French, among them _Anarchy in Art_ and _The Idol and the Ideal_, the
latter being a poem in blank verse, whose _dramatis personae_ are an
artist and a young girl.
Nor do painting and writing complete the list of the Alabamian’s talents.
He is a devoted musician, finding rest and inspiration in the study of
harmonic sound. He always carries with him a musical notebook, jotting
down, wherever he may be, any melody or detail of orchestration that
strikes him. He is now finishing a symphony, parts of which have been
played in classical concerts at Vichy and at Monte Carlo. With such
varied gifts it is not surprising that his pictures have a lyrical,
musical quality, pulsating with the rhythmical movement of life. He has
the supreme painter’s gift of conveying not only the effect of air and
sunlight, but also the psychic atmosphere of a scene, the glamor, the
romance of the Orient.
Mr. Bridgman says, and his views are indicative of that noble discontent
which incites artists to yet higher efforts, “The actual picture is never
the perfect one. It is always the _next_ undertaking in which shall be
realized the qualities so much sought after.”
[Illustration: MEN OF AFFAIRS]
Robert Joseph Fisher was born at Athens, Tennessee. His father, Richard
M. Fisher, was of German descent, and moved to Tennessee from Virginia.
His mother, Ann M. Gettys, is of Scotch-Irish descent, and was born at
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, which town was founded by, and took its name
from, her grandfather. Mr. Fisher received a collegiate education at
the East Tennessee Wesleyan University, at Athens, and while at school
stood at the head of his classes, showing a marked predilection for
mathematics. On account of business reverses sustained by his father, he
left school and began business life as a clerk in a store in his native
town. Subsequently he became teller in the Cleveland National Bank, at
Cleveland, in his native state. Upon the death of his father, in 1883,
Mr. Fisher returned to Athens and organized the First National Bank of
Athens, of which he was the cashier and principal executive officer for
about thirteen years. During this period Mr. Fisher promoted, and was a
leading spirit in, the organization of the principal industries of his
home town, which resulted in doubling the population of the place in a
few years.
[Illustration: ROBERT JOSEPH FISHER]
He was offered the position of cashier in national banks at Chattanooga
and Knoxville, but declined. In 1892 he conceived the idea of the Fisher
Book Typewriter and Billing Machine, for writing in bound books and for
billing in commercial houses. During the succeeding four years he devoted
every spare moment to improving his machine, to making his own drawings
therefor, to taking out numerous patents, and to overcoming the problems
and difficulties which only those who attempt to originate a machine
of more than two thousand parts can appreciate. In 1896 he resigned his
position in the bank, to devote his entire attention to his inventions.
The Fisher Typewriter Company was organized, and two years and one
hundred thousand dollars were spent before his first perfect machine was
produced. The machines were manufactured at Athens for several years,
notwithstanding Mr. Fisher was laughed at when he stated that he was
going to manufacture in the South a piece of mechanism as nice as a
watch, and in which measurements of one-half of one-thousandth of an inch
were common; but the machines were made in the South as accurately as
they could have been made anywhere.
After a few years, realizing that it would require a million of dollars
to successfully manufacture and introduce his machine, and that this
money could not be obtained in the South, he sold his stock and royalty
interests in the company to eastern capitalists. A large factory,
employing nearly one thousand skilled mechanics, now manufactures his
machines at Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, and several millions of dollars
have been invested in the business. The principal office of the company
is in New York, with branches in all of the principal cities of the
world. There is scarcely a large business in the North and East that does
not use his machine, one firm in Chicago alone using four hundred of
them. For several years after disposing of his interests in the company,
Mr. Fisher retained a connection with it as its inventor. After returning
to Athens, Mr. Fisher erected the Athens Hosiery Mills, of which he
is the sole proprietor, and which is the largest individual business
enterprise in his native county.
Although this business lays a heavy tax on his time and energy, it
does not prevent the continuance of his inventions. Over seventy-five
different patents, in this and foreign countries, attest his unabated
zeal in this work. In 1900 he was awarded the John Scott Medal for
meritorious invention by the city of Philadelphia, on the recommendation
of Franklin Institute.
