay my wrath an’ lifts
a imperious hand.

“‘Hold!” says he, ‘noble red men. Do I address the illustrious
descendants o’ the Montezumas?’

“‘Ickle-hickle-juicy-woosy, eat ’em alive,’ says one what wore a Queen
Anne collar o’ his ancestor’s teeth an’ dances fantastic on his painted
toes. Then a big fat one takes the boards an’ shows a covetable row o’
white molars in a kingly grin. Him an’ Bill swap secret lodge signs, then
his Nibbs approaches an’ pinches Chinook Bill on the arm, then he dances
on his toes like the one with the Queen Anne collar.

“‘Iggle-woggle-plenty-good-fer-soup,’ says he, an’ makes some more
goo-goo eyes at Chinook Bill while Bill gets out that forbidden book an’
reads some heagern Sanscrit therefrom. His Nibbs rolls on the ground
joyful, then he waves his spear an’ holds a animated confab with his
faithful subjects.

“‘You maverick,’ says I to Chinook Bill, ‘what you givin’ these pore
benighted sons o’ the forests?’

“‘I’m repeatin’ the golden text o’ the god Itchlatichlahoola,’ says
Chinook Bill, ‘an’ they are plumb skally-dasted at my marvelous display
o’ heagern eridition. We’re the children o’ the sun due to make a
visitation to this world every hundred years to deliver the compliments
o’ Itchlatichlahoola. Now we shall be conveyed into Poaquita with pomp
an’ eat o’ the fat o’ the land.’

“After a hurried confab his Nibbs dances back an’ says es how glad he
was to see us an’ pinches Chinook Bill on the arm again. Bill does the
spine curvitoore an’ says es how glad he was to be back jest fer the
sake o’ ol’ lang syne, but allowed it didn’t do his dignity no credit
to be sampled as a special kind o’ eatable an’ wouldn’t be pinched no
more, then elaborated es how he wouldn’t stand fer it, no how, he bein’
a natcheral high-strung, free American durin’ them decades es when he
wasn’t employed by Itchlatichlahoola as a winged Mercury, an’ lived in
the more temporal clime o’ Arizona by choice, all of which was evident
mistook by his Nibbs who shies up to me an’ takes a pinch at my biceps.
I succumbs to consumin’ wrath immegiate an’ lands the high chieftain
between the eyes unceremonious. Then there was revolution an’ carnage in
the air, an’ me an Chinook Bill went down before the heagern horde, but
to show our bravery Bill recites Horatius at the Bridge an’ annihilates
a portion o’ his Nibbs’ faithful subjects in his dramatic gesticulations
o’ same. We was tied to a chariot which had no wheels but was drug like a
snow-scrape over the ground an’ conveyed into Poaquita. We reached that
metropolis about sun-up where we was tied to a stone pillar in the square
an’ exhibited to a pack o’ screechin’ hags es played May-pole around us
an’ jabbered worse nor green parrots. Of all wild things es live next
to the bosom o’ natur there ain’t anything es beats the make-up o’ the
gentle sex. They’re a four-flush always.

“‘What’s up?’ says I to Chinook Bill, who was gazin’ mournful on the
heagern rites.

“‘We’re the blumdest idjits es ever roped a stray maverick, that’s what,’
says he. ‘Why didn’t we think of it?’

“‘Think o’ what?’ says I.

“‘That them messengers from Itchlatichlahoola must in course be sent back
from whence they come ... ergo, we perish on the sacrificial altar like
them pore priests did.’

“‘You move me to expostulation,’ says I.

“‘But there shines the glimmer o’ hope,’ says Chinook Bill.

“‘Eloocidate,’ says I.

“‘His Nibbs, the king, has discovered the rejuvenatin’ properties o’
that remainin’ jug o’ _aguardiente_. From my place o’ vantage I observe
that he retires to the rear o’ his palace an’ is fast lubricatin’ his
system with that highly soperiferous nectar. The harem is in an uproar
an’ the foundation o’ a great nation is totterin’ an’ his women folks is
desolvin’ rapidly in the ether landscape. The chamberlain, the secretary
o’ war an’ the House o’ Lords is holdin’ special session. I think the
whole city is contemplatin’ a ignominious flight. His Nibbs is a regular
Nero an’ is callin’ fer Rome to be burnt to banish the monotony o’ his
moody reflections. Such is the potency o’ the Greaser’s _mescal_!’

“‘Then there is indeed hope,’ says I, es the next moment his Nibbs, the
king, gives a bibulous war whoop an’ emerges into the open with that
jug o’ _aguardiente_ strapped to his middle, a bloody spear held aloft
an’ a glitter in his eye. The special session o’ the House o’ Lords
adjourns immegiate an’ takes to the tall timber, the noble kinsman o’
the great Montezuma givin’ obligin’ chase. Then a new inspiration o’
sacrilege an’ carnage hatches in his Majesty’s volatile brain an’ with
a turrible war whoop he wheels right about an’ charges into the temple
o’ Itchlatichlahoola es the high priest an’ his retinue o’ lesser lights
bolts from another door with the sacred emblems o’ that gracious divinity
tucked under their arms, an’ they went the way o’ the House o’ Lords
likewise. His Nibbs re-appears snortin’ in triumph an’ circles like a
vexed steer, a-lookin’ fer something to dispute the bloody laurels o’
his victory. When he sights us he is shaken by a great felicity an’ his
attitoode is one o’ blandishin’ uncertitoode, es if he entertained a
fearful idee we was tantalizin’ visions an’ would melt at the touch. The
agony o’ his suspense was something prostratin’ an’ I lets out a yell
o’ ‘Whoa, Buck!’ just to relieve his mind, an’ then hyere he come, fust
on one side the square, then the other, dancin’ mad. Chinook Bill gives
another encouragin’ whoop, an’ his Nibbs cuts the pigeon wing an’ begins
to circle, that jug o’ _aguardiente_ cuttin’ heraldic devices in the much
disturbed atmosphere, his fat arms pluggin’ chaos an’ his feet comin’
down an’ combustin’ with terra firma like the rattle o’ a ore chute, an’
a-lookin’ fer the world like one o’ them hell vultures es picked our
trail through the Sonora Mountains.

“‘What’s the natcheral sequence o’ these French ballet fantastics?’ says
I.

“‘It’s the unconscious promptin’s o’ great mental endowment,’ says
Chinook Bill. ‘Jest at present he’s executin’ the Circle o’ Archimedes
an’ formin’ a planetary tablet o’ the high heavens; incident’ly he’s
performin’ our heagern rituals which precedes a quick an’ horrible
despatch o’ the soul from the mortal coil.’

“‘Then, alas! It’s death!’ says I.

“‘But we might divert his mind,’ says Bill.

“‘Eloocidate,’ says I again.

“Fer answer Chinook Bill draws forth with his free hand a bottle o’
Arizona Snake Bite to be took in drops diluted with much water an’
swallowed instant so es to lessen the convulsions o’ agony.

“‘I been tryin’ fer the last two months to get strong enough to ease
the cork an’ enjoy the heavenly odor o’ this, but I ain’t been robust
enough,’ says he, sorrowful. ‘So let them es are more agile an’ spry
inherit what the gods bequeath to the valorous.’

“‘It ’ud be cruelty to animals,’ says I.

“‘I ain’t offerin’ it es a nerve tonic,’ says Chinook Bill, snappish,
‘an’ I ain’t dilatin’ on its many virchores, but if there is any heagern
about es would defy the components o’ this devilish concoction o’ ancient
alchemy let him beware,’ says he.

“His Nibbs no sooner sets his eye on that bottle o’ yaller perdition
liquified afore he wants it, an’ licks his lips voracious.

“‘I cyaint endoore that look o’ deep reproach,’ says Chinook Bill; ‘he
must have it.’

“‘It ’ud be cruelty to animals not to,’ says I, ‘an’ we ain’t runnin’ no
Keely cure, fer a fact. Besides, he’ll resort to physical violence if we
don’t hand over the dream maker prompt.’

“‘An’ whilst he is pluckin’ purple poppies from sweet fancy’s lurid
canvas,’ says Chinook Bill softly, ‘we’ll leave our respects to the House
o’ Lords an’ depart instant. It’s me who’s pinin’ fer the range.’

“‘The dream o’ avarice no longer disturbs the tranquillity o’ my
peace-lovin’ natur’,’ says I. ‘Me fer the sweet alfalfa of the cowland.’

“Thereon, we viewed the mad potations o’ his Nibbs in anxious silence,
an’ when he begun to fight invisible cobras an’ pluck bits o’ poetic
thought from space we took opportunity by the forelock an’ broke fer
sweet freedom, an’ was soon lickin’ time out o’ the landscape. After we’d
chucked two days behind us we slowed up fer observation an’ to get our
bearin’s by the water shed. Ten more moons an’ we sights Californy Gulf
an’ civilization. We sold antique relics an’ old Chippendale furnitchur,
with the forbidden books throwed in fer good measure, to a private
expedition headed by a Harvard professor. Then we got a full supply o’
the paraphernalia o’ railroad travel, takes forcible possession o’ the
rear coach an’ begins a long deferred celebration. It ’ud be trivial to
say es how we blowed in to Phoenix, it bein’ said the dust ain’t settled
there yet—exceptin’ in the extreme sooburbs o’ that thrivin’ town. But
I know we found white man’s whiskey an’ was shucked clean—exceptin’
to our irreproachable character—in a protracted game o’ monte, an’
was chiefly delayed by them indispensable altercations es come up in
the course o’ one’s sojourn through them deludin’ hazes an’ prismatic
colorin’s o’ a magnificent jag. After we’d drowned the contagion o’
heagernism in our orthidox constitutions we mounts the broncos bought
previous to that little escapade an’ hikes fer the range. We follers
our noses across the El Pinto country until we struck the Bar Y outfit,
implores a ice-bound individgooal es was _chef_ and bottle washer fer a
hand-out an’ incident’ly asks the foreman fer a job. We gets both, an’
fer two months pursooes the quiet paths o’ temperance an’ thrift until a
worldly maverick by the name o’ O’Hooley drifts into camp an’ tells how
he’d struck it rich in the Little Pecan country an’, guided by a impulse
of philanthropy, was ridin’ cross territory a-tellin’ o’ his great
discovery—. But that’s another story,” said Buck Eye Pete, “an’ it’s me
fer a cup o’ Mocha-Java an’ a _siesta_.”




NAPOLEON

PART VII—NAPOLEON III

By Anna Erwin Woods


The year 1848 came bearing revolution on its wings. Again France cast
aside the Bourbon dynasty, and declared for a republic. Once more began
the exile of King Louis Philippe; driven from his native land in old age,
as in youth.

The man of Boulogne and Strasbourg waited and watched his opportunity.
A republican, a great minister, a member of the provisional government
declared, “The renown of Napoleon remains as one of those immense
souvenirs which extend over the history of a people, and cover it with
an eternal splendor. All that is popular in this glory we accept with
eagerness; the proscription of his family by the France of to-day would
be a shame.” France gave heed to these words and the National Assembly
declared: “Article 6 of the law of April 10, 1852, relative to the
banishment of the Bonaparte family is abrogated.”

Another republican leader made the following assertion: “The Republic is
like the sun. Allow the nephew of the Emperor to approach it, I am sure
he will disappear in its beams.” Events proved that it was not the nephew
of the emperor who was to disappear. But, in fact, the real antagonist of
the republic was not the living nephew—it was the dead emperor himself,
the ever-living name—Napoleon. Living or dead, France belonged to him.

After thirty-three years of proscription and exile, Louis Napoleon was
elected by his native city of Paris to a seat in the National Assembly.

On December 20, 1848, Charles Louis Napoleon was declared President of
the Republic of France. The question arose, “Will he take the oath of
office wearing the costume of Napoleon as First Consul, or appear in
military dress?” Upon taking his oath the Prince-President wore a black
coat with the star of the Legion of Honor.

During the year 1852, the vote of the people of France was taken as
to whether or not the imperial dignity should be re-established in
the person of Prince Louis Napoleon. And “by the grace of God and the
National Will” Charles Louis Napoleon became “Napoleon III, Emperor of
the French.” On the night of December 1, 1852, the dignitaries of the
new Empire went to the Palace of St. Cloud carrying the Imperial Crown,
and the next day the proclamation of the empire was made in Paris with
stately ceremony. The Emperor Napoleon III rode from the palace of
St. Cloud to the Tuileries. The procession marched between lines of
soldiers with arms presented; the cannon roared, the bells rang gaily,
and the military bands played “_Partant pour la Syrie_,” the stirring air
composed by Queen Hortense.

Mrs. Jessie Benton Fremont (whom it is scarcely necessary to mention as
being the daughter of Thomas H. Benton and the wife of John C. Fremont)
says in “Souvenirs of My Life”: “We saw the official entrance into
Paris of the Emperor, our position on the Champs Elysées being about
midway between the Arc de Triomphe and the Tuileries. On that 2nd day of
December, 1852, the courage of Louis Napoleon was tested. The republicans
who had put him in power, had warned him that he should die if he altered
the republican form of government. Whether he had courage or not I do
not know. What I do know is that I saw him ride, alone, no troops, not a
single officer within forty feet of him to his front or rear, and open
space on either side of him, along the broad avenue densely lined by
crowds. Quite separated and alone, his head bare, holding in one hand the
reins, in the other his hat. Only his horse was to share any harm that
might come to him. To us the thrill of response to such evident courage
came with sudden conviction and the applause from our balcony was strong
and sincere.”

England hastened to recognize the new Emperor, and the other Great Powers
promptly followed her example. Immense sums of money were voted by the
National Assembly to be placed at the disposal of the Emperor in order to
maintain the splendor of his position. The prisoner of Ham had become the
absolute ruler of the foremost nation of continental Europe.

In the hour of triumph, in the midst of his state and magnificence the
friends of his years of adversity were not forgotten. Charles Thelin, the
devoted valet, became Treasurer of the Privy Purse—a purse much heavier
than the one from which Thelin had paid for the workman’s costume at Ham!
None of the adherents of the evil days of Louis Napoleon were forgotten;
in his heart there seemed to rest a grateful memory of every kindness.

