Chapter III: Part 3

Many years ago I was riding on horseback with Colonel Elliott to the Nashville races, and when we reached a point about one mile from the ferry at Nashville, on the Gallatin road, he observed: “Here is the place where negroes were annually hired in old times, and where I have often hired Simon, who, on account of his deformity and dissipated habits, usually cost me from twelve to fifteen dollars per annum. On one occasion Col. Robert C. Foster, guardian of the minor children to whom Simon belonged, conceiving it to be his duty, bid against me and ran Simon up to thirty-odd dollars, the then price of a good field hand. I concluded to drop Simon on the Colonel’s hands and take the chance of hiring him privately. Simon watched the bidding with the deepest interest, as he was most anxious to remain in the stable and enjoy the fame and emoluments of riding Haney’s Maria and other distinguished winners. When I indicated that I would bid no more, Simon turned to the Colonel and said, in his peculiarly sarcastic manner, with his head laid back and one eye closed: ‘Colonel Foster, by G—, I am not a sellin’ but hirin’ for only one year.’ The Colonel, who was a man of high spirit and great dignity, replied, shaking his cane at Simon: ‘You impudent scoundrel, do you know who you are talking to?’ Simon, with the most aggravating coolness, replied: ‘I think I do, and if I am not mistaken, you are the same gentleman who made a small ’speriment for governor once,’ alluding to a race the Colonel had made for governor, under very unfavorable circumstances, in which he was badly beaten. The witticism of Simon created much mirth, amidst which Colonel Elliott got him at the next bid.”

The purses at that period were unworthy of the attention of so superior a horse, and Dr. Sappington had neither the means nor disposition to travel or run him for heavy matches; Oscar was, therefore, when sound in all respects and in the prime of his racing career, withdrawn from the turf and died at eleven years old, the property of General R. Desha and Mr. Isaac Bledsoe, of Sumner County, where he left some fine running stock, although he never served more than two or three thoroughbred mares.

The above ends Bailie Peyton’s interesting reminiscences of early horses and horsemen. Mr. Peyton passed away many years ago, but his name will live in the political and horse history of the State. He was a remarkable man, a gentleman of the old school, a lawyer and a politician who ranked with the great men of his day, while his knowledge on the subject quoted above is authority.

His interesting account of the early historical horse reminds me of another incident, with which I shall close this chapter, being in line with the account of Mr. Peyton, the story of a pair of horses that helped make American history.

Horses have figured so often in the affairs of our country—they have helped us out of so many close places, so to speak—that a most interesting book could be written about the historical horses of America. There was Washington’s famous war horse, Paul Revere’s sprinter, Sheridan’s charger, General Lee’s Traveler, Stonewall Jackson’s old sorrel, Gen. John Adams’ old Charley, who died on the breastworks of Franklin—in fact, as I said, a most readable book could be written of the historical horses of America.

To-day I shall write about a pair of horses which played a most important part in a most critical moment of our history. We have single horses in plenty which have gone hand in hand with man in making history and fame, but this is the only instance in our history that I can find where a pair of horses accomplished the purpose. It is a part of the unwritten history of the West, but every word of it is true, as I have been able to gather it from old letters of pioneers, and old histories long since gone out of print.

The most critical period of American history was that right after the Revolutionary war, when the States were debating on the question of the new constitution and the West—Kentucky, Tennessee and Ohio—were uncertain whether they had any rights which anybody else was bound to respect.

For the first ten years after the Revolutionary war the most dangerous foe the young Republic had was the great, but waning empire of Spain. At that time the States were a narrow strip on the Atlantic stretching from Maine to Florida, and practically bounded by the Appalachian Mountains. England had large claims on the Great Lakes and extending down nearly to the Ohio, and Spain owned nearly everything else, holding all the territory bordering on the Gulf from Florida to Mexico, extending up into the present States of Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana. In this instance Louisiana meant really all that vast domain which lay west of the Mississippi, stretching clear up to the present State of Oregon. The great Mississippi river flowed for a long way through Spanish possessions, and Spain, foolhardy and narrow then as to-day, and wishing to do the young Republic all the harm she could, closed the river to American commerce, an act which meant stagnation and ruin to the young territories of the West. For these border settlers were altogether an agricultural people and a great wilderness infested by hostile Indians lay between them and the older States. What they raised for sale had to pass down the Mississippi river.

And they increased rapidly in Tennessee, Ohio and Kentucky, and, moreover, they were of that stock of people who would not be fooled with. They looked upon the great river as God-given and they did not understand how an arrogant nation living across the ocean, could deprive them of their natural rights. But that was not all. Spain was then as now cruel and vindictive, and while professing friendship for these people she secretly armed the savages and encouraged them to kill all the settlers west of the Alleghanies. And that they came near doing this the early records of Tennessee and Kentucky attest. The Indians murdered them day and night. But for a few heroic men and Indian fighters like Sevier, Robertson and Shelby, they had been entirely exterminated. But they increased in spite of everything, and naturally accumulating both in numbers and products, they wanted a market for their stuff. They asked aid of Congress, but Congress seemed to have troubles of her own just then and paid no attention to them, except to send John Jay over to treat with Spain about it. But Jay could do nothing, and it seems fell into the Spanish idea, for he sent in a report to Congress recommending a treaty with Spain which should close the Mississippi to commerce for twenty-five years. Jay explained that the right to use the river could only be acquired by a war with Spain, for which the United States was unprepared; that the matter was not important now, and that in twenty-five years the country would be strong enough to do as they wished. New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania and New England voted for this resolution, but the Southern States opposed it, and it failed to pass by only two votes.