The Fisher home, in Athens, is one of typical Southern comfort, Mrs.
Fisher, who comes from the prominent Gauche family of New Orleans,
delighting in the exercise of hospitality no less than in her devotion to
the welfare of her husband and two young sons.
* * * * *
To rise, in a few short years, by sheer force of character—by pluck and
brains—from a humble beginning as a clerk in a small retail business in a
country town to an eminence where one becomes the cynosure of all eyes
in business, is a rare experience, indeed.
And yet that has happened in the life of a citizen of New Orleans—William
Perry Brown, the Cotton King.
[Illustration: WILLIAM PERRY BROWN]
He was born on a farm, and lived there until well advanced in his teens.
When not at school, in his early years, the lad did chores about his
home, the Civil War having left his father, who was a Confederate soldier
of unblemished record, in reduced circumstances, as were all the people
of his section. Under such circumstances, young Brown’s training and
habits were on lines that tend to build character. They taught him, in
his youth, the obligations of duty, the essentiality of self-denial and
self-control, of faith in himself, and of hope for success. The lessons
were not unheeded.
In meeting difficulties and overcoming obstacles in business which
would paralyze an operator of less heroic mold, he is cool, collected,
resourceful. Neither by change of countenance, speech nor manner does he
ever betray any fear he may feel as to the outcome of the situation in
which he is placed.
He is practical, and does things in a common-sense way, avoiding the
spectacular as much as possible—his self-reliance and self-assertion
being less conspicuous in speech than action.
Mr. Brown’s faith in the idea that cotton has been selling too low is
not a thing of a day’s growth. He is an observer of men and a student of
events, noting causes and the effects produced. Therein lies the secret
of his success. He realizes that supply and demand regulate prices, when
market conditions are normal—free from manipulation to produce, by artful
management, deceptive situations.
In 1898-99 cotton was selling at and around 4¾ cents in New Orleans,
and at still lower figures at interior points—a price showing on its
face the staple was selling below the cost of production. The condition
was abnormal. Mr. Brown saw it, and realized it could not long endure.
Looking backward, he had the wisdom to perceive that for several
years preceding the production of cotton had not kept pace with the
consumption; that consumption was limited, not by the acreage, which,
under favorable circumstances, could be planted, but by the labor that
could be commanded to till the fields and gather the crop. He saw that
the prosperity of the country, the world over, was drawing laborers
from the cotton fields to furnish them more remunerative employment in
industrial pursuits and enterprises, where the profits on manufactured
products, and in their transportation and distribution, enabled capital
to pay bigger wages than could be earned on the farm. As “the stars in
their courses fought against Sisera” of old, so the sun and the seasons,
and the prosperity of the country, producing a scarcity of labor for farm
work, fought the bears, causing cotton production to lag while speeding
its consumption. The inevitable followed. The demand exceeded the supply,
and the natural tendency of prices was upward. Seeing the unusually
strong statistical position of cotton, and anticipating the inescapable
results that would follow such conditions, if the markets were
intelligently watched and artful manipulation to lower prices prevented,
Mr. Brown set himself to work legitimately to aid the staple to “corner
itself.” The management of the campaign for months was all that could
have been expected. The plan was happily conceived, and executed with
great courage and skill. Prices advanced until, in January, 1904, it
looked as though they would soar to the skies. The effort to punish the
Southern operators leading the fight—the men who were reared on cotton
plantations and sympathized with the producers, because brought up among
them, and who also knew the long suffering entailed by low prices—proved
unavailing, until Sully went by the board. The combinations of Wall
Street and wealthy Wall Street bears to lower prices and break down
the bull leaders so far succeeded, that, about February 1, 1904, Sully
was driven to the wall and prices sank so rapidly that plethoric purses
in a few seconds were reduced to aching voids. Excitement on the Cotton
Exchanges of New York and New Orleans ran to tidal wave proportions.