    “Now, too, the joy most like divine,
      Of all I ever dreamed or knew;
    To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine—
      Oh, Fate, and wilt thou give that, too?”

To most men comes love’s young dream, and then ambition. To this, which
is the common fate, this man of strange destiny, Louis Napoleon, was to
offer a contradiction. His life was now passed under triumphal arches,
listening to words of adulation. It was at Fontainebleau that the great
Emperor had signed his abdication and taken leave of his guard as he
departed for his first captivity upon the Island of Elba. And it was
at Fontainebleau that Napoleon III sat unmoved and listened to these
words: “Our single wish is that, having been the last to salute Napoleon
I, we may be the first to salute Napoleon III.” But it is with emotion
which he could not control that on the spot where he and his mother had
stood together, sad pilgrims (1831), he heard these words in her honor:
“Crowned artist, queen of grace and genius, mother of a glorious child,
preserved by her through exile and danger to give repose to France.”

With his wildest dreams realized, he felt that to be admired is
nothing; the thing is to be loved. His heart was filled with reveries
and longings; he aspired after the greatest happiness in life—love in
marriage. His words were: “Until now my position has prevented me from
marrying; amidst the cares of government, I have, alas! at this hour, in
my own country, from which I have so long been absent, neither intimate
friends nor acquaintances of childhood, nor relatives who could give me
the sweetness of family life!”

After the coup d’état the friends and ministers of Louis Napoleon greatly
desired that he should form an alliance with some princess of royal or
imperial blood. The daughter of his cousin, the Grand Duchess of Baden,
had married Prince Gustavus Vasa of Sweden, son of King Gustavus IV. The
daughter of this marriage, Princess Caroline Vasa (afterwards Queen of
Saxony), was the person selected to become the wife of Napoleon III. It
seems that the Emperor of Austria had to be consulted, and his refusal
was positive, in consideration of the fate of the two Archduchesses,
Marie Antoinette and Marie Louise, who had been placed by Austria upon
the throne of France. Louis Napoleon seemed to feel no regret as to the
failure of the negotiation, as his heart was by no means engaged in it.

There was at this time in Paris a young Spanish lady of noble birth and
high position and of very extraordinary beauty, Mademoiselle de Montijo,
Comtesse de Teba. Like all foreigners of distinction, she and her mother,
the Comtesse of Montijo, were received at the Elysée Palace by the
Prince-President with the attention due their rank. When first he met
her, in 1849, he was very deeply impressed by her great beauty, elegance
and grace, and this feeling seemed constantly to increase. Although he
treated her with the most marked reserve and dignity, his happiness was
in being at her side. He inaugurated a series of sojourns at his palaces
at Compiègne and Fontainebleau, where she and her mother were among his
guests.

Her manner was full of charm and grace, and her nature of enthusiasm and
poetry. Her conversation was bright and glowing, and the Emperor could
not conceal the joy he felt in listening to her, nor the admiration
aroused by her graceful and intrepid horsemanship. He was himself a bold
and elegant rider, and in the forests of his country palaces he ordered
that hunts should be given with the most brilliant surroundings.

Although her radiant beauty attracted the attention of all, none dreamed
that in Mademoiselle de Montijo they saw their future Empress. The
Emperor never departed from the most correct reserve; accustomed, as
he was, to master and conceal his emotions, although softened, subdued
and fascinated, his attitude throughout towards his lovely guest was
irreproachable. Possibly his projected marriage was already settled in
his own mind. Although an Emperor, and a man who wore a mask of gentle
calmness in most trying moments, he was, at this time, above all else, a
lover.

One bright autumnal morning, as they walked in the park, the beautiful
Spaniard, full of poetical fancy, admired the magical effect of the
dewdrops upon the clover leaves. The Emperor quietly drew aside one of
his courtiers, who left in a few moments for Paris. The next evening
there was a lottery drawn, and it was managed that Mademoiselle de
Montijo should draw a clover leaf sparkling with superb diamonds. Simply,
the Emperor was desperately in love; to him, as to any other man of deep
sentiment, above all things earthly, even crowns and sceptres, was a
beautiful face, the most beautiful sight of all, and the sweetest harmony
was the tone of voice of the woman he loved.

On January 1st, 1853, he asked her in marriage, and on January 22nd,
he summoned before him, in the throne-room of the Tuileries, the great
constituent bodies of the empire to receive his announcement. In a clear
and emphatic manner and voice he spoke:

“Gentlemen, I comply with the wish so often manifested by the country
by coming to announce to you my marriage.... For the last seventy years
foreign princesses have ascended the steps of the throne, only to see
their offspring scattered by war or revolution. One woman alone has
seemed to bring happiness and to live longer than others in the people’s
memory; and this woman, the good and modest wife of General Bonaparte,
was not the issue of royal blood.” This homage paid to his grandmother,
the Empress Josephine, was greeted with applause and cries of “Long live
the Emperor!” After speaking at length with regard to matters of state,
with great emotion he expressed all his affection for his betrothed: “She
who has become the object of my preference is of lofty birth.... Gifted
with all the qualities of the soul, she will be the ornament of the
throne, as in the hour of danger she would become one of its courageous
supporters.... Catholic and pious, she will address to Heaven the same
prayers that I do for the welfare of France; gracious and good, she will,
in the same position, I firmly hope, renew the virtues of the Empress
Josephine.”

He ended with these heartfelt words: “I come, then, gentlemen, to say to
France, I have preferred a woman whom I love and respect to an unknown
person, the advantages of an alliance with whom would be mingled with
sacrifices. In placing independence, the qualities of the heart, family
happiness above dynastic prejudices, I shall not be less strong, because
I shall be more free. Very soon, in betaking myself to Nôtre Dame, I
shall present the Empress to the people and the army; the confidence they
have in me will assure their sympathy for her whom I have chosen, and
you, gentlemen, in learning to know her, will be convinced that this time
also I have been inspired by Providence.”

As soon as the announcement was made Mme. de Montijo and her daughter
were installed in the Elysée Palace, where they were to reside until the
marriage should take place, and where the Emperor went every day to pay
court to his betrothed and to carry her bouquets. He laid not only his
crown, but his heart, at her feet. This man, daring in deeds and gentle
in feeling, had undergone deep pangs of suffering. Venerating his father,
devotedly loving his brother and idolizing his mother, he had, one by
one, been bereft of all near and dear to him. He seemed to long to take
in his protecting arms and in his loving heart a woman whom he could love
and honor and cherish as his wife, one worthy to be at his side upon a
throne.

The Municipal Council of Paris had determined to offer to the Emperor’s
betrothed a magnificent set of diamonds. The Prefect of the Seine
received the following letter:

    M. Prefect: I am much affected on learning the generous
    decision of the Municipal Council of Paris, which thus
    displays its sympathetic adhesion to the union the Emperor is
    contracting. Nevertheless, I experience a painful sentiment
    when I think that the first public act attaching to my name
    at the moment of the marriage is to be a considerable expense
    for the city of Paris. Permit me then not to accept your
    gift, however flattering to me; you would make me happier
    by employing in charity the sum you have fixed upon for the
    purchase of the ornaments the Municipal Council wished to offer
    me. I desire that my marriage shall not be the occasion of any
    new expense to the country to which I belong henceforward; and
    the sole thing I aspire to is to share with the Emperor the
    love and esteem of the French people. I beg you, M. Prefect,
    to express all my gratitude to the Council, and to receive for
    yourself the assurance of my distinguished consideration.

                                          EUGENIE, COMTESSE DE TEBA.

    _Elysée Palace, January 26, 1855._

The money was employed in founding an establishment where poor young
girls should receive a professional education, and which they would leave
only when provided with suitable positions. This establishment was to
bear the name of the Empress and be placed under her protection.

[Illustration: _To be continued_]




[Illustration: With Bob Taylor]


SENTIMENT AND STORY

Oh, what a wonderful magician and what a tyrant king is Love, the King of
Kings!

Look at the care-worn faces in the offices and counting rooms and on
the business marts of the world. Look out yonder at the millions in
the factories and fields, with beaded brows, and knotted muscles, and
calloused hands, coining thought into gold, and sweat into silver. There
is a mighty power moving on those restless tides; they are sowing and
reaping for the helpless and the innocent; Love hath written his name in
every heart, and in every life there is a love story. Now look yonder in
the purple glow of eventide, how the millions dissolve and vanish among
the shadows. The law of the King has been obeyed, and labor finds its
sweet reward in the palace of love, by the brawling brook of laughter, on
the brink of the river of song.

But, Lord, how soon the palace crumbles! And how surely the vibrant
streams run dry when labor leaves his task undone, or toil takes his gold
to other shrines!

If you would keep the loom of love in motion, you must be a flying
shuttle of industry by day and spend your evenings at home. The shuttle
delivers the thread; you must deliver the bread and grease the bobbins
with butter.

The shuttle is always in its place. Art thou, O King? When the light is
smiling through the window out into the darkness, and thy home is ringing
with the laughter and song of children within, art thou there to laugh
and sing with them? And when the baby cries in the dead hours of the
night, dost thou meekly wear thy yoke of love and walk the floor and
sweetly sing to thy screaming progeny?

Alas! too often thou art found where sherry glows and champagne flows and
the night is very, very merry, O King!

       *       *       *       *       *

I saw a truant old gentleman vanish from his labors to a carousal one
evening, and that night he went home as drunk as a lord, with unsteady
steps and slow, dreading the storm within, and softly singing to himself
as he went:

    “I wish my wife was an angel, far, far away!”

The queen of the household, who had been nursing her rage, met him at the
door with a face like a drawn tomahawk; and the clock struck one, and she
struck, too, as he entered.

“How dare you come home to me at this hour of the night?” she shouted in
her anger.

“Why, my dear, it was jis’ ten o’clock when I left prayer meetin’, an’ I
come right straight home.”

“Yes, prayer meeting! You look like prayer meeting! Look at the hands on
the dial of that clock; it has just struck one.”

“Well, now, madam,” he said, “if you propose to believe a durned little
dollar-and-a-half clock before you’ll believe your husband, that’s all
right; but I shall certainly think that I have not found the amiable
spirit in this palace of love which I expected to find on my arrival.”

And the threads of love popped, and the loom stopped for several hours.

       *       *       *       *       *

An uncrowned old King went to his little palace one night under the
influence of King Alcohol, as usual. His unhappy wife let him in at the
door and burst into tears and said:

“Husband, why do you come home every night in this drunken condition?”

“Why,” he said, “my dear, you are so pretty that I jist naturally love to
look at you double!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Did you ever see a tramp tramping by and pausing at your door to beg a
benediction—not of love, but of bread? What cared this wandering boy for
love? His heart was in the grave; he was the “somnambulist of a shattered
dream;” he was a romance in rags, a seedy poem, a tattered song, crumpled
by the hand of fate and thrown into the waste-basket of oblivion.

He halted at a farmhouse one rainy day and proposed to kill all the
rats on the place for his dinner. “Very well,” said the farmer, “it’s a
bargain.” He called his neighbors in to see the killing. The tramp ate
for an hour, and when he had finished he called for a spade. Seating
himself in the middle of the room, he raised the spade over his shoulder
and shouted: “Now fetch on your rats!”

He stopped at an old fellow’s door and told him he was a dentist, and
smilingly proposed to put a good set of teeth in a fresh apple pie for
nothing.

       *       *       *       *       *

I saw love enter the gubernatorial door to plead for love one day, and
the old mother sat and wept in the presence of the Governor, while the
aged father told the story of a love that was wrecked long ago, a life
that was ruined, and a lover that wandered away with the death wound in
his heart. Then I heard him tell the story of a tramp whose journey had
ended at last within the prison walls; and I went out with them and stood
at the gate of hell. I looked in and saw the ghastly stripes of shame and
the pallid faces of crime moving to and fro, laboring under the lash of
justice and shrinking from the scorn of their fellow man. I entered and
looked again; there was not a smile nor a single peal of laughter, but
melancholy’s ghost of song still lingered behind the iron bars to comfort
languishing love.

I saw children of tender age in that vortex of living death, and I said,
“Hell was not made for children;” and I dragged them out and delivered
them to their mothers. I saw youths who had committed crime in the heat
of passion, dying in disgrace, and I dragged them out and sent them
home, some with a new hope and some to die. I saw repentant men who had
suffered long enough, and I dragged them out and gave them to their wives
and their children. I saw the erstwhile tramp, the romance in rags, the
tattered song, now the striped doxology of a misspent life; two trembling
hands pointed to him. I turned to the old folks and said: “His crime was
not great, and you are old and feeble;” and I dragged him out and left
them weeping upon his bosom.

       *       *       *       *       *

An overbearing lawyer once shouted to an old lady whom he was examining
on the witness stand:

“Madam, please confine yourself to the facts!”

The old lady turned around to him and said:

“Well, sir, you are no gentleman; that’s a fact.”

       *       *       *       *       *

An old doctor examined his patient one afternoon and coldly said to him:

“You are dying, sir; have you any wish to express before you pass over
the river?”

“Yes,” said the patient, feebly, “I wish I had employed another doctor.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The world loves us if we succeed; it despises us if we fail; it piles
ice around its benefactors, and gives the meed of praise to genius only
when genius is in the grave. But what do words of praise avail to lift
the shadows from a path no longer pressed by weary feet? Why fill the
hands of the dead with flowers which you have withheld from the living?
Who would not rather have one smile, one tender word to-day, than to
know that a million roses would be heaped upon his coffin? Who would
not rather live and dream among the flowers of love than to sleep the
dreamless sleep beneath a wilderness of flowers?

Then why not let the Gulf Stream of love flow on? For its warm current
breathes upon the icy shores of mortal life and makes them blossom with
laughter and song. Love is the soul of the beautiful, the true and the
good; it is all there is of happiness.