The Western people became indignant. Public meetings were held everywhere from the Watauga settlement, in East Tennessee, to Kentucky, and the remoter West. “To inclose us in a Chinese wall, to prohibit the navigation of the Mississippi, to sell us and make us vassals to the merciless Spaniards, is a grievance not to be borne,” they said. So great was their discontent that strong talk was indulged in, and it began to be feared that they would have to organize a government of their own, since their own Congress would give them no assistance. The attorney-general of Kentucky wrote to the President of Congress: “I am decidedly of the opinion that this Western country will, in a few years, act for itself and erect an independent government; for under the present system we cannot exert our strength, neither does Congress seem disposed to help us.” In fact, things soon came to such a pass that one of two things would happen: the West would form a government of their own or the Mississippi must be opened for them. I shall show how a smart, brainy rascal and a pair of Kentucky geldings accomplished the opening of the river and saved the West to the Union.

James Wilkerson was his name, and a smoother, brainier, more ambitious and more unscrupulous scamp never figured but once before in American history—and that was his prototype, Aaron Burr. I have no space for his history. Suffice to say that he was one of the cabal who rose to some prominence in the war and who tried to oust Washington and put Gates in command of the army. Later events proved him to be an unscrupulous politician, and he moved to Kentucky. Kentucky must have had great horses even in those days, for Wilkerson got rich trading. He had a fine eye for good horses, and in his trafficking he got hold of a pair of beautiful geldings. Pork in the West was only a dollar and a half per hundred, corn ten cents a bushel and tobacco rotting in the fields, all owing to the great river being closed to American commerce. Wilkerson conceived a brilliant idea. He could get fabulous prices for all these articles in the Spanish city of New Orleans. He loaded an immense flat boat—several of them—with these articles and set them afloat on the great river. He himself got up a handsome retinue, took a pair of beautiful geldings and went overland to the first Spanish fort at Natchez. It was a big risk he ran, for it had been tried before, and every time the Spanish garrison had stopped the boats with their guns, called them in and confiscated the cargoes. Wilkerson went right to the Spanish commander, Don Gayoso de Lamos, at Natchez, who was a scamp after Wilkerson’s own heart, and there he began his game. He fascinated Lamos with his talk, his elegance, his wit and his learning. He convinced Lamos that he was the greatest and most influential man in the West, and could command an army of twenty thousand Westerners. He got Lamos drunk—no difficult task—and finally, as the flat boats neared, he began to talk horse to him. Mr. Lamos loved a good one, too—in fact he could talk on that subject all night, and so he and Wilkerson played cards and drank wine and talked horse until they became boon chums and companions. But all the time Wilkerson was holding back his trump card for the last. He kept the beautiful pair of Kentucky geldings safely in the background, well groomed and on their mettle. Then his men reported that his boats were coming—that they would be under the guns of Natchez the next day. Early that day Wilkerson brought out his beautiful geldings and called on the charming Mr. Don Gayoso de Lamos. Would Mr. Don walk with him to the grass plat on the bluff? Would he accept a trifling little gift, a token of his great admiration and everlasting friendship for the mighty Mr. Don? Certainly he would. No one ever heard of a Don refusing anything. When the blankets were taken off the Don could not contain his admiration. What beauties they were! How their coats shone! He hugged Wilkerson and then he hugged the horses. He talked fast and his eyes glittered and he was immensely merry. Then a gun boomed from the fort.

“What is it?” asked the Don.

“It was some flat boats loaded with produce,” so said the officer, “and must he sink them or call them in?”

Then Wilkerson explained carelessly that they were his, going to New Orleans, and that he had on them some trifling things like butter and eggs and tobacco for his Majesty’s people there, and he hoped they might be allowed to pass on.

The Don looked at the boats and he looked at the officer and then he looked long and lovingly at the horses—and they won, by a neck. He waved his hand to the officer and said:

“Let them pass. Let them report to Miro, at New Orleans.”

And so Wilkerson and his horses won, and for the first time an American cargo went down the great river unmolested.

At New Orleans Wilkerson played a different game. He tried to wheedle and frighten the Spanish commander by turns. He told him he could bring enough riflemen there to wipe out Spain’s troops, but that in reality the Westerners were tired of the Republic and would go under the protection of Spain if the latter showed them any favors, such as opening up the river to their trade, and thus playing on Spain’s fear, credulity, vanity and ambitions, he accomplished his purpose, finally ending in Spain opening up the river, and later, from fear, selling out the last remnant of her once mighty empire of virgin land in the North American country.

But it was Wilkerson and his Kentucky geldings that did it, after John Jay and Congress had failed.

(Continued.)

Content

Shall I complain because on me is laid
The common burden of this world of pain?
No more my heart shall throb to joy’s sweet strain;
The path leads on through sorrow’s darkest shade.
Yet midst the gloom I venture, unafraid;
The power that gave me love will still sustain.
That which is mine forever shall remain,
Whatever powers against me are arrayed.

My shining ones! The glory round you cast
Fails to illumine all the desert space
And every wayward path my feet may choose.
No ruthless fate can rob me of my past.
Beyond death’s gloom I see each radiant face.
God help those women who have naught to lose!

SARAH D. HOBART.