Seeing their fortunes melt like mist before the morning’s sun, men lost
their heads and the panic became appalling. It was like Bedlam broken
loose. Pandemonium reigned, and there is no telling where the decline
would have stopped had it not been for the iron nerve and reckless
indifference to the assaults of the enemy on the part of the Napoleonic
bull leader. It was seemingly a Waterloo, there is no doubt about that.
But the daring and intrepid leader rallied enough of the Old Guard to
escape Helena. By many, it was thought, and apparently with reason, the
day of his destiny was over with Captain Brown, but it proved not so.
He has gone right along bulling the market off and on from that day to
this, as though the dire day on which Sully’s sun went down was a mere
incident in his career.
The old-time speculators, as well as spinners, have been made since then
unwillingly to pay something like the prices which trade conditions
undisturbed justified. No trick or scheme or effort known to the smooth
manipulators to bring about the downfall of Brown, by a decline in
cotton, have been spared. So far, he has weathered every storm and bids
fair to continue to ride the gale.
* * * * *
Mr. Winston claims, with Patrick Henry, descent from the old Quaker
family of Winston, among the earliest settlers of Virginia. His
grandfather, Pleasant Winston, having married a Miss Clark, of Lynchburg,
and thus coming into possession of a number of slaves which his religion
forbade him to hold and the laws of his state forbade him to free,
sent them to Liberia to join the new colony founded there. His oldest
son, Bowling Henry Winston, on his graduation from the University of
Virginia, removed to Indiana and married there, becoming a farmer.
John Clark Winston was born here in 1856. He was educated in Virginia
and at Haverford College in Pennsylvania, graduating in 1881. It was
his intention to study law, but he accepted a tempting offer to take
charge of the Western branch of a Philadelphia publishing house, and the
fascination of this business so grew upon him that in 1884 he entered
it on his own account. His first venture was made in a small building
in Philadelphia, just opposite the imposing structure which now bears
his name. While devoting himself to business Mr. Winston has always
maintained an interest in religious, educational and civic affairs.
[Illustration: JOHN CLARK WINSTON]
As chairman of the Committee of Seventy, he has taken a prominent part in
the reform movement in Philadelphia which resulted in the overthrow of
the corrupt Republican organization. Although a Republican in National
affairs, he has steadily fought for non-partisanship in municipal
matters. The City Party was organized by the Committee of Seventy on the
platform that city officers should be chosen without regard to political
party, and solely in the interest of honesty and efficiency.
Mr. Winston was made Chairman of the Committee of Seventy at the very
beginning of the reform movement, and may be regarded as one of the
originators of the movement. His name was prominently mentioned in
connection with the nomination for governor, and again for that of mayor,
but he has steadily avowed his disinclination for holding office.
Mr. Winston was president of the Haverford Alumni Association for two
years and has also taken an active interest in the work of the Historical
Association and in several athletic clubs.
* * * * *
Dr. Charles Chassaignac was born, reared and educated, with the exception
of post-graduate work in European universities, in New Orleans. He
graduated in medicine in 1883 at the age of twenty-one. Since beginning
his practice Dr. Chassaignac has been identified with every movement
looking to the sanitary and hygienic improvement of his native city.
He was one of the founders of and a member of the first faculty of the
New Orleans Training School for Nurses, which was the first of its kind
established in the South. It is managed by the New Orleans Polyclinic, in
conjunction with the New Orleans Sanitarium, a private hospital which it
owns.
[Illustration: DOCTOR CHARLES CHASSAIGNAC]
The New Orleans Polyclinic, of which Dr. Chassaignac is president,
was the first post-graduate medical school in the South, having been
established twenty years ago. It draws students from all parts of the
union, but particularly from the South.
During the last epidemic of yellow fever the physicians of New Orleans
did noteworthy work all through the infected districts, stamping out the
scourge in a shorter time than has ever been done before. Dr. Chassaignac
was one of the promoters of the organized and systematic effort which
resulted so successfully, doing efficient work in the parish of Tallulah,
where the epidemic was stopped in two weeks. It is safe to say that
Louisiana’s doctors and State Board of Health have the situation too well
in hand to permit the dread disease to gain a foothold again.