       *       *       *       *       *

But “the course of true love never did run smooth.” Listen to my tale of
woe. An absent-minded old bachelor once fell in love with a beautiful
girl and instantly prepared for battle with the flounced and powdered
enemy. At first his plans worked well, and he was about to win a great
victory over all the swells in town; but an accident happened which
changed his destiny and wrecked his hopes of conquest and happiness. The
church bell rang one bright Sabbath morning, and he knew that his idol
would be there; and he diked himself in faultless style and curled his
sorrel moustache till it looked like the tail of a pug. The excitement of
the occasion made him more absent-minded than ever, and he waited until
the worshipers had assembled, and then walked down the aisle in triumph,
the observed of all observers, with his overcoat hanging on his arm; but
the maiden looked at his overcoat and blushed; the preacher looked at it
and smiled, and the congregation looked at it and broke into laughter;
and the old bachelor looked down, and it was his every-day pantaloons.
His hope exploded like a bubble in the air, and he dropped the garment
and flew.

       *       *       *       *       *

We have stepped over the threshold of the twentieth century. What greater
wonders will it unfold to us? It may be that another magician, greater
even than Edison, the “Wizard of Menlo Park,” will rise up and coax the
very laws of nature into easy compliance with his unheard-of dreams. I
think he will construct an electric railway in the form of a huge tube,
and call it the “electro-scoot,” and passengers will enter it in New York
and touch a button and arrive in San Francisco two hours before they
started!

I think a new discovery will be made by which the young man of the future
may stand at his “kiss-o-phone” in New York and kiss his sweetheart in
Chicago with all the delightful sensations of the “aforesaid and the
same.”

I think some Liebig will reduce foods to their last analyses, and, by
an ultimate concentration of their elements, will enable the man of the
future to carry a year’s provisions in his vest pocket. The dude will
store his rations in the head of his cane, and the commissary department
of a whole army will consist of a mule and a pair of saddlebags. A
trainload of cabbage will be transported in a sardine box and a thousand
fat Texas cattle in an oyster can.

Power will be condensed from a forty-horse engine to a quart cup. Wagons
will roll by the power in their axles, and the cushions of our buggies
will cover the force that propels them. The armies of the future will
fight with chain lightning, and the battlefields will be in the air.

Some dreaming Icarus will perfect the flying machine, and upon the
aluminum wings of the swift Pegasus of the air social, civic and military
parades will be held.

The rainbow will be converted into a Ferris wheel; all men will be
bald-headed; the women will run the government—and then I think the end
of time will be near at hand!

       *       *       *       *       *

A great many youths think that if a man has brain-power he can accomplish
anything. So he can, but a study of the men who are failures, the men
who fill our penitentiaries and our sanitariums, will show that unless
ability is ballasted with character, its possessor is unstable and
untrustworthy. There is a tremendous power in ability, boys, when added
to character.


THE PARADISE OF FOOLS

PART XII

I saw a poor old bachelor live all the days of his life in sight of
paradise, too cowardly to put his arm around it and press it to his
bosom. He shaved and primped and resolved to marry every day in the year
for forty years. But when the hour for love’s duel arrived, when he stood
trembling in the presence of rosy cheeks and glancing eyes, and beauty
shook her curls and gave the challenge, his courage always oozed away,
and he fled ingloriously from the field of honor.

Far happier than the bachelor is old Uncle Rastus in his cabin, when he
holds Aunt Dinah’s hand in his and asks: “Who’s sweet?” And Dinah drops
her head over on his shoulder and answers, “Bofe uv us.”

A thousand times happier is the frisky old widower with his pink bald
head, his wrinkles and his rheumatism, who

    Wires in and wires out,
    And leaves the ladies all in doubt.
    As to what is his age and what he is worth,
    And whether or not he owns the earth.

He “toils not, neither does he spin,” yet Solomon in all his glory was
not more popular with the ladies. He is as light-hearted as “Mary’s
little lamb.” He is acquainted with every hog path in the matrimonial
paradise and knows all the nearest cuts to the _sanctum sanctorum_ of
woman’s heart. But his jealousy is as cruel as the grave. Woe unto the
bachelor who dares to cross his path!

An old bachelor in my native mountains once rose in church to give his
experience, in the presence of his old rival, who was a widower, and with
whom he was at dagger’s points in the race to win the affections of one
of the sisters in Zion. Thus the pious old bachelor spake: “Brethren,
this is a beautiful world. I love to live in it just as well to-day as I
ever did in my life. And the saddest thought that ever crossed this old
brain of mine is, that in a few short days at best, these old eyes will
be glazed in death and I’ll never get to see my loved ones in this world
any more.” And his old rival shouted from the amen corner:

“Thank God!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Oliver Wendell Holmes says:

“Our brains are seventy year clocks. The angel of life winds them up
once for all, closes the case, and gives the key into the hand of the
resurrection angel.” When I read this I thought, what a stupendous task
awaits the angel of the resurrection, when all the countless millions of
old rickety, rusty, worm-eaten clocks are to be resurrected, and wiped,
and dusted, and repaired, for mansions in the skies! There will be every
kind and character of clock and clockwork resurrected on that day. There
will be the Catholic clock with his beads, and the Episcopalian clock
with his ritual. There will be an old clock resurrected on that day
wearing a broadcloth coat buttoned up to the throat; and when he is wound
up he will go off with a whizz and a bang. He will get up out of the dust
shouting, “Hallelujah!” and he will proclaim “_sanctification!_” and
“_falling from grace!_” as the only true doctrine by which men shall go
sweeping through the pearly gates into the new Jerusalem. And he will be
recognized as a Methodist preacher, a little noisy, a little clogged with
chicken feathers, but ripe for the Kingdom of Heaven.

There will be another old clock resurrected on that day, dressed like the
former, but a little stiffer and straighter in the back, and armed with
a pair of gold spectacles and a manuscript. When he is wound up he will
break out in a cold sepulchral tone with, firstly: “_foreordination!_”
secondly: “_predestination!_” and, thirdly: “_the final perseverance of
the saints!_” He will be recognized as a Presbyterian preacher, a little
blue and frigid, a little dry and formal, but one of God’s own elect,
and he will be labeled for Paradise.

There will be an old Hard-shell clock resurrected, with throat whiskers,
and wearing a shad-bellied coat and flap breeches. And when he is wound
up a little, and a little oil is poured into his old wheels, he will
swing out into space on the wings of the gospel with:

“My Dearly Beloved Brethren-ah; I was a-ridin’ along this mornin’
a-tryin’ to study up somethin’ to preach to this dyin’ congregation-ah;
and as I rid up by the old mill pond-ah; lo and behold! there was an
old snag a-stickin’ up out of the middle of the pond-ah; and an old mud
turtle had clim up out uv the water and was a settin’ up on the old snag
a-sunnin’ uv himself-ah; and lo! and behold-ah! when I rid up a leetle
nearer to him-ah, he jumped off of the snag, ‘ker chug’ into the water,
thereby proving emersion-eh!”

Our brains _are_ clocks, and our hearts are the pendulums. If we live
right in this world, when the Resurrection Day shall come, the Lord God
will polish the wheels, and jewel the bearings, and crown the casements
with stars and with gold. And the pendulums will be harps encrusted with
precious stones. They will swing to and fro on angel wings, making music
in the ear of God, and flashing His glory through all the blissful cycles
of eternity!

       *       *       *       *       *

    The mornings come, the evenings go,
    Till raven locks turn white as snow;
    The evenings go, the mornings come,
    Till hearts are still and lips are dumb;
    The morning steals the stars in vain,
    For evening steals them back again.

The mornings are the rapturous thoughts of God; the evenings are His
glorious dreams. We think within His thoughts, and dream within His
dreams. The sun and stars are His mighty looms on which he weaves the
lights and shadows that tint the earth and sky with colors divine. But
let those looms of light for a moment stop; let their blissful shuttles
cease to fly, and instantly, this beautiful world of ours, with all its
bloom and beauty blighted, with all its mirth and music hushed, would lie
naked and dead on the cold bosom of eternal night.

So it is with human life. It hath its spirit looms, and its throbbing
shuttles forever delivering to the warp and woof of hope and memory, the
shining threads of human kindness, and weaving them into gossamer webs
of love around our hearts and in our homes. Every tender word we speak;
every blessing we bestow is a thread of sunshine woven into somebody’s
life; and all the smiles and sympathies which come to us from other
hearts are threads of light and love woven into our own. But let the loom
of love for a moment stop; let its blissful shuttle cease to fly, and
that moment happiness will lie dead on the hearthstone, and laughter will
perish among the roses at the door.

All men are Kings, but love is King of Kings. His imperial chariot
rumbles over the cobblestones of human hearts, and the sighing millions
are his worshipers. Wealth bows its haughty head before his throne, and
pays penance with jewels and gold; labor bends the reverent knee and
counts its beads of sweat; commerce folds its snowy wings and kneels on
the billows in mute but eloquent adoration, and art chisels down the cold
white prison walls of shapeless marble and leads dumb beauty forth, a
breathless prayer to love.

Love is the only despot against whose tyranny no nation ever rebels;
his yoke is the twining of tender arms, and the crack of his whip is
a guileless kiss. Love is a regal anarchist; he climbs the ladder of
laughter and throws bomb shells of mirth into the palace of the heart.
Love is a royal minstrel; he scales the harp strings of song and
serenades the soul. Love rides on the wings of butterflies, and, with
his silken lariat, lassoes strolling lovers, and leads them down among
the golden rod and clover blossoms. The dimples in the chin of mirth are
the tell-tale tracks of love; and he lurks among the roses that bloom on
beauty’s cheek.




[Illustration: With Trotwood]


THE RIGHTS OF CHILDHOOD

    [This address, delivered January 18th, 1907, before the
    convention of the Tennessee County Superintendents and
    Teachers, is compiled from notes by Mr. Settle of the _Daily
    American_, and from memory after delivery by its author, Mr.
    Moore having made no notes at the time, the speech being the
    occasion of extemporaneous talks at the close of an educational
    rally. From many sources has come the request that it be
    reproduced here.—EDITOR.]

I thank you, Mr. Chairman, for your very kind introduction concerning
my “Bishop of Cottontown,” and the fact that you see in it an appeal
for the childhood of the land. And I thank you, ladies and gentlemen,
for the privilege of addressing you on this subject, so full of great
and far reaching interest. And in the beginning permit me to say to you
that I, myself, have been a teacher, and that I consider it the grandest
profession of all those which make for the uplifting of the human race,
save, perhaps, one. If you doubt that I have been there—to use the
pungent vernacular of the times—if you doubt that I am familiar with the
hardships, trials, ay, and the triumphs of the average teacher, permit me
to relate this anecdote as the stamp of the coin, the chip of the block
of the profession.

In my younger days, when the Alabama law required that a teacher should
teach hygiene and physiology along with other studies—the object being to
show the effects of alcohol on the human body—there came to my school a
big, double-jointed plow boy, whose opportunities for education had been
few, but he was of that stuff from which many of the great men of the
republic have been made. After six months of grammar and hygiene, when
the class was required to write a composition on the human anatomy, this
is the marvelous work of art handed into me by the man of the plow:

“The human anatermy is devided into three parts, the Head, the Chist and
the Stummic. The Head contains the brains, if any. The Chist contains the
lights and the liver. The Stummic contains the bowels. There are five
bowels, a, e, i, o, u and sometimes w and y.”

Have I not been there, my friends?

The rights of childhood—that is the subject you have given me, Mr.
Chairman. Why, you might as well have asked me to speak upon the rights
of God. You know, and I know, and all within the sound of my voice know,
what are the rights of childhood—the right to an education, to health, to
play, to work in proportion to its age and strength, to a fair chance and
a square deal in this greatest country of the world’s greatest age.

We know, I say, what are the rights of a child. The question I wish to
put to you is, are they getting those rights?

The distinguished gentleman and ex-Governor who has just preceded me, has
said most eloquently much that I myself do most heartily endorse. And
while I dislike to sound in this assembly one discordant note—to strike
one chord of the minor here—where all seem so satisfied, I feel that I
shall not be true to the great cause of childhood if I fail to say what I
do know. It is good for us, now and then, to be shown our shortcomings.
It is well for us to see at times into our soul of souls. It is progress
to search after better things. Self-sufficiency is retrogression;
self satisfaction is decay, and contentment is the sure messenger of
degeneracy and death. There is no god as great as the God of Discontent.
False glory is the masque of ignorance and self-conceit is the gaudy
mantle of the king’s fool.

In telling you then, as the collected teachers and county superintendents
of this state, that you have done nobly and performed your solemn duties,
the distinguished gentleman has used an hyperbole which strikes me with
ironical exaggeration and which has aroused in me this flow of bitterness
and gall which I shall now pour out upon your complacent heads. And I
do if with this amendment—that if you are doing your duty, if you have
fought for the rights of childhood as you should and failed, then the
law makers of this state, and the people of the state who send that kind
every two years to this capitol are fearfully, wonderfully and criminally
derelict in their duty to the children of their own firesides. For I
have it from the lips of your chairman himself, in a speech he delivered
in Columbia last fall, that in all the forty-five members of the great
United States, in numbers of natural born illiterates, North Carolina
stands at the very bottom and Tennessee, your own Tennessee, in which you
are doing such noble, uplifting work, stands next to her, holding in her
hand the black flag of illiteracy.

Does the full force of this get into your peripatetic souls to ruffle
the feathers of your immaculate conceit? Great God, it hurts me to think
of North Carolina, the birthplace of my father and all his fathers
before him that I know anything of, the birthplace of Polk and Shelby
and Robertson and a host of others as great sons as ever God gave to
the republic, the land of the Anglo-Celt, of patriotism and tar-heel
gameness—it hurts me, I repeat, to learn that she stands at the foot, and
Tennessee, her daughter and her equal in past grandeur, patriotism and
principles, stands next!

Don’t look at me as if you did not want to hear it! Neither do I want to
hear it, but it is sometimes good for us to hear the truth—the truth even
to crucifixion.

You may be ignorant, but God knows you will fight! Then fight for the
white children of your state—fight these laws and the politicians who
made them with strings to them—made them to be evaded. Fight for more and
better schools and the abolition of child labor until your state stands
in the column where its pedigree and its past record entitles it to stand!