The Economic Value of Birds

By JOHN H. WALLACE, JR., OF HUNTSVILLE, ALA.

The time has come when the people must call a halt on the reckless and wanton slaughter of the small remnant of the game birds and game mammals, or in a few years not a vestige will remain.

This can be done only by the enactment and enforcement of a law that will in reality protect the game.

We have game laws, but there is no popular demand, or public sentiment, that calls for their enforcement. All readily agree that infractors of the existing statutes should be prosecuted, yet no one seems to be called upon to instigate prosecutions.

The game law is violated, in most instances, because the offenders know that they will not be indicted.

We need a uniform law, a game warden who has the authority to appoint deputies in each county and precinct in the State, whose duty it is to enforce the game law and bring the breakers thereof to justice.

Let every sportsman and lover of bird life in the country take up the fight for such a law, and wage a vigorous and determined campaign for its speedy enactment.

* * * * *

Game birds, to some extent, by virtue of their already deplorable scarcity, have elicited protective legislation. The mind of man imperatively demands recreation. Unless diversion can be found in a legitimate vein he, in his great unrest, seeks that which is not wholesome.

Hunting has ever been the sport of kings, peasants and savages alike, and the chase will always hold for man an incomparable infatuation.

When America was first discovered, here abounded an idealistic sportsman’s paradise. Buffalo, deer, moose, elk, bear, and panther roamed the forests. Geese, duck, brant, swan and wild pigeons flew overhead in countless millions. Practically all have been slaughtered, and the great sport once enjoyed by primeval Nimrods lingers only in a tradition.

The few remaining species of game birds should be vigilantly protected against annihilation, and so propagated that gentlemen will consider the pursuit of the elusive denizens of the brush infinitely preferable to Bacchanal hilarity and that riotous revelry that emasculates all that is noble, pure and godlike in man’s architecture.

* * * * *

The great question of the cause of the prevalence of plant maladies and the problem of the weed control each year grows more harassing to the farmers. The reason for this is simple. Our most beneficial birds, among them doves, robins, field larks and bullbats, have been so ruthlessly destroyed that in less than a generation their numbers have decreased 80 per cent.

When the fact is recalled that the crop of one dove, recently killed in Tennessee, contained over 7,000 weed seeds, and when it is understood that a healthy dove will destroy each feeding day at least 5,000 prospective weeds, more than two negroes, working at $1.50 per day each, could uproot in double the time, it is easy to see, from the tons upon tons of weed seed (besides insects) that this bird would destroy each year, that our cheapest, most efficient hoe hand proves in the end to be the Alabama dove.

As an insect devourer, the bullbat is equally serviceable. Its stomach is elastic and will hold more than that of a pigeon, and its voracity is simply phenomenal, yet its diminutive frame is smaller than that of a “killdee.” The part borne by the bullbat in mosquito destruction, especially in the extermination of the “anopheles,” or malaria-spreading species, transcends the combined work of a case of quinine and a tank of kerosene oil. As a fever germ abater in a malarial district, a flock of bullbats would be worth a grove of quinine trees.

Besides the robin and field lark, already mentioned, both being insect and weed destroyers, there are many other birds that do invaluable work for the farmer without. The ravages made by the dreaded Mexican boll weevil, that devastates cotton fields like a withering simoon, cannot be checked in a surer way than by being obliterated by our insectivorous birds.

If our people could fully appreciate the value of preserving the existing remnant of our birds, without considering its future increase, the halls of our State capitol would resound with an emphatic and peremptory demand for adequate legislation, for the preservation of our birds means little less than the preservation of our agriculture itself. Their extinction would amount practically to wiping out the entire farming interests of our splendid commonwealth.

Statistics incontestably demonstrate the fact that rainfall not only regulates the yield of our plantation, but that it directs and controls the fate of our national politics. When rainfall is light, the people raise poor crops, and are therefore unhappy and discontented. It is then they desire to make a change in the administration of the governmental affairs, and therefore the party in power is deposed. When there is an excess of rainfall abundant crops result and the party in power is retained. Thus it is that, unless speedy legislation is had in order that the insectivorous birds remaining may be retained to do valiant service for their farmer friends, discord will perennially blight the heart of the happy husbandman, and political chaos and turbulence will reign throughout the nation, and the anthems of contentment and cadences of prosperity will not longer pervade the hearts of the honest sons of toil, but will be hushed and swallowed up by the sighs and groans of the imp of insatiate despair.

* * * * *

Song birds, aside from their brilliant plumage, so pleasing to the observer, and their sweet music, redolent with liquid melody, have a civic value of inestimable intrinsic worth that, if truly known and practically comprehended, would win millions of friends for the thrilling choristers of the fields and forests, who would indignantly halt the crusade of relentless extermination strenuously waged that gives excellent promise of ultimately depopulating all creation of man’s valiant army of feathered coadjutors.

Did you ever hear an inspiring strain of music that failed to thrill the soul with lofty ideals and more exalted aspirations?

All those who dwell in an atmosphere of intellectual refinement yearn for brilliant things in flowers, birds, sunsets, and in their fellow mortals. A heartless boy who recklessly slaughters birds will inevitably develop into a relentless man. If taught to hold the law in high esteem when young in years, he becomes a patriotic man, with a profound reverence for the statutes of his State. The most courageous men, bravest warriors, and the most aggressive leaders are those of gentle natures and of tender hearts. Instill these precepts into the souls of boys, and, existing in such noble environment, it will mold characters that will ornament society and serve to lift mankind from the miasmic swamps of degeneracy to the mountain tops where radiates the splendor of moral grandeur.