In the midst of the multitudinous duties imposed by his lectures, his
public work and his large private practice, Dr. Chassaignac finds time to
act as co-editor of the _New Orleans Medical and Surgical Journal_, one
of the oldest of its kind in the country. In addition, he has occupied
many of the prominent medical positions in the city and state, having
served as president of the State Medical Society, president of the
Charity Hospital Alumni Association and three times president of the
Orleans Parish Medical Society. Mrs. Chassaignac was Miss Jennie Morris,
a member of one of the oldest and most distinguished families in New
Orleans.
[Illustration]
THE FIRST TWO GOVERNORS OF MISSISSIPPI
By A. C. Chase
I. GOVERNOR WINTHROP SARGENT
The first governor of Mississippi Territory was Winthrop Sargent, a
New Englander, the record of whose administration lives in history
because of the discontent and even open dissensions that marked it. Your
true Mississippian has always been wont to hold this sour and selfish
Puritan—so characterized—who had been foisted upon the young territory
through the prejudice of President Adams, as solely answerable for all
these troubles. The leading historian of Mississippi, J. F. H. Claiborne,
has depicted Sargent as so lacking in the kindly virtues that the wonder
is, not that he was removed at the close of his third year of office, but
that he had not been sooner thrust forth through the just anger of the
people.
Recently the Mississippi Department of History has sent out the first
volume of “Territorial Archives,” containing the journals of the first
two executives of that state. These papers, now for the first time
printed, are important for the light which they throw upon Sargent’s
character and official record.
Winthrop Sargent was a native of Massachusetts, well born and college
bred, who achieved a good record as an officer of artillery during the
Revolutionary War. After the war he worked as a surveyor, until in 1787
he was made secretary of the Northwest Territory. In May, 1798, he was
made governor of the territory of Mississippi. He was in very poor
health at the time and when he at last reached Natchez, August 6, he was
so weak that he was taken to Concord House, the old home of the Spanish
Governors, to rest and recover his strength. Twelve days later, however,
he was able to make a brief address before a large assemblage of citizens
at Natchez. In this he assured the people of his solicitude for their
welfare, of his desire to so administer the government as to deserve and
retain their confidence, and he pledged himself to consider merit only in
his appointments to office.
It must be admitted that he showed a sincere desire to make a good
impression upon his new constituency, and the reason for his total
failure is not readily defined, from the evidence of the record.
The historian Claiborne ascribes the mistakes of Governor Sargent largely
to the influence of Andrew Ellicott. The latter, sent to the territory
in 1795 to lay out the boundary line under the Spanish treaty, applied
himself after he arrived there to everything but his business. He claimed
authority as a representative of the government which his commission in
no way warranted, established himself as a sort of adviser-in-chief of
all newcomers, and by ingratiating himself with the Indian tribes of
the territory, he made no end of trouble for the government by lavish
promises of gifts and privileges. It may well be that this man Ellicott
was by no means as black as he has been painted, but there is sufficient
contemporary evidence that he acted the part of a mischief-maker in
Mississippi. From the journals, however, no evidence can be obtained that
he had any particular influence with the governor. And before the close
of his first year in office, Sargent fully recognized the mischief that
the surveyor’s meddling in Indian affairs had caused.
[Illustration: WINTHROP SARGENT
Photographic facsimile of portrait by Gilbert Stuart, in the Mississippi
Hall of Fame]
It should be remembered that Sargent, having had a military training,
was disposed to expect more deference to law and order than could fairly
be looked for in a frontier community. The population of Mississippi
at that time was of a very mixed sort, being made up of Spaniards,
Frenchmen, Indians, negroes, half-breeds of all grades of parentage,
renegade Americans and British, and at the same time a ruling class
of exceptional uprightness and intelligence. The fact that the better
element was outnumbered by the heterogeneous class beneath them, fully
justified the governor’s apprehension of lawless outbreaks, which he
sought to forestall by urging the organization and arming of a strong
militia force. The opposition which he met with in this eminently wise
measure, is in itself proof that prejudice largely inspired the movement
against him.