For you will fight, thank the Lord!

I journeyed last spring to New Orleans just to see the plain upon
which Tennesseans stood and fought to a bloody finish the bullies of
beef-eating England and secured by their victory to our nation the
Louisiana Purchase and a century of foreign peace, which the memory of
that battle strengthens yet in the minds of their children. The old
ditch was a swamp of water lilies; the breastworks had gone back to
the plain; but the great Mississippi flowed on to the sea, unhampered
by Spaniard or Briton, the great artery of a boundless, unbroken and
undivided country. And I stood upon a soil made American by the blood
of Tennesseans; I looked up at a sky purple, blue and beautiful, thrown
over the landscape by the God of our fathers, even as a king of old would
throw his royal purple over the masterpieces of the great master. And
on the sky and on the land and on the bosom of the mighty river I read:
JACKSON—JACKSON—JACKSON!

As I stood there the fighting spirit of my Irish sires came back to me
as I saw the ghosts of those long-haired Tennesseans standing behind
that bloody ditch fighting for the country which God had ordained should
belong to them and the oppressed of the world. The hot blood surged
in my cheek as I thought of the 60,000 little white children of the
South and the 2,000,000 in the cotton mills and factories and mines and
sweatshops of the nation, robbed of their rights of childhood by the
greed of gold, the graft of politicians and the low ignorance and lazy
debasement of their own parents, stealing from them not only the rights
of an education, but even the right of life! And as the blood surged in
my head, beating drumbeats in my brain and marshalling in the fine frenzy
of prophetic visions the gray host that stood shoulder to shoulder there,
I saw again that sallow-faced leader, with the form of a battle spear and
the eyes of a god, riding up and down the long lines—bloody, blasphemous
and brave—and forever settling with the invaders the issue they had
postponed, but not abandoned, at Yorktown. And, seeing him, I saw again
that pitiful picture in the Waxhaw Settlement—the Irish immigrant mother,
her husband but a week ago buried in a poor white’s grave, two babes at
her knees and this one at her breast, with no money and no home and no
bread for their mouths, and I said: “Thank God, there were no cotton
mills in South Carolina then, or Andrew Jackson would have died there
before he was grown, in the lint and the dust and the grind of them,
robbed of his childhood and of his chance in life!”

For he also was a poor white, just the meat for a nice, religious
director of a cotton mill!

I thought of another Tennessean, and this time I stood in the Alamo,
and again I saw ghosts—for who that has blood in his veins can stand
there and not see them? And this was another poor white who died there
before he would pull down the flag that floated above him, or could notch
on the stock of his rifle the dead Mexicans who were piled up before
him—dead—giving to his country an empire and to her coming children an
inspiration that is greater than land and gold, “yea, than much fine
gold.” And I thanked God again that in his youth there had been no cotton
mills in Tennessee to do for Davy Crockett what the bear and panther and
Indian could never do.

For he, too, was a poor white, and in his day would have been as good
for a cotton mill as a coonskin for a pint of whiskey. And his little
life would have gone out behind their shuttles of steel instead of the
invader’s bayonet, and the mention of his name would have brought no
trumpet-blast from the lips of fame: “Thermopylae had her messenger of
defeat. The Alamo had none!”

Again I thought of a fighting Tennessean, also a poor white, in his
youth, and the legitimate prey of the cotton mills—running his gunboats
up Mobile Bay in spite of the bellowing forts and the broadsides of death
and the hell of the hidden torpedo. And suddenly the engine stopped and
a faint heart shouted from below: “_Back—back—torpedoes!_” But Farragut,
from the greatest post of danger, shouted down: “Damn the torpedoes—go
ahead!”

My friends, a man who would steal from a child his childhood, that which
makes all his after life worth living, who would filch from it its
body, brain and soul, is a human torpedo—a torpedo of hell. And, in the
language of Farragut, I say unto you: “_Damn them and go ahead!_”

There was Forrest, another fighting Tennessean and a poor little white
trash, one with fifteen brothers and sisters—just the ideal family made
for the maw of a cotton mill—for upon such families do they declare their
dividends. And if there had been mills in his day there would doubtless
have been no Fort Donelson, Tishomingo Creek and Streight’s Raid. He
also, like all his fighting predecessors, was a swearing Tennessean.
And so I thank heaven for a good, honest, mouth-filling oath in a noble
cause. And again I say unto you: “_By the Eternal, stand up for the
children of your land!_”

They tell me that certain animals in the lower forms of life eat their
young—a form of disease which we recognize in the sick hen which eats
her egg and the swine which devours its young. Good God! Has our boasted
civilization reached the sick and abnormal stage of its existence that
it would live upon its young? Has too much wealth and too much glory and
too much selfishness and high living made again of some men the man-eater
that lived before Adam, except that the hair of his body and his tusks
and his claws are gone, and now he is the clean-looking, well-fed,
well-groomed son of hell that would fatten on the blood of his own
breed? Talk not about his being a Christian, a follower of the sweet and
beautiful Savior—the Christ, who, when he had hunted in all the mystic
chambers of his God-like mind for some simile to express perfect purity
and what we might hope to see in heaven, took the little poor ones in
his arms and said: “This is what you must become—this is the kingdom of
heaven.”

Once Sargent S. Prentiss, the greatest orator who ever saw the light
of day in this country, because his speech was poetry and fire and
reason, made a speech in New Orleans in behalf of the starving poor of
Ireland. It was only ten minutes’ long, but it sent a shipload of food
to Ireland. And he used in that speech a thought which Shakespeare has
never surpassed. “He who is able and will not contribute to such a cause
as this is not a man and has no right to wear the form. He should be sent
back to the mints of nature and there reissued out of baser metal, a
counterfeit on humanity!”




THE TESTER-BED AND ITS OLD-TIME COVERINGS

By Susie Gentry


Just now, when everyone who can has a “tester-bed,” the subject of these
relics and their coverings is an interesting one.

The days of mahogany and rose-wood were also the days of handicraft of
both needle and loom; and many were the beautiful articles of needlework
and textiles that added grandeur and dignity to the tester—the _chef
d’oeuvre_ of the mechanic’s art.

For every-day wear there were the hand-spun and woven white counterpanes
in a variety of patterns: “The Honey-comb,” “Snowball,” “Walls of
Jericho” and “O and N” were the most common designs. These were finished
around three sides with a hand-tied or woven fringe, in depth from three
inches to that of a hand’s length; they were very large, and hung down
all around almost to the floor, that the trundle-bed under the big bed
might not be visible.

For the “company room,” to be used on “grand opportunities”—as an
Icelandic friend designated the special occasions on which the writer was
to wear her gift of a hand-embroidered silver bullion belt—was the tufted
counterpane, of most intricate and elaborate design. This was the outcome
of some magic knowledge possessed by only the weavers of that bygone day.
It had the design or pattern thrown up by little loops of the thread,
quite short, that gave it the name of “tufted,” and a cameo effect—a flat
background, with a raised design. The pattern most liked was “The Star.”
This was an eight-pointed star in the center, smaller ones surrounding
it, with an elaborate border of the “Greek Key,” finished with the always
accompanying fringe.

The “Stuffed Spread” was another favorite covering, and the most prized
of all except the silk quilt. The “Stuffed Spread” was made of a fine,
closely woven white cambric and “back-stitched” (in stitches as even and
close as those of the sewing machine of to-day), in lines of the width
of a large knitting-needle apart, thus tracing the patterns of grapes and
leaves, birds, baskets of flowers, bowls of fruit and geometric designs.

[Illustration: AN OLD TESTER-BED]

These little cases were stuffed with bits of cotton, by using a goose
quill with which to push the cotton in, until the spread came forth
a thing of beauty in its risen cords, and to be cherished by many
generations for its exquisite needlework, ingenuity and patience, as
exemplified by “Great-grandmother” or “Father’s Aunt Sallie.” Then there
were the knitted and crocheted counterpanes, which have been revived in
our day: the “Oak-leaf,” the “Shell,” “Heart” and “Star;” the crocheted
ones to be used over a colored “comfort” of such color as the taste
dictated.

The “Applied-work” was another prized covering. The background of this
was white cambric or domestic, with lovely roses and leaves, or morning
glories in their natural colors, cut from “painted cambric” or “chintz
calico,” and applied to the spread in a central design and border. The
spaces of white were most beautifully quilted in intricate patterns of
every description. We have seen one such spread, made by a Kentucky
woman, quilted in the center with the arms of the United States.

The patch-work quilts were made of or “pieced” in the favorite patterns
of “The Rose and Bud,” “The Swamp Lily,” “The Sunflower,” “The Tree of
Paradise,” “The Kentucky Feather,” “The Rising Sun,” “Log Cabin” and
other designs displaying equal ingenuity in their origin and in their
execution. These were in as natural colors as could be gotten in the “oil
calicos,” which consisted of reds, yellows, blues and greens and the
“fast pinks.” Some really beautiful and artistic effects were achieved by
those who had artistic taste.

There were the silk quilts—not usual, as silk was not so easily
obtainable as to-day—that were used only on bridal and festive
occasions, when kindred and friends from afar were expected, and for
whom the “fatted calf” was killed and all the best possessions brought
into use. Some of the designs for these were the “Lone Star,” “Small
Stars,” “Pickle-dish,” “Hexagon” and “Block” patterns. These were the joy
and pride of the thrifty, beauty-loving housewife. For winter wear, the
wool or cotton, sometimes mixed, home-dyed and home-woven coverlets, were
used; in patterns of the “Rose of Sharon,” the “Walls of Troy” and many
now forgotten names and designs. The colors were combinations of red,
white, blue or green, with an introducing of black here and there.

Flat feather bolsters were used on these beds, the ends of the slips
hanging down, and ornamented with eyelet embroidery or netted lace.

Nowadays the coverlets are frequently used as portieres, and they are
quite artistic and handsome for this purpose.

The word tester is of curious origin, coming down to us from the Norman
_testere_, a head covering. The English speedily contracted this to
“tester,” which name they gave to helmets. Chaucer speaks of “the
shieldes brighte, testers and trappures” of the Crusaders, and later
the word came to apply to the canopy placed over the bed to support
the draperies which protected the sleeper from wandering draughts, so
plentiful in those old stone castles. Sir Horace Walpole writes early in
the eighteenth century of a visit to a friend’s seat, where he found “no
tester to the bed and slept with the saddles and portmanteaus heaped on
me to keep off the cold.” Our colonists brought the tester-bed with them,
but in this balmy climate they were able to dispense with the curtains;
they did not, however, leave off the mountainous feather bed, which
necessitated the aid of “a pair of steps” to reach its downy heights. By
its side was placed the candle-stand, with its brass candle-stick and
snuffers; and in the days “when grandma danced the minuet” with grandpa,
brave in satin knee-breeches and buckled shoon, they dreamed of no
possibility of rest more hygienic than that obtained on the home-cured
goose feathers, with the home-spun sheets, blankets and counterpanes
which covered their tester-beds.




AUNT JANE’S MOCKING-BIRD

By Alma L. Stewart


“De sassy little deb’l, if dat jes’ don’t beat anything I eber seed,”
Aunt Jane was saying, as she vigorously knocked the well-worn breadtray
against the windowsill, if a hole two by four cut in the side of the
little log cabin can be said to have a window sill, to dislodge the
fragments of dough left from the preparation of the morning meal. After
a few more well-intended knocks she dried the tray and hung it and the
dishcloth on their own nail back of the small stove, and grasping the
corner of her apron she dried her hands and was mopping her face as she
turned and saw me in the doorway.

“Laws a-massy, Missus, whar’d yer drap from? Come in, dat is, ef yer can
find de way wid so much trash strowin’ roun’.

“Git out in de yard, niggers,” she said to a group of dirty, half-naked
little negroes, who were investigating the mysteries of a sardine can
under the table. In their effort to obey their seemingly irate mother,
they nearly upset the rickety old table, one leg of which was propped up
with a broken brick that Aunt Jane had brought from the sidewalk of the
town four miles away for that very purpose. “Bricks is sca’ce in dese
parts,” she had said to a neighbor, who had “ax’d her what in de world
she wuz gwin’ter do wid dat brick?” And so the vanquished pickaninnies
with timorous backward glances, disappeared, rubbing their heads as they
went.

“Viney, do git dat cher fer Miss Annie. Jes’ lay dem clothes on de bed.
My soul alibe, Missus, dese here niggers nearly runs me ’stracted.” And
she turned to me with the air of one whose last hope was gone.

But I knew how to take Aunt Jane’s moods, for she would have torn anyone
else literally to pieces had they dared to intimate anything detrimental
to the “life and charuc’ter of her chillun.” And so I seated myself
comfortably in Aunt Jane’s only rocker, which she declared no one ever
sat in “’cept her white folks.” Meanwhile she busied herself with the
pots and pans of the stove, talking as fast as she could, asking me a
hundred questions about the members of my family. I had come to see her
about taking my laundry. My present washwoman had rubbed all the buttons
off my husband’s shirts, and insisted on starching the nether parts of
them, while my own cambric ones and linen dresses were as limber as Aunt
Jane’s proverbial dishrag. Aunt Jane had been in our family when a girl
and I felt that I could depend upon her.

“Law, Miss Annie, dat nigger don’t know de fust rudermints erbout washin’
an’ irun’n.” And she gave her pan a telling scrape by way of emphasis.

“Talk ter me ’bout dese town niggers,” and she went to the same little
window to empty her dish-pan into the pig-trough placed beneath it, for
convenience Aunt Jane had said.

“Well, ef he ain’t dar agin,” she exclaimed, turning to me as if I knew
who “he” was.

“What is it, Jane?” I asked, going to the window myself, wondering what
was outside of the window to call forth all these exclamations.