* * * * *

To help prevent the spread of the boll weevil, pass stringent laws for the protection of birds! Then let the planters insist that the bird laws be strictly enforced.

Note the following stupendous agricultural interests which are at stake:

Value of farms
Acres excluding
in farms. buildings.

North Carolina 22,749,356 $141,955,840
South Carolina 13,985,014 99,805,860
Georgia 26,392,057 138,616,430
Florida 4,363,891 31,823,016
Alabama 20,685,427 100,165,571
Mississippi 18,240,736 114,956,660
Louisiana 11,059,127 107,730,210
----------- ------------
Total 117,475,608 $733,852,587

Protect the birds—the farmers’ best helpers!

Luther Burbank

(After reading the poem by John Trotwood Moore, October Trotwood’s Monthly.)

They say you touched the desert
And turned its thorns to fruit;
That you nodded to the Daisy,
And raised the Lily mute;
That flowers ran to meet you,
The kind whose souls had died;
That they begged to touch your garment,
And they all stood glorified.
You’re a Poet, Preacher, Painter,
And a Master, all in one,
And I do congratulate you
On the good that you have done.
For your weddings have been “Fruitful,”
As the nuptial knot you tied
(With a Cabbage for a bridegroom
And an Onion for a bride).
And while you hang sweet pictures
On the boughs in gold and red,
There is one thing that you can’t do—
GROW SOME HAIR ON MY BALD HEAD.

E. E. SWEETLAND.

Lady Cornelia’s Spinet

By MARY POLK WYNN.

(A true story, and beautifully told, of an early pioneer incident.—Ed.)

Long stretches of white turnpike, with fields of ripening grain on either side, and in the distance hills that fade into the blue horizon.

This is Middle Tennessee at the present time. Even so far back as 1790 there were a few good roads and houses built by workmen from the “Mother State,” built in Colonial style, with white Corinthian pillars and polished oaken floors.

Before the door of one of these houses, built of stone in the year 1793, a carriage stopped. This carriage, lately built in a Boston workshop, was the first seen in Tennessee, and had been followed, on the latter part of its journey, by a large and motley company, constantly reinforced by recruits, all anxious to see this wonderful structure on wheels, with postillions, and drawn by four horses, reach its destination.

When the carriage stopped there was a general halt. A black footman, descending from a seat on the box, solemnly opened the door, and Sir Peyton Skipwith, the owner of the “Rock House,” and the thousand acres surrounding it, descended from the carriage and assisted a young and elegant woman to alight. This was unexpected, and a slight cheer went up from the curious onlookers. To this the new land proprietor and his fair companion gravely responded with a bow, and with a lingering glance at the setting sun and the broad acres of their new domain, they entered the house, and the happiness of Sir Peyton Skipwith and his bride was only to be surmised by the outside world.

This outside world, a new settlement with the newspaper from the “Mother State” a month old, and languishing to hear the latest fashion in kerchief and stomacher, and the news of Mr. Washington’s re-election, naturally took an absorbing interest in the latest acquisition to their society; but with the exception of an occasional courteous word from Sir Peyton, and a smile and bow from Lady Cornelia’s carriage, their curiosity concerning the newcomers received no encouragement. The young couple were probably too much absorbed in each other to be properly benevolent, and public interest was beginning to wane when a rumor was circulated that excited a thrill in all.

Built on Sir Peyton’s ground was a small church where the early settlers met to unite in divine worship. As they passed to and fro on these pious pilgrimages—the rumors were conflicting, but one fact was unanimously declared—each evening, when the darkness came on, wonderful and mysterious sounds were heard to issue from the brilliantly illumined windows of the “Rock House.” The music (for such it seemed to be) was said to have a most disquieting effect upon those who heard it; even the reverend pastor, Dr. McGinty himself, was seen to stop on his way and take most unseemly steps for one of his age and godly calling.

Such a state of affairs would never do! All concurred in one opinion, that the matter should be investigated, and a committee of church members appointed to make known to the public the nature of these profane sounds that were so disquieting to the God-fearing flock of Zion Church. It seemed most proper that an explanation should be demanded of “Mr. Peyton Skipwith and Mistress Cornelia, his wife (titles were abolished as savoring of earthly pride and not consistent with republican teaching).” This course having been adopted and not found satisfactory, it was agreed that on a certain evening the secret committee, composed of grave and reverend Presbyters, should conceal themselves beneath Sir Peyton Skipwith’s open windows, and I will try and describe what they saw.

Seated at an instrument somewhat like our modern piano, with small spindle legs and white, shining ivory keys, sat Sir Peyton’s bride. The light from innumerable silver candelabra fell upon the coils of her fair hair and the silk of her gown and delicate laces, while Sir Peyton, his tall form attired in full evening costume, with silk hose, knee buckles of brilliants and low dancing shoes, turned pages from which she seemed to play. Her white, jeweled fingers ran over the keys of the instrument, and brought forth sounds so delicious, so entrancing that the world seemed to be floating off in melody, and the church committee, secreted beneath the open window, held their breath in rapt wonder, but this was not all; for next, looking up into Sir Peyton’s eyes, she sang in a voice like a flute:

“My ain laddie is a sodger boy;
Oh, I will cast off my gay, costly gown,
And follow him on from town to town,
And I will sell the kaims from my hair,
And follow my true love for e’er mair.”