Political feeling had a share therein, beyond a doubt, for Sargent
was a Federalist, the appointee of a Federalist President, whereas
Mississippians were, almost to a man, Jefferson Republicans. Affiliation
between them was impossible, even had it not been true that on one side
was the frank, easy-going, ardent temperament of those resident in a land
of torrid summers, and, on the other, the unbending austere, cold nature
that has its home in the land of ice and snow.
The administration of the Spanish governors had been very lax, but it had
been popular. There were no prisons in the territory when Sargent came
thither, a fact which Claiborne adduces to prove the high grade of morals
then prevalent, but which really recommend the territory no more than
the further fact that there were no judges and no courts. Three persons
had been named as territorial judges at the same time the executive
appointment was made, but one of these only, Judge Bruin, was a resident
of the territory. Judge Tilton did not arrive until January 10, 1799,
and Judge McGuire delayed his coming until the following September. How
the absence of these officials embarrassed the governor in his efforts
to organize his administration becomes plain when we remember that the
enabling act of the territory rested all legislative authority in the
governor and these judges. They and they only were empowered to draw up a
code of laws for the territory. These laws were imperatively needed, and
upon Sargent, harassed with a thousand tasks and cares at once, rested
the sole responsibility for their suitable nature and correct form. Bruin
was not a lawyer, nor was Tilton; only McGuire, who did not appear upon
the scene until the hard task was completed, possessed the necessary
legal knowledge therefor.
As soon as Tilton arrived in January, the legislative work of the
government was begun, and the first law of Mississippi Territory bears
date of February 28, 1799; others followed as soon as they could be
properly framed. Though the governor had declared, truthfully enough,
in December, when writing to the Secretary of State, that the want
of laws kept territorial affairs in a condition of absolute anarchy,
yet no sooner was the code drawn up than it was violently attacked
by the governor’s political opponents. They declared the laws to be
unconstitutional, a charge which Claiborne’s “History of Mississippi”
reiterates. But he also charges Tilton and McGuire with aiding the
governor in this concoction of laws in conflict with the Constitution of
the United States; whereas, McGuire did not arrive in the territory until
nearly all of these laws had been enacted. And it is worthy of note, that
notwithstanding all the outcry against them, only two of the Sargent laws
were set aside, subsequently, by Congress.
April 2, 1799, Governor Sargent established the first two counties of
Mississippi Territory, by proclamation, and provided a system of courts.
And if we judge him from his written word, his efforts during following
months to provide by careful appointments for worthy administration
in these courts, to promote order by the organization of an efficient
militia, to avoid conflicts with discontented Indians and disorderly
white men, were unceasing. And this is the more noteworthy, since during
this time, the political opposition to him was steadily growing, and,
in spite of his efforts, taking on daily a more bitter tone. That this
opposition was in a sense honest, cannot be doubted from the names of
many connected with it, but that its main impulse was political malice,
there is too much evidence to show; and that it was by no means warranted
in any lack of principle or dereliction from duty on the part of the
executive, the written record shows plainly.
July 6, 1799, a popular meeting was held under the Jeffersonian leaders,
to express disaffection toward the governor. At this a circular was drawn
up, which was printed and sent to each district urging the people to meet
and name delegates to bring their grievances before the governor and
before Congress. This committee drew up a letter to Governor Sargent,
the burden of which was a protest against the machinations of Andrew
Ellicott, which, it was alleged, had given rise to the many mistakes
made by the governor, and his misunderstandings with his people. It
further prepared a memorial to Congress, protesting against the laws
that had been framed by Sargent, and urging the setting aside of the
existing territorial government, and the substitution therefor of what
was then known as “the second grade of government,” to-wit, a legislative
assembly, chosen by the people. This petition laid before Congress in
January, was referred to a committee, which in due time reported thereon,
advocating the substitution of an elective general assembly for the
existing territorial government of Mississippi. March 18, 1800, the
House, in committee of the whole, voted upon this report, approving the
change by a vote of 54 to 37. With a few exceptions, this was a strict
party vote, the Federalists all voting against the measure, and the
Jeffersonian Republicans voting in its favor. This change, it might be
noted, was not desired by all Mississippians, as there accompanied it
increased expense, and a decided augmentation of the taxes levied on the
people. But it was an advance in the history of the territory that could
not be retraced, and besides, it was a triumph for the Jeffersonian party
not to be forgotten, especially as the great leader of this party had
just taken his seat in the White House at Washington.