“Oh, it’s dat sassy little deb’l, dat yander rascal ob a
mocking-bird—er-mind out, Missus, don’t tech dat table wid putty white
dress o’ yourn. Dis here hole ain’t fit fer yer ter come in no how—but
dat bird, he do beat all I eber seed. He ain’t skeered o’ nothin’, and
sing! My, tain’t nothin’ like it! I do b’leve he sings all de night long.
Why, de tother night ’bout twelve er’ clock, Jake come in ’bout half
drunk. Jake’s alright when he’s sober, but jes’ let him git drunk, he’s
de deb’l hissef, dat’s all’s to it. So when he git dat way I gits out, me
an’ de chillun’.

“Well, we went out yander under dat Cherokee rose yer see by de fence
dar, and laid low. We wuz skeer’d purty nigh ter death. Ever’thing
wuz jes’ as quiet an’ still, ’cept Jake blusterin’ roun’ wid de pans
in de cabin, when all ter wunce dat bird jes’ broke out, mos’ like a
brass-band, right over our heads. I tell yer, Miss Annie, it made me feel
creepy. Seem’d like hev’un wuz right over us, while dar wuz de bad place
purty close by, ’cause Jake wuz a raisin’ a terrible roukus wid de pans
try’nter find somp’in ter eat.

“So, dat’s de way ’tis, Missus,” and she nodded her head meditatively,
“when de deb’l is try’nter raise a roukus wid yer hearts an’ souls, de
angels is right over yer singin’ all de time, ef we’ll be still an’
listen.” And she stopped in a thoughtful attitude.

But her reverie was rudely broken up by such din of screaming and yelling
as only half-starved African youngsters are capable of making.

“What on de top side er creashun ails dem yunguns?” she exclaimed, as we
both went to the door. There we saw Viney armed with a long dog-fennel,
followed by the others similarly equipped, in a wild dash for a lanky
black cat. We both laughed at the pursuit. But, suddenly, above their
yells Aunt Jane caught the distress call of the mocking-bird. That was
enough for her. She seized her battling stick and flew after them,
coming quickly to where they were gathered in a fence corner.

“Lemme in here, git erway niggers,” as she breathlessly tumbled two of
them over one another, and with a terrific whack came down upon the
fastened cat, who was still tenaciously gripping the dying bird.

I stood transfixed, not realizing what had taken place, until I saw them
returning to the house. Viney was dragging the lifeless body of the thief
tied by his hind leg to her apron string, while the boys were meting out
vengeance to him in no unstinted terms, slashing him vigorously with one
hand, the other busily engaged holding up their disjointed pantaloons.

In the lead was Aunt Jane. The little pile of grey feathers on the corner
of her apron, resting tenderly on her hand, was all that was left of her
“sassy little deb’l,” the beautiful mocking-bird.




SOME SOUTHERN WRITERS

JAMES RYDER RANDALL

By Kate Alma Orgain


As a rule all national airs have been composed rapidly, under the strong
inspiration of some moment of intense and enthusiastic feeling, and their
writers little dreamed at the time of the power and influence their
passionate appeals would have. National lyrics play an important part
in every country’s history. What has moved and held the army of France
like “The Marseillaise Hymn?” Nothing rouses the Southern soldier like
our glorious “Dixie,” and since the hour when the notes and words of
“Maryland, My Maryland” first sounded on the air, the noble song has
always started the pulse-beat higher and faster in every Southern heart.

It is a pleasant fact for all Southern people, of Irish descent, to
remember that the four grand lyric poems of the South were written by
Irishmen, or men of Irish parentage. “Dixie” was the work of Dan Emmet,
“The Bonnie Blue Flag” that of Harry McCarthy, “The Conquered Banner”
came from Father Ryan, and “Maryland, My Maryland,” whose beauty has
thrilled the souls of thousands, was, as we know, written by James Ryder
Randall. In a letter received by the writer not long ago, Mr. Randall
says that on his father’s side he is of Irish descent, thus giving us
in our Southern airs a quartette of Irish talent. Mr. Randall was born
in Baltimore in 1839, received the principal part of his education
at Georgetown, D. C., where he went to school from his tenth to his
seventeenth year. Here he obtained a fine classical education, but owing
to delicate health could not entirely finish his course. His work in life
has been chiefly editorial, and at different times he has been connected
with the newspapers of Augusta, New Orleans and Baltimore, and has never
devoted himself exclusively to literature. In 1861 James Ryder Randall
was, though very young, a professor at Poydras College upon the Fausse
Rivière of Louisiana. Only a stripling, just from school, with a soul
full of poetry and romance, the condition of the South, the first gun at
Fort Sumter, the scent of the battle afar, thrilled his ardent heart, and
“one sleepless night in April, in a second story room of Poydras College,
seated at a little old wooden desk,” he wrote the lyric poem that has
been called the “Marseillaise of the Confederacy.” The song, set to
music of an old college melody, “Lauringer Horatius,” by its passionate
appeal, caught the attention of the Southern heart, and was sung in field
and camp, in cottage and palace. It was first set in print in the _New
Orleans Delta_.

[Illustration: JAMES RYDER RANDALL]

Mr. Randall wrote also a number of other beautiful poems, among them
being “The Sole Sentry,” “Arlington,” “John Pelham,” and “The Cameo
Bracelet.” “The Unconquered Banner” was written in reply to Father Ryan’s
“Conquered Banner,” and its beauty and spirit can be seen by even a few
lines:

    “Men die, but principles can know no death,
    No last extinguishment of mortal breath.
    We fought for what our fathers held in trust;
    It did not fall forever in the dust.”

Hardly less noted at the time of publication than “Maryland, My
Maryland,” was the poem “There’s Life in the Old Land Yet.”

In a late paper from Columbus, Ohio, we find the following from Atherton
Hastings:

“It was my good fortune to meet recently in New Orleans Mr. James Ryder
Randall, the author of ‘Maryland, My Maryland.’ He is an old man now,
but vigorous in mind and body. He talked freely and without prejudice of
the one-time sectional differences. Individually, he had no apologies
for the part he played in the great conflict. His sentiments on the
basic principles that once divided the South from the North were perhaps
mellowed by age, but not materially changed. I could scarcely realize
that this mild-mannered old man, with the soft Southern voice, was the
same who, nearly half a century ago, lighted and held aloft the wildly
flaming torch of Southern patriotism.”

Modestly and with quiet dignity Mr. Randall still pursues his editorial
work, publishing in New Orleans, _The Morning Star_, a paper of great
purity and strong high purpose. Shall we wait, holding silently our
alabaster boxes of love and praise till the green sod covers the author
of “Maryland, My Maryland,” the song which, Atherton Hastings says, “did
more to unite the Confederate States than any other one force?”

The state of Maryland is thinking of having a homecoming of her sons and
daughters, and will ask James Ryder Randall to be her guest of honor.
Why should not the writer of “Maryland, My Maryland” be thus honored by
all our Southern states at various reunions? Colonel J. Frank Supplee,
of Baltimore, says he has “never found any section of this country in
which this noble song is unknown.” We can in no better way instill love
of country into the hearts of our young people than through our national
songs, and we should see to it that “Maryland, My Maryland” be sung, and
that the memory of its author be kept fresh and green in the heart of
every child.

[Illustration]




SOME QUAINT OLD BALLADS

By Virginia Chambers


Mammy used to sing them to us—those quaint, old ballads. Now, there are
mammies and mammies, and our mammy considered herself a “quality lady.”
She and all her family had always been house servants, and, as such,
looked with utter contempt upon the “field hands.”

Mammy tried to live up to her exalted position; and while she had many of
the characteristics of her race, she had tried to imitate “Ole Mistis”
until her manners were almost ludicrously dignified and prim. As a result
of this, the songs with which she entertained us were those she had heard
from the grandees of old Virginia, when she was young. I am growing old
myself, and Mammy was an old woman when I was a child, so her songs
belong to many generations past, being, most of them, evidently from
England.

I can only give them as I remember them, having never seen one of them
in print; and as they are but a child’s recollections of an ignorant old
negro’s songs, it is to be presumed that they are very faulty. However,
even as we heard them, they seem worth preserving.

The mind can easily call up the picture—the locusts and catalpas
clustered around the back porch of our old plantation home—Mammy in
her low chair under our favorite tree—the baby in her lap—the group of
children all around her, all waiting impatiently for her to croon the
baby to sleep and go with us to gather the jasmine flowers for “Miss
’Gusta’s” pomatum, or the raspberries for “Ole Mistis’s” lunch.

We must have been of a sentimental turn, for the chief favorite was a
doleful ditty, called

LORD LOVELL

    Lord Lovell, he stood at his castle gate,
      A-combing his milk-white steed,
    When out came the lady Nancy Bell,
      To wish her lover good speed-speed-speed,
      To wish her lover good speed.

    “Oh, where are you going, Lord Lovell?” she said,
      “And where are you going?” said she.
    “I’m going away, Lady Nancy Bell,
      Strange countries for to see-see-see,
      Strange countries for to see.”

    And when he’d been gone a year and a day,
      Strange countries for to see,
    A languishing thought came over his mind.
      His lady-love for to see-see-see,
      His lady-love for to see.

    So he rode and he rode on his milk-white steed,
      Till he came to London town,
    And there he heard the great church bell,
      And the people were gathered around-’round-’round,
      And the people were gathered around.

    “Oh, what is the matter?” Lord Lovell, he said,
      “And what is the matter?” said he.
    And then they said: “A lady is dead;
      Some called her the Lady Nancy-cy-cy,
      Some called her the Lady Nancy.”

    Lady Nancy, she died as it might be to-day,
      Lord Lovell, he died on the morrow;
    Lady Nancy, she died of pure, pure love,
      Lord Lovell, he died of sorrow-row-row,
      Lord Lovell, he died of sorrow.

    Lady Nancy was buried on one hill top;
      Lord Lovell was buried on t’other;
    And out of her bosom there grew a red rose,
      And out of her lover’s a brier-er-er,
      And out of her lover’s a brier.

    They grew and they grew, to the church steeple top,
      And they couldn’t grow any higher;
      And then they formed a true lover’s knot, knot,
      Which all true lovers admire-er-er,
      Which all true lovers admire.

The tune is even more ridiculous than the words, and the repetition in
each stanza is positively ludicrous.

Next in our esteem was a comic hunting song, of which I recall these
stanzas:

    They hunted and they hollered,
      And the first thing they did find
    Was a frog in the marshes,
      And that they left behind.
    Look a-there, now! Look a-there!

    Some said it was a frog,
      And some said nay;
    Some said it was a bird
      With its feathers shot away.
    Look a-there, now! Look a-there!

    So they hunted and they hollered,
      And the next thing they did find
    Was the moon in the elements,
      And that they left behind.
    Look a-there, now! Look a-there!

    Some said it was the moon,
      And some said nay;
    Some said it was a cheese
      With the half cut away.
    Look a-there, now! Look a-there!

    So they hunted and they hollered,
      And the next thing they did find
    Was a barn in the meadow,
      And that they left behind.
    Look a-there, now! Look a-there!

    Some said it was a barn,
      And some said nay;
    Some said it was a church
      With the steeple blown away.
    Look a-there, now! Look a-there!

    So they hunted and they hollered,
      And the next thing they did find
    Was an owl in the bushes,
      And that they left behind.
    Look a-there, now! Look a-there!

    Some said it was an owl,
      And some said nay.
    Some said it was _the Devil_
      And they all ran away!
    Look a-there, now! Look a-there!

This irreverent mention of His Satanic Majesty was, to our childish ears,
almost an unpardonable sin, and we went to our little beds shuddering
and confessing ourselves “miserable sinners,” even to have listened to
such a word.

A third ballad seems to belong to old colonial times. It went thus:

    In good old Colony times,
      When we were under the king,
    Three sons of Moore’s were turned out doors
      Because they could not sing, sing,
      Because they could not sing.

    The first one, he was a miller,
      And the second, he was a weaver,
    And the third one, he was a little tai_lor_,
      With the broadcloth under his arm, arm,
      With the broadcloth under his arm.

    Now the miller, he stole corn,
      And the weaver, he stole yarn,
    And the little tai_lor_, he stole broadcloth,
      For to keep these three rogues warm,
      For to keep these three rogues warm.

    But the miller got drowned in his pond,
      And the weaver got tangled in his yarn;
    And the devil clapped his claw on the little tai_lor_,
      With the broadcloth under his arm, arm,
      With the broadcloth under his arm.

There were many others, but I do not remember them well enough to write
them out. Barbara Allen was a great favorite, but with that all are
familiar.

Occasionally, as a great treat, Mammy would unbend sufficiently to let us
have some of the little negroes from the quarters come down to the house
and sing for us, and while we loved Mammy’s old-fashioned ditties best,
we were always vastly entertained by such coon songs as

    Snake baked a hoe-cake,
      An’ set the frawg to mind it.
    Lizard come an’ stole it,
      An’ frawg, he couldn’t find it!

And this, with accompaniment of patting and shuffling:

    Wake up, Jacob, let’s go hunt’n’,
    An’ ketch us a skel’ton to cook with a punk’n.

    Wake up, Amos, day is a-breakin’,
    Peas in the pot an’ hoe-cake a-bakin’.

[Illustration]




[Illustration: BOOKS AND AUTHORS]

LILLIAN KENDRICK BYRN


DON Q IN THE SIERRA. By K. and H. Prichard. Philadelphia: J. B.
Lippincott Co. Price, $1.50.

The thousands of admirers of “Don Q,” the crafty bandit, elusive and
fearless, with claws under velvet that tear with merciless fury when
roused to action, will be delighted with these new chronicles of further
thrilling adventures of that mysterious character. The joint authorship
of the “Don Q” stories is the rather unusual combination of mother and
son, who, having traveled extensively in Spain and Spanish America, are
able to put the local color into their stories with sure hands. It would,
perhaps, be saying too much to declare that the portrait of the bandit is
drawn from acquaintance with the original character, but no one can doubt
that the authors have met with many adventures and heard many stories at
first hand which have suggested the polished outlaw.


SAUL OF TARSUS. By Elizabeth Miller. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill Co.
Price, $1.50.