As her voice died away a lady seated in the shadow, whom those watching had not before noticed, dressed in a pale silk gown and lace cap and kerchief, took her seat at the instrument, and Lady Cornelia, standing up, gaily threw her silk petticoat over her arm and made a deep courtesy to Sir Peyton, who stood opposite, bowing to the ground. Then they began to dance. The music had changed now, and the church delegation began to shuffle their feet uneasily, and take quick uncertain steps until—“Tell it not in Gath,” for the oak that over-shadowed Sir Peyton’s doorway alone was the witness—these staid, silent church members began to bow and curtsy and pirouette in the moonlight beneath Sir Peyton’s window, while inside the house, with the light from the candelabra falling on their silk and jewels, Sir Peyton and his lady swept up and down the polished floor in the stately figures of the minuet. As the music continued, the dancers seemed to gain fresh inspiration, but at last, like a knight of old, Sir Peyton kissed his lady’s hand, the lights went out in the “Rock House,” and the church delegation, with exhilarated but somewhat sheepish countenances, parted company and wended their ways to their respective homes.

Not many days after this occurrence the following report was submitted with much solemnity to the pastor and presiding elders of Zion Church:

“Dr. McGinty and Reverend Sirs: Being appointed by ye reverend
gentlemen to investigate certain musick not consistent with ye
pious teachings of ye church, said committee will state that
they found this music in their own minds most conducive to deep
religious meditations, and much sobriety of thought and action.

“Howsoever, said committee advises ye congregation not to
linger in ye pathway near ye seats of ye mighty in high places,
for ye machinations of ye evil one are past ye understanding of
man.

“Respectfully submitted.

“JONAS FRAME,
“OBADIAH DILLWEED,
“KESIAH TROTTER.”

Notwithstanding this caution to Dr. McGinty’s flock, they were still wont to linger near the “Rock House” and listen, until one night there was no light to be seen, nor sound issued from the darkened windows. Lord Peyton’s horse had returned riderless, and his lifeless body was found near a trysting place where he and Lady Cornelia were wont to meet.

The “Rock House” was closed now, and Lady Cornelia traveled in foreign lands. Years passed, and once more sounds of music, plaintive now, were heard—but these also ceased in time, and the house passed into other hands.

And now, nearly a hundred years after, with the generations that it has sheltered sleeping a dreamless sleep near by, this old house alone seems to preserve its pristine youth.

Once again it is occupied by a young couple, and the music that now floats from the open windows is that of childish laughter. But on one occasion the children grow serious, when they are trying to spell the name cut in the rock on which the house is built, and as with chubby fingers they point out and spell L-a-d-y C-o-r-n-e-l-i-a S-k-i-p-w-i-t-h, one older than the rest, holding up a warning finger, tells them to “Listen!” Do you not hear Lady Cornelia’s spinet? She is singing:

“My ain laddie was a sodger boy;
And I will sell the kaims from my hair.
And follow my true love for e’er mair.”

And then they all listened, and—who can tell? We all know that the refrain in Lady Cornelia’s song will never pass away—that love is the secret spring of perennial youth, and will be with us until time is no more.

With Our Writers

John Trotwood Moore, Esq.

Wilmar, Minn., Feb. 17, 1906.

Sir: Two copies of Trotwood’s Monthly have been sent me, and I greatly enjoyed the well-chosen, readable articles, and think there must surely be a field for such a magazine.

In “Educating the Horse,” you give a much-needed warning against the abuse of the checkrein, and the following is written in the hope that so great a lover of horses as your article shows you to be may pick up a real sharp-pointed pen and with black ink give somebody a well-meant, gentlemanly roasting. Like your monthly, it is dedicated to the horse.

The name of Jackson is greatly revered by the American people, and deservedly so; for there have been distinguished soldiers, statesmen, horsemen and whole-souled Southern gentlemen among the Jacksons, but there was one of that name who, I think, ought to have his effigy placed in front of every judge’s stand at every racecourse of the nation. This particular one is the Mr. Jackson who invented that rotten abomination called the Jackson, but now called the overdraw checkrein.

I think not one sound reason can be given for its use, not even on the score of ornament, and twenty could be given against it. It is as cruel as the “scavenger’s daughter,” which the guides will show you in the torture chamber in the Tower of London, and works on the same principle, and is kin to the diabolical contrivance so graphically described by Charles Reade in his inimitable novel, “It Is Never Too Late to Mend,” and again works on the same principle.

Some of the best horsemen, the most carelessly careful drivers, and the best horses are to be found in the coaching clubs in large cities, particularly in New York.

Do you suppose there is money enough in all New York City to induce one of those men to use that check to drive a coach load of people down Broadway at a busy time, or up and down the Adirondacks or Catskills, where close driving and short, quick turning are wanted? Not much, and he does not like spoiling his horses’ necks and legs; besides he wants them to plunge into their collars at a word.

The only two lines that can be effectively used against it, I think, are fashion and ridicule. Make its use “bad form,” and guy it into the ground.

Every user of that check rein ought to memorize some of the sublime lines of Shakespeare. Anyhow, every time he checks a horse up he ought to repeat that immortal speech of Dogberry.

GEORGE MADDISON.

[We thank Mr. Maddison and heartily agree with him.—Ed.]

* * * * *

Editor Trotwood’s:

In your March issue, reprinting the familiar poem, “The Old Canoe,” which the anthology-makers so persistently ascribe to the late Gen. Albert Pike, you say: “Like many other good poems, it was, perhaps, the only one some poet wrote, and, never thinking it would be immortal, or that it had any special merit, failed to sign his name to it.... Its authorship has never before, perhaps, been publicly corrected.”

Both these statements are erroneous.

Nine years ago, when Miss Jennie Thornley Clarke’s “Songs of the South” was published, it contained this poem, marked “anonymous.” As I chanced to know its real authorship, and hence knew that it lacked several hundreds of miles, geographically speaking, of being a “song of the South,” I sent a communication to the New York Critic, which was printed in its issue of March 13, 1897, giving the facts. I have several times since publicly corrected the statement that General Pike was the author of the poem. The actual author was Miss Emily Rebecca Page, who was born in Bradford, Vt., in 1834, and died in Chelsea, Mass., in 1862. “The Old Canoe” was written in 1849, and appeared in the Portland Transcript in that year. It was not by any means “the only one the poet wrote.” Miss Page was a voluminous writer of both verse and prose, having been a constant contributor to many New England periodicals. She was later assistant editor of “Gleason’s Pictorial” and “The Flag of Our Union,” two Boston literary publications which were very popular forty or fifty years ago. She also published several volumes of poetry.

R. L. C. WHITE.

Nashville, February 26, 1906.

[We knew there must be a history for this poem, and we thank Dr. White for his letter.—Ed.]

* * * * *

Editor Trotwood:

Old Tom’s body lies mouldering in the grave, but his spirit goes pacing on. The gifted pen of the good man, Col. Frank Buford, calls attention to the fact that the sacred dust of the grandest and noblest old Roman is being disturbed. The evergreen of the old tree which marked the revered spot has withered and gone. The Colonel’s item in Trotwood’s jewel case carries us back to a great day in the history of the horse. That the passing of old Tom Hal No. 1 marked a distinct epoch in the equine history of the world may seem a far-fetched statement, but where on the face of the earth is there record, in horse lore, of a greater achievement? Bought by the gallant Capt. Thos. Gibson as a stable companion to the great John Dillard, Jr. (Gibson’s), for the sole purpose of production and betterment of the army of fine saddle horses of the “middle basin,” in good old Tennessee, he grandly served the purpose, for who that has had a “Hal” mount, on a typical Tennessee spring morning, for a ten-mile spin on its fine roadways, over hill and down valley, by babbling brook, has failed to thank God for life, liberty and the capture of happiness on that particular horse. He had populated the fields with a family of superb saddlers, and made greatest achievement of the day as a sire of speed, for “Little Brown Jug,” as the fore pacer of old Tom’s coming family and fame as a sire of the greatest race horses, set the stride, to be bettered by the immortal Hal Pointer 2:04½, who hauled the grim-visaged, silent old warrior to victory in hundreds of hard-fought battles, and the other “Pointer,” blazoned on the course “1:59¼,” a race record not to be rivaled by any other blood. And so, when as a progenitor of size, and beauty, and intelligence, and speed, and stamina, and saddle, and all purpose qualities old Tom had distanced the best hopes of his early admirers, and was gathered to his fathers, his hoofs beat a tattoo down the gold-paved streets leading to St. Peter’s beautiful stables. And the sir knight who drew his rein at the door announced to St. Peter, “Old Tom Hal, Jr., No. 16934, from Tennessee!” and St. Peter looked sad as he said: “I know him not by that cognomen. Take him away. He bears the dub title given by the arch foe of his race of pacers. Clean him of his saddle and cloth, bridle and dub; groom him and clothe him in new purple and gold, and place on his saddle skirt his proper title, viz., ‘Old Tom Hal No. 1,’ and return and ask Ed Geers to ask ‘Old Wash’ to give him the first box stall to the right, and care well for him. The bin of clipped golden oaks is for him, and you, for having the temerity to bring this King here with such a dub title, will go to outer darkness for sixty days.” And it was done.

The funeral of old Tom Hal No. 1 was celebrated at the beautiful mansion place of the famed Bufords, near Buford’s Station, Giles County, Tenn., and when the thousands from forty miles around, and mourners from Ohio who came to do honor had tethered their saddle steeds in the great open timber, one could well imagine that the brilliant legion of the immortal “Wheeler” had camped close on our trail. There were hundreds of sons, daughters, grandsons and daughters and nephews and close kin to old Tom Hal there, with moistened eyes and somber mien, as the band played the dirge. The “silent Wheeler” of the harness brigade was there, with the incomparable “Pointer,” 2:04½ as chief mourners, came in a special coach, but there was not time for Pointer’s mourning compatriot to deliver a eulogy. His was the still grief of one who mourns, but cannot weep. All the good people of Maury, Giles, Williamson and adjoining counties were there. The woods seemed full of the cavalry of peace. Cannons of war had been molded into ploughshares, and swords had been fashioned into blacksmith’s pruning knives, and after the time for music and oration, there was a time for feasting, and then the assembled multitude witnessed, not a miracle as to loaves and fishes, but a master demonstration of the measureless, distinctive Southern hospitality (which has to be born Southern to be operative, and seen and realized to be appreciated) of Colonel Buford, on whose estate the funeral was held. People had heard of barbecues, but some of us had never before sniffed the enticing odors of meats thus baked, while our stomachs were collapsed. Trenches some hundreds of feet long, and three feet wide, were filled with live coals, embers of burning firewood, and across these trenches, on green poles, lay wired the fresh sacrifices of lamb and shoat, burnt offerings to the god of the race course, cut in half lengthwise, and these poles (in the brawny hands of the dark-skinned, faithful tillers, the salvation of the people in past time of peril, and the necessity of the future for the development of the wonderful Southland’s broad acres), so frequently turned as to insure a beautiful bake. Suffice it to say the meat and bread and coffee went the whole rounds with the great multitude, and there were many more than the “twelve baskets” after all the people were fed. And while old Tom’s spirit will go pacing on, his name, and his fame briefly, should be carved on a native granite boulder of as many tons weight as can be moved to a conspicuous place in the public square at Columbia, or some other public center, where time or change of ownership would not interfere, as the generations pass. I will be glad to aid such movement.