This story presents Saul during the time of his persecution of the
Nazarenes and the death of St. Stephen of Galilee, before he became St.
Paul of the Christian Church. The period immediately succeeding the
crucifixion is the most stirringly interesting of any in the world’s
history. Never before or since has there been such a wave of deep
feeling, of psychological uplift and high thought, mingled with the
warring of the fiercest passions and the basest corruption. Miss Miller
has given us, as in “The Yoke,” a skillful weaving of heart-stirring
incidents and a love story of the purest and noblest type.


A CHILD’S BOOK OF ABRIDGED WISDOM. By Childe Harold. New York: Paul Elder
& Co. Price, $1.50.

A delight to the beauty-loving soul is this little book for the amusement
of the children, bound in heavy gray boards, with quaint, corded back and
heavy hand-pressed paper. The drawings and marginal decorations are in
true Childe Harold style, which is a guarantee of their worth.


OVER IN THE MEADOW. By Olive A. Wadsworth. New York and San Francisco:
Morgan Shepard Co. Price, $1.

Mrs. Wadsworth has elaborated and improved an old nursery classic. The
first eight topics are in their original form, but she has added four
others in the same style, and Mabel Wood Hill has set them to appropriate
music. Each full page is prefaced by another verse on the same subject,
but in different meter, and the whole is beautifully bound in brown
boards, with line decorations of birds and beasts in colors, the drawings
being the handiwork of Marguerite Wood and Harold Sichel.


THE ROMANCE OF JOHN BAINBRIDGE. By Henry George, Jr. New York: The
Macmillan Co. Price, $1.50.

A big factory for art stained glass is not a likely place to look for
romance, but Mr. George has laid in such a scene a story of fascinating
interest. The action covers also the great West and mining, timber
cutting and the practice of law in those regions. The central theme of
the story, however, is a study of municipal government under existing
methods of election and maintenance. Conspiracies, lobbying, bribery,
blackmailing and other concomitants of present-day government politics
are laid bare in a convincing manner, while the love story keeps and
holds the reader’s interest in these questions.


ROMANCE ISLAND. By Zona Gale. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill Co. Price,
$1.50.

The discovery of a fourth dimension is surely a very interesting thing
and no one can give a more thrilling account of the consequences of such
a discovery than the gifted Zona Gale, whose Pelleas and Ettarre stories
are so widely known and loved. The adventure, the mystery and swift rush
of events are so thrilling in this island of Miss Gale’s discovery that
the reader loses himself in the absorbing account, and it is only when
the book is laid down with a sigh when finished that he realizes that he
has been filching time from his usual rest or occupation for a sojourn in
the regions of enchantment.


HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS OF THE MISSISSIPPI VALLEY. By Clifton Johnson. New
York: The Macmillan Co. Price, $2.

This is a thoroughly excellent and descriptive account of the many
lovely nooks and corners that dot the great valley of the “Father of
Waters.” It is also a study of the types of the inhabitants of the
section and contains much interesting and valuable historical matter. The
illustrations are from the author’s own camera and add greatly to the
interest of the chronicle.


THE UPPER HAND. By Emerson Gifford Taylor. New York: A. S. Barnes & Co.
Price, $1.50.

In the ’squire’s house, in a New England house, there has been a tragedy
in the night. Later a piratical seafarer appears and the village becomes
the scene of strange adventures. The mysterious bringing of a little girl
to the squire’s house, her subsequent bringing up and the winning of the
old man’s reluctant affections, her love affair, complicated with the
reappearance of the sailor, whose power over the ’squire only adds to the
mystery, and the final adjustment of all the puzzling questions, bringing
happiness and justice to all, makes a readable story.


FAMOUS ACTOR FAMILIES IN AMERICA. By Montrose J. Moses. New York: T. Y.
Crowell & Co. Price, $2.

A rare value attaches to this book from the fact that it is not only a
succinct account of the actors who have made a name on the American stage
and transmitted to their children their talent, but also reproduces a
number of interesting old portraits, which are of the greatest value to
the student of the beginnings of the American stage. The histories of
such well-known families as the Jeffersons, the Drews and Barrymores, the
Booths and other favorites will find readers everywhere. The whole matter
is well treated and beautifully illustrated.


BLIND ALLEYS. By George Cary Eggleston. Boston: Lothrop, Lee & Shepard
Co. Price, $1.50.

The titles of Mr. Eggleston’s previous books, “A Carolina Cavalier,”
“Evelyn Byrd,” “A Daughter of the South,” etc., show the chosen field
of his work to be the painting of Southern romances. In “Blind Alleys,”
however, he has selected an entirely different field and has given us a
significant and typical study of social conditions in New York. There is
a sweet and wholesome love story, of course. Indeed, there are two of
them, and altogether the novel is one of exceptional interest.




WITH OUR READERS

This department is open to our readers for the expression of their
opinions on questions of public interest. The editors, while inviting
contributions bearing on measures and events of general interest, reserve
the right to exclude such matter as is not deemed suitable, and are not
responsible for opinions expressed.


FRANCE AND THE CHURCH

A great epoch is transpiring in the republic of France—greater, in fact,
than the triumphant continuance of the French democracy. The passing of
the power of the Roman Catholic Church in that country presents a more
marvelous condition or situation than the continued perpetuation of the
republican form of government.

The Church of Rome, saving a few years of Huguenot power, and the
short-lived revolution preceding the advent of Napoleon, has, for more
than ten centuries, linked its history with that of France. In fact, the
latter has, since the days of Charles Martel, been known as the “eldest
daughter of the church.” And what a history! A Roman pope crowned King
Pepin in the eighth century and Napoleon in the nineteenth. Not a line
of history, of romance, of tradition, of public or private right, or
public or private wrong, but through the ages has been mingled with
her name. From Flanders, on the English channel, to Provence on the
Mediterranean, from Lorraine, on the east, to Gascoigne in the west, it
was all Catholic, and Roman Catholic. The counts of Paris, Flanders, and
of Anjou; the dukes of Burgundy, Normandy, of Guise; and the Bourbon
Princes, were all originally Roman Catholics.

Who is there that has not in the morning of life read with delight of
the martial prowess and religious fervor of Jeanne d’Arc, the Maid of
Orleans? Her love of her church, and her love for her country, ought to
be remembered by men who are now playing fast and loose with the fortunes
of both. Who but will admit that their Excellencies, Cardinals Richelieu
and Mazarin, with their imperious sway, did more to extend the glory
of France than either of the great Louises under whom they ministered?
What student of French history could forget the names of La Valliere,
De Montespan, and Maintenon, brilliant, charming, but dissolute, who,
losing royal favor, sought and found solace in the sacred precincts of
the cloister? The grand cathedrals at Rheims, at Rouen; Nôtre Dame and
the Madeleine at Paris; the many rare and splendid chapels to the famous
chateaux of monarchs, and princes, that line the Loire, the Seine, the
Rhone, and Garonne—do they not speak in ancient protest to the late
separation and sequestration? Who but that remembers the sweet, dignified
bearing, and devout humility of the peasant husband and wife bowed in
prayer, in the field, at the ringing of the angelus, as portrayed by
Millet? Typical of religious France! Can such things be swept away and
become a mere memory at the beck of secular and temporal power?

The French Revolution of 1789 with its consequent vulgar excess brought
about in 1801 the so-called “Concordat,” it being a carefully drawn
agreement between Pius VII and Napoleon, which restored, with material
restrictions, the power of the church in France. When one writes of the
church in France he means the Roman Catholic Church, for ninety per
cent of the communicants of religion there belong to that denomination.
There is little or no doubt but that Napoleon overreached the Pope in
that agreement. Only divinity itself could have coped with the masterly
genius of that most wonderful man—the “man of destiny”—who, in changing
the map of the world by his sword, wrought a greater change in its human
affairs through his policies. Much church property had been confiscated
during the revolution, and had passed from the state to other hands.
The titles, so acquired, to that property were to be left undisturbed
by the restoration of the church. Again, the government reserved, in
the Concordat, the right to nominate the archbishops and bishops of the
church, and assumed and asserted the right to determine their attitude
between the Vatican and the state.

The law of “Separation,” as it is called, was passed December 5th, 1905,
by which annual stipends, previously guaranteed by the state to bishops
and priests were abolished, and the churches, parochial residences, and
buildings used for religious purposes, including monasteries, convents,
seminaries, all, should fall under the authority of the state to be
regulated by civil corporations known as “associations of worship.” The
law provided twelve months from its passage, that it should be ratified
by the church.

The civil associations are to hold the church property and have the right
to dictate the mode and manner of the worship therein, even the uses for
which the property shall be employed.

Is it any wonder that Pius X, speaking for Rome, should have rejected
such a law? To confiscate one’s property is one thing—to have the power
to dictate one’s form of worship is quite another thing. Any gendarme
with the order in his hand issued by any upstart official could disperse
at pleasure the worshippers at any sanctuary in the republic. The French
law is not a mere separation of church and state; far more, it is a
subjection of the church to the state.

In France the seats of the mighty in the main are filled now by the
disciples of Voltaire—men of the type of Jaures, Delpech, and Clemenceau.
M. Briand, the Minister of Education, the reputed author of the
“Associations” bill, is charged with declaring in a public speech to the
educational authorities under him:

“The time has come to root up from the minds of French children the
ancient faith which has served its purpose, and replace it with the
light of free thought. It is time to get rid of the Christian idea. We
have hunted Jesus Christ out of the army, the navy, the schools, the
hospitals, the insane asylums, the orphan asylums and the law courts; and
now we must hunt him out of the state altogether.”

In such a fight Christendom itself ought to have a sympathy. The chief
Rabbi of France, M. Lehmann, one of a religion long persecuted, of this
action of the French Assembly, says:

“How could one think on the one hand that the state should suppress
establishments which had been guaranteed by nearly every constitution
since 1791, and protected by every law, and, by means of the same act,
should seize the property they have acquired with its approbation?...
What we want is that places of worship should belong to those who have
built them and who pray in them, and that every religious denomination
should preserve the form of organization which is the most conformable to
its traditions and aspirations.”

Surely a member of a so-called Protestant communion may say amen! to
the foregoing quotation. Surely, any American stands for freedom of
religious belief, as well as that private property shall not be taken
for public use, without just compensation. Think of the millions in
value sequestrated under the French law of 1905, aside from other
considerations! What a beautiful and dignified protest has the world
recently heard from Archbishop Ireland, not only intellectually the
foremost churchman of his faith, but almost unparalleled among orators
of this or any other land. Of the rape of the French church, among other
things, he says:

“For the moment the situation is, undoubtedly, serious—and serious for
the one as for the other of the contestants. Yet, seen more near, it
reveals no coloring of despair, either for France, or for the Church of
France. A bright morning, I dare predict, will at a not distant time dawn
over the field of battle, dropping from the skies sunshine and peace and
begetting both in the Church and in France, joy and exultation that the
passage-at-arms, angry as it once was, has opened the way to a clearer
understanding of mutual interests, to a warmer glow of olden mutual love.

“The Catholic Church,—of course I love her, and I champion her _cause_
with delight. And France, too, I love. While I shall blame her, I shall
not forget all that she has been, during her storied centuries, to
mankind and the Church, and I now bid my hearers to nurture no rancor
against her, and if I beckon her to defeat, it is that she rise from
defeat greater and more glorious than victory could have made her.”

Those who have followed with discerning eyes this oldest of human
institutions among the works of the ages, will look forward with hope
to a speedy and healthy reconciliation between the government of France
and a religious institution which for longer than a thousand years has
been part and parcel of it; which has conserved in great degree its
morals, contended for the peace of its citizens, and especially, during
the monarchies, added glory and renown, wherever opportunity offered.
The Roman Church has ever been an hierarchy, believing in hallowed or
consecrated authority, in what concerns religious order or government,
and too often, doubtlessly, extending this idea to secular or state
affairs—yet, on the whole, who is so wise as to declare what better
results had been to us now had other influences dominated at the many
great and appalling crises in history which that ancient organization has
had to face? This aside, however, will the Christian governments of the
world lie by without a protest to this wholesale confiscation, and avowed
determination to uproot religion in the very heart of Europe, when it is
their custom to make formidable protests against the action of Turkey in
Armenia, and against atrocities of every nature repellant to civilization?

As a humble communicant of a Protestant Church, personally an unworthy
Christian, I have taken the pains to give a very abridged history of what
is passing in France, and registering a feeble public protest against it.

                                                     JOHN FRANCIS LOCKETT.

_Henderson, Ky., Jan., 1907._


A DUCK HUNT IN KANSAS

                                       CEDAR VALE, KANS., Nov. 18, 1906.

Dear Trotwood: I have read your Christmas goose hunt and think it great.
Let me take you a duck hunt in this territory, the land of the Osages,
the richest tribe in America. Their pasture lands lie some fifteen miles
to the south, and extend for forty to fifty miles to the south and west
of here, a vast tract of rich grazing land settled along the larger
streams. Beaver Creek heads in the state and flows in a general direction
nearly south. Salt Creek, some eight or ten miles east of Beaver, also
flows nearly south. In order to secure a supply of water for their
herds of Texas cattle, the cattlemen that hold leases on the grass land
between the two creeks have constructed ponds, or tanks, in the heads of
the draws and ravines that start off in either direction, and carry the
surplus water of early spring. By throwing up a bank of earth across a
draw near its head a pond from 150 to 200 yards in length and from 50 to
75 yards wide and eight to ten feet deep is secured, and this usually
lasts the year round.

In the spring and latter part of our winter the ducks, and sometimes
geese, stop for several weeks to pick up corn after the cattle that are
fed along the creeks, and it is then that the ducks use these ponds as a
roosting place. Situated, as they are, five or six miles from any human
habitation, back on a high prairie, not even a bush or tree in sight,
the lay of the country sloping to the east and west, the ducks appear to
think they have found a safe retreat from the merciless hunter. Not so,
however. It is here that the pot-shot hunter is in his glory. Sometimes,
in early spring, just after a northwester has blown itself out, and we
get a few warm days, I have seen these ponds full of ducks; yes, and
sitting out in the grass on each side for a good hundred yards in each
direction. It was just such a time as this, during the first days of
March, 1903, that I and my good Swede friend, Norling, found ourselves
camped about a mile below one of the tanks in a small draw that ran off
in the direction of Beaver Creek. We had selected this particular pond
for our night’s sport because we knew that a bunch of some 2,000 head of
cattle was being fed over on Beaver about five miles away, and then we
had stopped at the pond before going into camp to see if there were any
signs. It did not require an old hunter to see the signs there. The damp
ground around the edge of the pond was strewn with loose feathers and
stamped and patted where the ducks had roosted along the water’s edge
until it looked like the floor of a large poultry yard.