E. Z. STRIDE.

Cleveland, O., March 1, 1906.

The Old Cotton Gin

[There have been so many requests for copies of this poem that it is reproduced. It has been adopted in all the public schools of Alabama and recited on Alabama Day, December 14, each year.—E. E. Sweetland.]

It lies alone in the rank June corn,
A relic of days that are numbered and gone;
The June wind sings a song in its throat,
The June clouds lovingly over it float,
And through its skeleton ribs of steel
The moth-flies dance in a drowsy reel.
For its saws are rust
With canker and crust,
They hum no more from dawn to dusk—
And the lizard is ginner,
And out and in,
The spider is spinner
At the Old Cotton Gin.

Ay, many a day for the old, old South,
He spun his fleece from a fiery mouth,
And wove his woof in a fabric of gold—
As a picture is painted, a tale that is told.
And he sat in his might, this fallen thing,
A hoary monarch, an uncrowned king,
And over the land
With an iron hand,
He flung his wealth with a gesture grand,
And Might was the ginner—
Of barn and of bin
There was never a winner
Like the Old Cotton Gin.

Broad was the kingdom he ruled in his might,
Brave were the armies he rallied for fight,
Bright were the wings of his ships on the seas,
Bold were his merchantmen—kingly his ease.
True were his women in hut or in hall,
Sweet the soft sunshine that fell over all.
From banjo and bow
And the cotton’s long row,
Free-song and slave-song would mingle and flow.
And Pride was the ginner—
(Unpardonable sin!)
Was there ever a sinner
Like the Old Cotton Gin?

Alas, for his weavings—ay, tears for the day
When out from his loom came the jackets of gray,
And the locks that were plucked in despair from his head
Were woven to crimson in shrouds for his dead.
They died for the Sin the centuries had given,
And their blood is the pledge on the lintels of heaven.
By river and plain
They march not again,
And wet was his fleece with the blood of his slain—
For Death was the ginner—
And Riot and Din—
And Sorrow the spinner,
At the Old Cotton Gin.

He buried his dead, and a tenderer tone
Crept into his song, for he sang it alone;
But he wove as he sang and the pattern was bright—
The tapestry of stars that come with the night—
And he built his waste places and conquered by toil
And garnered in peace what was gathered in spoil,
And all the day long
He wove in his song
The patience of right in the pillage of wrong—
And Faith was the ginner,
The fabric to spin,
And Hope was the spinner
At the Old Cotton Gin.

With his Hope in the future, his Heart in the past,
He worked for his people and wove to the last;
And, tottering, he stood through the rift and the reel
And he died as he lived—with his hand on the wheel,
And sighing, his soul passed peacefully through,
As pure as the last lock of lint in the flue.
The Heart, whose beat
Was the Century’s feet,
Was willing to cease, but not to retreat.
And the New South was ginner,
The New Age was in,
The New Century spinner—
A New Cotton Gin.

Rear him—O sons of a generous sire—
Aloft on a monument, not on a pyre;
Base-stone of valor, column of youth,
Shaft-stone of chivalry, cap-stone of truth—
Honor him, sons of a land that is fair,
Let him not lie in the rank weeds there,
For see! from his night
He rises all bright,
He wakens! He wakens—a loom of new light—
With Fame for his ginner,
His kith and his kin,
And the world is the winner
In the Old Cotton Gin.

JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.

TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY

Devoted to Farm, Horse and Home.

TROTWOOD PUBLISHING CO., Nashville, Tenn.
Office 150 Fourth Ave., North.

JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE,
Editor-in-Chief.

E. E. SWEETLAND Business Manager.

GEO. E. McKENNON President.
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WOOTEN MOORE Sec’y.

TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION: One Year, $1.00; Single Copy, 10 cents.
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NASHVILLE, TENN., APRIL, 1906.

With Trotwood

SPRING.

Lo, a faint blush runs trembling along
Through the air,
And the soul of the thrush bursts full into song
Everywhere.
There’s a throbbing and pulsing—the birth of a bloom—
Uplifting of purpose—out-shutting of gloom—
A radiancy rising of song and perfume—
And of prayer.
O listlessness sweet—O yearnings that spread
All about—
(As memories that meet in the eyes of the dead
Long shut out—)
There’s an infinite longing, a gleam and a glow
Of sapphire above and emerald below,
A bursting of buds, a melting of snow—
And of doubt.

—John Trotwood Moore.

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Trotwood’s Department this month will discuss the old-time negro, chiefly, all brought about by a correspondent who writes asking that he discuss it.