The sun had just set and there was a bank of red in the west, the wind
was coming in little gusts from the north and the night promised to be
clear. The moon would be up in about an hour.

“There they come,” said Norling, in a low voice, and then, just across
the narrow draw, a bunch of a dozen or so passed, flying close to the
ground and headed straight for the pond. It was still light enough to see
them when they reached the pond. They did not circle, as is usual with
ducks about to light, but raised slightly just before reaching the pond,
and then, poised for a second, appeared to drop in, and so still was the
evening and the wind blowing from the pond toward us, we could hear the
water splash as they struck it.

So intensely had our interest been fixed on the first bunch we had not
noticed others that were coming. Scarcely had the first ones settled
before another flock began to drop in, and now they seemed to be coming
in a steady stream. There was a continuous splash, splash, splash, as one
after another they settled in the water. For at least an hour they came
in this way.

“By Jimminy, George, I believe already there is so many in there as we
could with us home take! Let us see how many we could rake down for the
first shots,” said Norling. The moon was up now and cast a dark shadow
from one side to the other of the draw. Taking a piece of white chalk
from my pocket I drew a heavy white line between the barrels of my gun
from sight to sight.

“What is that for?” asked Norling.

“Well, you see, if you are aiming too high you see a long white mark,
if too low you cannot see it at all, and when just right you only see
a small white spot, and when shooting by moonlight this enables you to
shoot with a good deal of accuracy,” I replied.

“Come on, now, and be careful. A step in this dry grass would make noise
enough to send every duck out of that pond. Follow this cow path and keep
down low so they won’t see your head over the dump. The pond is nearly
full of water.”

We were nearly half way, now, and it would not do to talk, not even to
whisper, as a duck has very sharp hearing. The sharp whistle call of the
sprig tail seemed to nearly drown the quack, quack of the mallard, and
the splash, splash of the water against the dam told us we had but a
few yards farther to go. At the foot of the dam we crawled on hands and
knees until by stepping to our feet our heads and shoulders were above
the dump. And then such a sight! The slight noise we made as we rose to
our feet caused every duck in the water and on the banks to turn in our
direction, and the rays of the moon fell on their white breasts and was
reflected back here and there by an open patch of water. But only for an
instant did this scene remain. Just one quick glance and then our guns
came to our shoulders, a long white streak, then a small white dot in
line with a thousand white breasts, a flash and a sharp report, followed
by the greatest quacking, splashing and whirr of wings I had ever heard.
So great was the noise made by the immense flock taking wing that I
could not hear the report of the second barrel of my own gun. A few more
shots were fired at crippled ducks that were still able to swim, a short
wait for the wind to drift the dead ones to the bank, and then we picked
up thirty-one dead ducks, all stopped by our first four shots. Sport and
meat enough for one night?

Just write me a line a few days before you come and I will meet you at
the train; and, by the way, I have some colts three years old by The
Peacher, 2.17¼, pacing at two years old, and by the summaries the best
sire of the season owned in Kansas. These colts are out of mares by
Bertran, 2.20, and Capitalist, 2.29½, and they can step some, too. Better
come about the 10th of March.

                               Yours truly,

                                                             GEORGE BEUOY.


THE DREAM AND THE BUSINESS

(_Hobbes_)

The year 1906 was pre-eminently a year of the so-called fiction of
psychology. This is hardly a passing fad. The more enlightened and
cultured a people, the more are they interested in character study.
Men and women and motives are more entertaining than mere beauty of
description, or complicated plot. And the really successful novels of the
year are written by women, and seem to be concerned with the intricate
workings of the feminine mind.

Not since the appearance of “Lily Bart” in “The House of Mirth” have we
had such a striking character as “Sophy Firmalden” in “The Dream and The
Business,” by John Oliver Hobbes.

This, Mrs. Craigie’s last work, is certainly one of the cleverest
productions of the year.

A very unusual feature of this book is a letter from the Hon. Joseph H.
Choate to the publishers expressing his appreciation of Mrs. Craigie as
woman and author.

The refined atmosphere that permeates all her works—the delicate touch
peculiarly Mrs. Craigie’s own—are compelling features of this brilliant
book.

Clever dialogue there is in abundance.

Conservatism exists in America “only in Webster, side by side with the
word pre-historic.”

That radical nature inherent in all Americans seems to have been
toned down by Mrs. Craigie’s English education and environment. The
conservative English spirit, just blended with a certain amount of
American radicalism to add flavor, presents some most attractive views of
life and living.

It was pathetic, as well as a sad blow to the literary world, that Mrs.
Craigie should die just as this book went to press.

James Firmalden was full of illusion, impetuous and enthusiastic. He
started out in life with the mistaken idea that the “most important acts
in a man’s life—the choosing of a career and of a wife—are accidents.”
There is always a youthful affair. James Firmalden’s was with Nannie
Cloots. As Lord Marlesford said, “This is always the way with women,
sooner or later they make you play the fool exceedingly.” “The Cloots
family were already on his shoulders.” He developed with age; broke their
engagement and had the manhood to tell the “loyal lie.” Ever afterwards
he led a single, uncompleted life.

Dr. Firmalden, the Oxford minister, was one of the many who tried to
believe he had gained wisdom with age, but, like numerous elderly
persons, he had only lost the power of wondering.

His sermons usually contained many “shiny, well-worn platitudes which are
always tedious.”

Sophy Firmalden, one of the leading characters, endowed with good looks
and native wit, was never very happy. One is never wholly satisfied. “The
child wears the mother’s skirts enviously while the mother mourns her
youth.”

“There was that fastidious and elusive instinct in Sophy which always
makes for suffering.”

Inclined to fanaticism and moody, an over developed conscience kept her
from marrying the one man she loved because he was irreligious. They were
never at ease together for their relation could never degenerate into
common comradeship.

Sent abroad to forget Lessard, she thought she had done so, and married
another. “What a charred trail she left in her path!” Becoming cynical,
she said “she would never again allow herself to care much for anybody—it
was always so disappointing.” She declared there were two kinds of men,
“Those who were born to protect us, and those who were born to understand
us”—her husband belonged to the former.

She knew little of the world—had not even seen “Fedora.” One of her
friends said it could not harm her—she could not possibly understand it.

She had a passion for good clothes. “A girl who is satisfied with her
wardrobe can bear many privations.” “Sophy’s silk dresses were the source
of much fortitude in her domestic philosophy.”

James Firmalden’s first love, Nannie Cloots, was of obscure origin—her
mother having once been an ornament of the ballet. Reared with a
fanatical regard for appearances, she was “picturesque, artless and fresh
in her absurd ideas.”

“She was a chaser after celebrities—and wore claret-colored silk at ten
o’clock in the morning. Her chief delight was to associate with frumpish
Philistines.” “She saw the world; and found it stuffed with sawdust.”

Henry Firmalden was ruled by his wife. “In the city, he was a man who
could show great decision and force of will—but at home he was docile,
silent and often hungry.”

Lady Burghwallas, one of the minor characters, belonged to the class “who
must have their social illusions nourished by the newspapers.”

Lessard belonged to the Bohemian set. Of Huguenot extraction, he was of a
defiant mood, accompanied with melancholy characteristic of the sect from
which he sprang.

An “aristocratic vagabond,” he was a man of the world with a wayward
heart. Spontaneous and unconventional, he was disposed to quarrel with
the established order of things.

He was a singer and also a mediocre dramatist, who was admired by certain
“long-haired men who should have been born women, and by short-haired
women who should have not been born at all.”

Gloriana Twomley is an overdressed woman, but clever after a fashion.
She had tact to manage her husband in such a way as to keep him happy,
and at the same time make him entirely satisfied with her work. He never
realized it, “for the less wit a man has, the less he knows that he wants
it.” Her relationship was large. There were many “in-laws” and she was
kept busy trying to regulate their affairs.

The most entertaining character in the whole book is Lady Marlesford.
Vivacious, tactful and pretty, her highly disciplined mind could bear
agitation, pain or anything better than being bored. She and her husband
were of a violently different temperament. He, selfish, exacting and
unresponsive, could not appreciate her brilliant mind. Her keen sense of
humor made him nervous. Whenever he said anything but the obvious, she
invariably asked, “Who said that?” In conversation, she always kept him
“mentally out of breath.” “The pair having exhausted their dislike, were
almost attached to each other by a common bond of suffering.”

It is impossible to read “The Dream and The Business” _understandingly_
and fail to be entertained.

                                                     MARK HARWELL PETTWAY.




[Illustration: THE FAMILY SCRAP BOOK]

We have begun this department expecting our readers to make it. It has
been suggested by a number of our readers, and there is no department
that should be more popular. There are few of us who have not in old
scrap books, or elsewhere, something—in prose or poetry—that we cherish;
that has become part of our souls. Send them in, thus preserving them and
permitting others to enjoy them.


L’ENVOI

    When earth’s last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and
      dried,
    When the oldest colors have faded and the youngest critic has died,
    We shall rest—and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an aeon or
      two
    Till the Master of all good workmen shall set us to work anew.

    And those that were good shall be happy, they shall sit in a golden
      chair,
    They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet’s hair;
    They shall find real saints to draw them—Magdalene, Peter and Paul—
    They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all.

    And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;
    And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;
    But each for the joy of the working, and each in his separate star,
    Shall draw the thing as he sees it for the God of Things as They Are!

                                                      —_Rudyard Kipling._


“STONEWALL JACKSON’S WAY”

    Come, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails,
      Stir up the camp-fire bright;
    No growling if the canteen fails,
      We’ll make a roaring night.
    Here Shenandoah brawls along,
    There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
    To swell the brigade’s rousing song
      Of “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”

    We see him now—the queer slouched hat
      Cocked o’er his eye askew;
    The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,
      So calm, so blunt, so true.
    The “Blue-Light Elder” knows ’em well:
    Says he, “That’s Banks—he’s fond of shell;
    Lord save his soul! we’ll give him—” Well!
      That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”

    Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Caps off!
      Old Blue Light’s goin’ to pray.
    Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!
      Attention! it’s his way.
    Appealing from his native sod,
    _In forma pauperis_ to God:—
    “Lay bare thine arm! stretch forth thy rod!
      Amen!” That’s “Jackson’s way.”

    He’s in the saddle now. Fall in!
      Steady! the whole brigade!
    Hill’s at the ford, cut off; we’ll win
      His way out, ball and blade!
    What matter if our shoes are worn?
    What matter if our feet are torn?
    “Quick step! we’re with him before morn!”
      That’s “Stonewall Jackson’s way!”

    The sun’s bright lances rout the mists
      Of morning, and, by George!
    Here’s Longstreet, struggling in the lists,
      Hemmed in an ugly gorge;
    Pope and his Dutchman, whipped before.
    “Bay’nets and grape!” hear Stonewall roar;
    “Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby’s score!”
      In “Stonewall Jackson’s way.”

    Ah, maidens, wait and watch and yearn
      For news of Stonewall’s band!
    Ah, widow, read with eyes that burn,
      That ring upon thy hand!
    Ah, wife, sew on, pray on, hope on!
    Thy life shall not be all forlorn:
    The foe had better ne’er been born
      That gets in “Stonewall’s way.”

                                               —_John Williamson Palmer._


SOME TIME

    Last night, my darling, as you slept
      I thought I heard you sigh,
    And to your little crib I crept
      And watched a space thereby,
    And then I stooped and kissed your brow,
      For oh, I love you so—
    You are too young to know it now
      But some time you will know.

    Some time when in a darkened place
      When others come to weep
    Your eyes shall look upon a face
      Calm in eternal sleep,
    The voiceless lips, the wrinkled brow,
      The patient smile will show—
    You are too young to know it now
      But some time you will know.

    Look backward then, into the years
      And see me here to-night—
    See, oh my darling, how my tears
      Are falling as I write;
    And feel once more upon your brow
      The kiss of long ago—
    You are too young to know it now
      But some time you will know.

                                                         —_Eugene Field._


LARK

        Bird of the wilderness,
        Blithesome and cumberless,
    Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea!
        Emblem of happiness,
        Blest is thy dwelling-place—
    Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

        Wild is thy lay, and loud;
        Far in the downy cloud
    Love gives it energy—love gave it birth.
        Where, on thy dewy wing,
        Where art thou journeying,
    Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

        O’er fell and fountain sheen,
        O’er moor and mountain green,
    O’er the red streamer that heralds the day;
        O’er the cloudlet dim,
        O’er the rainbow’s rim,
    Musical cherub soar, singing away.

        Then, when the gloaming comes,
        Low, in the heather blooms,
    Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
        Emblem of happiness,
        Blest is thy dwelling-place—
    Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

                                                           —_James Hogg._


WEARY OF MYSELF

The following is poetry—every line of it—and infinitely good. It is by
Matthew Arnold.

    Weary of myself and sick of asking
      What I am and what I ought to be,
    At this vessel’s prow I stand, which bears me
      Forward, forward o’er the starlit sea.

    And a look of passionate desire
      O’er the sea and to the stars I send;
    Ye who from my childhood up have claimed me,
      Calm me, ah compose me to the end!

    “Ah, once more,” I cried, “ye stars, ye waters,
      On my heart your mighty charm renew;
    Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,
      Feel my soul becoming vast like you!”

    From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven
      O’er the lit sea’s unquiet way
    In the rustling night-air came the answer:
      “Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they.

    “Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
      Undisturbed by the sights they see,
    These demand not that the things without them
      Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.

    “And with joy the stars perform their shining,
      And the sea its long-silvered roll;
    For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting
      All the fever of some differing soul.

    “Rounded by themselves, and unregardful
      In what state God’s other works may be,
    In their own tasks all their powers pouring,
      These attain the mighty life you see.”

    O air-born voice! long since, severely clear,
      A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear;
    “Resolve to be thyself, and know that he
      Who finds himself loses his misery.”

                                                       —_Matthew Arnold._


THE JULEP

    ’Tis said that the gods on Olympus of old—
      And who the bright legend profanes with a doubt?—
    One night at their revels by Bacchus were told
      That the last butt of nectar had somehow run out.

    But determined to send ’round the goblet once more,
      They sent to the fair immortals for aid
    In composing a draught which, till drinking was o’er,
      Should throw every wine ever drunk in the shade.

    Grave Ceres herself blithely yielded the corn;
      And the spirit that dwells in each amber-hued grain,
    And which first had its birth in the dews of the morn,
      Was taught to steal out in bright dew drops again.

    Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the board
      Lay scattered profusely in everyone’s reach,
    When called on a tribute to cull from her hoard,
      Expressed the mild juice of the delicate peach.

    The spirits were mingled, while Venus looked on
      With glances so fraught with sweet, magical power
    That the honey of Hybla e’en when it was gone
      Has never been wiped from the draught till this hour.

    Flora then from her bosom of fragrancy took
      And with roseate fingers pressed down in the bowl,
    All dripping and wet, as it came from the brook,
      The herb whose aroma should flavor the whole.

    The draught was delicious, each god did exclaim.
      Yet something yet wanted, they all did bewail,
    But juleps the drink of immortals became
      When Jove himself added a handful of hail.

                                                              —_Hoffman._


HOW WE RISE

    Heaven is not reached at a single bound,
      But we build the ladder by which we rise
      From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies.
    And we mount to the summit round by round.

    I count this thing to be grandly true,
      That a noble deed is a step toward God,
      Lifting the soul from the common sod
    To a purer air and a broader view.

    We rise by the things that are under our feet,
      By what we have mastered of greed and gain,
      By the pride deposed and the passion slain,
    And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

    We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,
      When the morning calls us to life and light;
      But our hearts grow weary, and ere the night
    Our lives are trailing in sordid dust.

    We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we pray,
      And we think that we mount the air on wings,
      Beyond the recall of sensual things,
    While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

    Wings for the angels, but feet for the men,
      We may borrow the wings to find the way,
      We may hope and aspire and resolve and pray,
    But our feet must rise or we’ll fall again.

    Only in dreams is a ladder thrown
      From the weary earth to the sapphire walls;
      But the dreams depart and the vision falls,
    And the sleeper awakes on his pillow of stone.

    Heaven is not reached at a single bound,
      But we build the ladder by which we rise
      From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
    And we mount to the summit round by round.

                                                        —_J. G. Holland._


A FABLE.

    The mountain and the squirrel
    Had a quarrel;
    And the former called the latter “Little Prig.”
    Bun replied,
    “You are doubtless very big;
    But all sorts of things and weather
    Must be taken in together,
    To make up a year
    And a sphere.
    And I think it no disgrace
    To occupy my place.
    And if I’m not so large as you,
    You are not so small as I,
    And not half so spry!
    I’ll not deny you make
    A very pretty squirrel track;
    Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;
    If I cannot carry forests on my back,
    Neither can you crack a nut.”

                                                  —_Ralph Waldo Emerson._




DICKSON COUNTY, TENNESSEE

By W. O. Thomas


Probably there is no county in the state that is attracting as much
attention at the present time as the County of Dickson. It lies on the
meridial line that clearly defines the mineral and gas belt forming one
of the earth’s great arteries connecting the oil fields of Pennsylvania
with the oil fields of Texas, and is rich in every constituent that
contributes to the material wants of mankind.

[Illustration: BUSINESS SECTION OF DICKSON]

Dickson County contains an area of 650 square miles. The county forms
a great watershed, draining into the Cumberland river on the north and
the Duck river on the south. It is watered by many confluents of these
streams. Thus the county is cut up into innumerable rich and productive
valleys, fringed by fruitful uplands that are in turn crowned by great
forests of virgin timber. Talk to any lumberman and he will lament the
decadence of the timber production. Yet it is a fact that nature’s
storehouse still contains a vast reserve supply of this product, and that
the present generation will not live to see it exhausted.

The soil of Dickson County is very diverse. Any crop produced in the
temperate zone can be grown with profit in this county. Corn, wheat,
oats, barley, rye, tobacco, sorghum, peanuts, melons, and all kinds of
small fruits thrive to perfection. The northern side of the county
is within the Clarksville dark tobacco district, while other sections
produce a long leaf tobacco, rivaling in its quality and fibre the famous
Sumatra wrapper. The conditions of soil and climate seem especially
favorable to this industry, and it is quite certain that tobacco growing
will be one of the future staples of Dickson County. The conditions are
ideal for the cultivation of Irish and sweet potatoes, tomatoes and that
class of fruits and vegetables.

[Illustration: DICKSON HOME OF JOHN T. CRAIN,

Southern Representative G. P. Dodge Lumber Co., Chicago]

Lands in Dickson County range in price from $2 to $200 an acre. This is a
wide range, but it is so. In Bell’s Bend, where the Harpeth river sweeps
in a broad semi-circle and doubles back on itself, hugging on either side
a long, narrow bluff, the land is priceless. Here it was that Montgomery
Bell swayed the rod of empire in the palmy days of yore. He has long
since been gathered to his fathers, but his name and fame are traditional
in this state, and Montgomery Bell Academy at Nashville is a monument to
his generosity and philanthropy.

Montgomery Bell was a thrifty Vermonter who settled in Tennessee about
the beginning of the eighteenth century. He acquired vast tracts of land
in Dickson County, and laid the foundations of his prosperity in the
manufacture of pig iron. He was either directly or indirectly interested
in not less than six of these furnaces in Dickson County. They were all
operated by water power, steam being an unknown quantity at that time.
It is written down in the book of chronicles that Dickson County and
Montgomery Bell helped Old Hickory win the battle of New Orleans. For
it was the old Cumberland Furnace, on Barton’s Creek, now known as the
Warner Furnace, and owned by the Tennessee Iron & Coal Company, that
moulded the cannon balls for that memorable battle, and helped repel the
proud British invader. Any school boy in Dickson County can tell you
this, and it is a bit of history of which the citizens are justly proud.

[Illustration: RESIDENCE OF W. C. SMITH, AT DICKSON]

To-day there exists in Bell’s Bend the strangest monument to Montgomery
Bell that ever man had to perpetuate his memory. This man was a builder
of iron furnaces. He built them wherever he could find water power. To
him water power meant useful opportunity. I have spoken of the narrow
bluff that divides the Harpeth in its magnificent sweep through Bell’s
Bend. This bluff is so narrow that a man can stand on its ridge and
easily cast a stone into the river on either side. Right here Montgomery
Bell had a tunnel blasted through the bluff, and by means of a wing dam
drew the waters of the Upper Harpeth through this opening in a mighty,
resistless current that afforded unlimited water power for the operations
of a blast furnace. And there it is to-day, singing its stormy requiem
to the memory of a man and age that have passed into the shade, but yet
inviting in its prodigal waste and riotous power the hand of capital and
enterprise to harness it anew.

In timber, soil, minerals and climate Dickson County is well dowered.
Many of these industries are yet in their infancy. It has been
demonstrated that its phosphates are as good as those of Hickman County,
and only wait on the capitalist. As for oil, at the present time the
Standard Oil Company is preparing to sink two wells near Dickson. It is
well known that this section is underlaid by the best of illuminating
oil, equal to the Pennsylvania product. The Brown oil wells, on Jones’
Creek, twelve miles northwest of Dickson, have been opened for many years
and have pumped as high as twenty barrels a day of fine illuminating oil.
This territory is nearly all under lease, and the indications are that
the time is ripe for its exploitation.

One of the most interesting towns in Dickson County is Ruskin. Ruskin
was founded a number of years ago as a Socialist colony. Here was to
be exemplified the truth of the doctrine that all men are created free
and equal. It was to be a practical demonstration. It will take another
story to tell how and why it failed. About a year ago the property was
acquired by some earnest, ambitious school men. To-day Ruskin is the seat
of Ruskin-Cave College, with a faculty of eleven teachers and students
from twelve states. The village is owned and controlled by the school
board. The full college course compares well with state institutions.
The college presents some very remarkable features that entitle it to
favorable consideration. W. A. Hughes is business manager and R. E. Smith
president.

[Illustration: LIBRARY RUSKIN’S CAVE COLLEGE]

Dickson is the chief commercial town in Dickson County. Charlotte is
the county seat, but it has a population of only a few hundred. The
population of Dickson numbers about three thousand. Within five years
it has almost doubled its inhabitants. It has a chancery and circuit
court and a larger and costlier courthouse than the county seat. Being
accessible by three railroads, it is the logical commercial and political
center of the county. It is also the educational center. In addition to a
good public school system, it is the seat of the Dickson Normal College.
This is a co-educational institution. The college building is modern and
commodious in its every appointment. It is situated in a beautiful grove
of native oaks, on a broad table land overlooking the town of Dickson.
A corps of trained teachers is in charge of the work. The curriculum
embraces a four-years’ course, beginning with an exhaustive study of the
common school branches and including a comprehensive course in language,
science and mathematics. T. B. Loggins, A.M., is the principal of the
college. The enrollment includes students of both sexes from all parts of
the state.

The Hudson Business College is also located in Dickson, and is doing a
fine work in fitting young people for the business world.

Dickson is a plucky town. Twice within a decade it has risen from its
ashes. In 1893 the town was practically destroyed by fire, not over half
a dozen business houses remaining. Nearly all the buildings destroyed
were of frame and were replaced by substantial brick structures. In
November, 1905, another disastrous fire broke out, eating the heart
out of the business section and entailing a loss of $200,000. With
characteristic energy, the work of rebuilding was immediately begun, and
to-day the burned district is covered by even handsomer buildings than
those destroyed. In addition to this new buildings are going up in every
direction, and the town is experiencing a building boom unprecedented in
its history.

[Illustration: REV. A. N. KELLY

Founder of Beulah Colony]

Dickson is on the main line of the N., C. & St. L. railroad, forty-two
miles from Nashville. It is the terminus of the Centreville branch of the
same road, and also the Clarksville branch of the L. & N. These roads tap
many small towns that are tributary to Dickson, and in addition it has a
fine interior trade.

Socially and morally Dickson is abreast of the best towns in the
State. Every religious phase of evangelical faith is represented. The
personnel of the pulpit is much above the average. Fraternal and social
organizations flourish. The town has three banks and there are six in the
county. The aggregate deposits amount to nearly half a million dollars.
In all the essentials of life Dickson and Dickson county are in the
forefront of progress.

[Illustration: RESIDENCE OF A. N. KELLY AT BEULAH.]

Dickson county has a well organized Farmers’ Institute. N. R. Sugg
is president and R. H. Hicks, of Dickson, secretary. The association
meets once a month and is doing a good work in stimulating interest in
agricultural pursuits.

To write of Dickson County without making special mention of “Beulah”
would be omitting one of the most interesting features connected with
the development of this county. Beulah is designed to be Plato’s Ideal
Republic on a small scale.

It is a colony of home seekers who have been attracted thither by the
salubrious climate and the remarkably low-priced lands of this section.
It is located six miles from Dickson, on the Centreville branch of the
N., C. & St. L. R. R. It is not far from the line that divides Dickson
and Hickman Counties, and within a few miles lies Bon Aqua, a summer
resort famous for its healthgiving waters and resinous atmosphere.

Rev. A. N. Kelly is a man of remarkable personality. He is an evangelist
and Christian scholar of national reputation. He is an idealist and a
man of practical affairs. This is an unusual combination and yet a very
useful one when it exists. For it is the man behind the gun who wins the
battles.

These are some of the things Reverend Kelly has accomplished in two years:

He found Beulah almost a wilderness. Hundreds of acres of land could
be bought for from $2 to $4 an acre. An occasional settler eked out a
scanty livelihood in a primitive way, for the lands in this immediate
neighborhood were known as the “Barrens,” and it had never entered
into the mind of man to give them a practical test. To-day a thriving
colony, ever increasing in circumference, marks the spot. Cosy cottages
dot the landscape. A comfortable schoolhouse and church building have
been erected. The land is being rapidly cleared and is found productive
beyond expectation. Much of the land is fast increasing in value, but
as compared with more thickly populated sections is still ridiculously
cheap. For families of small means, who are looking for a pure, healthful
environment, where they may cultivate their own vine and fig tree
under comfortable and easy circumstances, this section offers unusual
advantages. Only the better class of citizens is desired, for this is
designed to be a community of Christian people. Not fanatics, mind you,
with visionary and impractical ideas of life, but clean, wholesome
people, honest and honorable in their dealings, and with high ideals that
propel them constantly upward in the battle of life.

I spent a pleasant day at Beulah, and Rev. Mr. Kelly unfolded to me
some of his plans. He is a man of great faith and very useful and noble
purposes. It was interesting to talk with the man, to note his fine
optimism and invincible energy and courage. He is a college graduate,
with a roomy brain and a dynamic spirit. He knows no such thing as the
impossible.

Small fruits and vegetables grow to perfection here. The soil is a
sub-clay, and, being virgin, retains its pristine strength and vigor.
Apples and peaches, and all kinds of vegetables, grow to perfection. A
canning factory is in course of operation to utilize these products.
The growing of cantaloupes on a large scale will be undertaken this
season. Large tracts of land adjacent to the railroad between Beulah and
Hohenwald, a stretch of thirty miles, have been secured for this purpose,
and a contract has been entered into with the railroad for the marketing
of the crop.

Within the limits of this article it is impossible to more than touch on
Beulah, its many desirable features, its splendid possibilities. To those
more than casually interested, a letter addressed to Rev. A. N. Kelly,
Burns, Rural Route No. 2, will bring full information.

[Illustration]