The old-time darky is sui generis, and I sometimes fear his race is almost extinct. The modern darky is no more like his ancestors, so far as individuality is concerned, than the Greek of to-day resembles those who fought around the walls of Troy. In other words, the modern Negro has “caught on,” and there is now little difference between him, save in the eternal negro that is in him, and any other class that he happens to run with. The Negro of to-day may be divided into two great classes; he is either a “nigger” or a “coon,” a vagabond, a shiftless, worthless fellow, who lives to-day and lets to-morrow take care of itself; or else he is a school teacher, a preacher, a fairly good mechanic, a good farm hand and a peaceable, inoffensive citizen who will bear uncomplainingly injustices under which a white race would rush to arms. These two classes make up the Negro race, and between them they have managed to eliminate the old-time darky we used to know and love. Out of a thousand darkies of the present day, perhaps one old-time darky may be found; but even he may not be found fit for character study. My observation is that it is extremely rare to find one who gives us any idea upon which to build a story or a poem.

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The fact is, darky stories are always nine-tenths white and one-tenth Negro. They are nine-tenths art, as most good stories are, and one-tenth nature; but all so nicely blended that the art—as all real art is—is concealed in the colors of the natural. And yet these stories are true to nature—in fact so natural that we fail to see where the natural ceases and the art begins. The darky who told about “Marse Chan” was the same who told of “Unk Eden’ro and Meh Lady.” They are all a clever white man who knows the darky as a mariner knows the sea, imitating the darky and making for him a story. Joel Chandler Harris was wiser in making one darky—Uncle Remus—tell all of his, and they therefore sound more natural. He was also wise in selecting the nursery yarns of “Brer Rabbit” and “Brer Fox,” for in telling them the darky is at his best. On the whole, I expect that Harris is the greater interpreter of the two, but this need not necessarily follow, because the Virginia and the Georgia darky differ very much in dialect just as the Tennessee darky differs from either of the others. Especially is this true of the Middle Tennessee darky who happened to belong to the wealthier class of white people. For every Negro is a born imitator.

* * * * *

In writing Negro dialect, then, these facts must be borne in mind, for, as I said, there are provincialisms in the Negro language, as in the white. The cracker dialect of Georgia differs from the mountain dialect of Tennessee, and so the darky language in Georgia differs much from that in Tennessee.

But at last Negro dialect devolves itself not so much in spelling—in dialect—as in mannerism. This is the fatal mistake which many writers make who have not been raised among Negroes and who seem to think that bad spelling and certain other forms of spelling make Negro dialect. No one should attempt a Negro story who is not thoroughly familiar with his ground, and then not unless he can tell a good story anyway. In other words, he must be an artist in that line, he must have a calling for story-telling, he must be able to create a great deal out of very little. For in Negro stories, as in all others, one fact, one glimpse is often sufficient for a whole story, as often one remark, aye, one word, shows us more plainly a person’s character than if we had spent years in studying him.

In Negro dialect, then, it is mannerism and not spelling that counts, for the fraud is quickly detected if the article be not genuine. The present darkies of Puck, Judge and other comic papers, and often even the stories in magazines, bear no more resemblance to the real article than dried apples do to the real fruit.

I know of nothing that misses the mark further, unless it be these same comic papers’ drawings of the Negro. These really represent nothing, and the “Mister Johnsings” darky and the darky that ends everything in a broad “ah” may be the product of Northern tenement houses, but his kinfolks down here would not know him if they met him in the road.

But as far as bad spelling is concerned, all dialect writers use more of it than is necessary. As a matter of fact, the Middle Tennessee darky, or he of the Black Belt of Alabama, who has been raised by educated white people, or been thrown much in their society, speaks much more correctly than the uneducated whites. For the Negro is nothing, as I said, if not an imitator; and of all people he loves to imitate the better class of whites. He has, therefore, caught fairly well their pronunciation of all common words, their tone and inflection. The real fun occurs in the use of his words and the incongruous relations he places them in. But the poor white—the ignorant, uneducated white—is not an imitator, but a creator, and some of the creations are enough to make us want to call out the National Guard to save the king’s English. For instance: “I taken a walk,” “I taken a drink,” “I taken my corn to mill.” This invariable use of the past participle for the past tense by the unlettered white is never used by the darky. He will say: “I tuck a drink,” “I tuck a walk,” which is much nearer right than the first named. “No, thank you, I wouldn’t choose any,” is the ignorant white’s way of declining a dish at a meal. He loves the subjunctive mood better than the indicative, as his invariable “Might you pass me them molasses?” shows. The darky will never make such mistakes as these. He is an imitator, pure and simple, and he never imitates that kind of a white man.

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The truth is, there is and always has been, a strong antipathy—nay, positive aversion—between the poor white and the darky. Any trouble between the two races in the South is always between these two classes. The old-time Southerners of the better class, who owned the darky, or whose fathers owned him, are his best friends and staunchest supporters. But for them I sometimes think the poor white, with his ignorant, prejudiced ways and his natural hatred of the Negro would drive the darky out of the country. As it is, the better classes are for him, because they know him and have been raised with him and know him to be faithful and true and admirably adapted as a laborer to the country. The so-called Negro problem in the South exists more in the minds of writers of the Thomas Dixon order and in newspapers than in the land itself. And what there is of it will be solved forever and effectually the day the great tide of immigration is turned southward.