The unfortunate Sargent, occupied deeply with questions of
administration, with preserving the true relations between the civil
and military forces, with watching out for Spanish schemes to win the
especial favor of the Indians, with expounding the details of the
new laws to the untried judges, seems not to have “caught on” to the
successful strategy of his enemies for some time. At last, June 15, a
package of papers received from John Marshall, Secretary of State, told
him the whole story. His long letter of reply to the secretary, intended
to vindicate himself in that official’s good opinion, betrays not a
little bitterness, which assures us that this austere, cold-blooded New
Englander had considerable human nature in him after all.
He claimed, and unquestionably with truth, that his duties had been
no light ones, saying: “To organize a new government upon the very
confines of the power and energy of the United States—amongst a people of
diversity of interests, sentiment and language—acknowledgedly unversed in
jurisprudence, and not all distinguished for their complacency—without
the aid of the territorial judges to a late period, in ill health and
under the apprehension of an attack from a foreign enemy, must be
confessed an arduous task; I draw not, however, upon the good nature of
my countrymen, ’tis justice only that I ask.”
He then proceeded to show how much malice and misinformation lay behind
the attacks upon him, showed that he had done the best that he could
under all circumstances, had made the most careful appointments in his
power, and had in no sense attempted to enrich himself at the expense
of the people. In a word, he made a good defense, and if it was quite
unavailing he was not to blame. The star of his party had come to its
setting time, and the orb of the Jeffersonians was in the ascendant.
During the Adams administration Sargent had been promised a leave of
absence when the general apprehension of trouble with France had passed
away, and this privilege he claimed soon after Jefferson’s inauguration.
He went to Washington early in April, 1801, desiring to vindicate the
course of his administration against the “mighty obloquy” that had been
cast upon it, and to seek the justification of re-appointment. His hopes,
however, were dashed to the ground by the receipt of a letter from the
President as soon as he reached the capitol, transmitted through James
Madison, Secretary of State. This declared: “That from various and
delicate considerations, which entered into the appointment of a governor
for the Mississippi Territory, it was expedient to fill the station with
another than himself, whose administration, with whatever meritorious
intentions conducted, had not been so fortunate as to secure the general
harmony, and the mutual attachment between the people and the public
functionaries, so particularly necessary for the prosperity and happiness
of an infant establishment.”
It was hard on Sargent, and I shall always think better of him that
instead of shaking Mississippi dust from his shoes, then and forever, he
returned to the territory a few months later, quietly took up the life of
a planter, and bore a not unworthy part in the task of building up the
new community, notably aiding in the establishment of the first banking
house in the territory in 1809. He endured much from the malice of
others, but gave none in return. He died while on a visit to New Orleans,
June 3, 1820, and his ashes sleep on the site of his old plantation home,
near Natchez.
II. GOVERNOR WILLIAM C. C. CLAIBORNE
Exit Sargent—enter Claiborne. Exit the man whose record as governor,
whether through native fault or inexorable fate, was a conspicuous
failure, and enter one whose story throughout was that of brilliant
success. In characteristics, the two men were the very antipodes, each of
the other. The one, of austere temperament, and stern, unbending manner;
the other of warm and genial nature, in demeanor gracious and inviting.
Claiborne possessed in preëminent degree the ready tact, the power of
always saying and doing the right thing, in which the other was so
noticeably wanting.
William Charles Cole Claiborne was a native of Virginia, born in Sussex
county. At the age of fifteen he went to New York, then the seat of
government, and there was given employment by the clerk of the Congress.
It was his good fortune while in that work to attract the attention of
a number of leading men, who became his friends for life. Jefferson
especially took him as a protégé, and gave him books to read and good
advice. He read law in his spare moments, went to Tennessee, was admitted
to the bar there, and took part in the first constitutional convention of
the state. He received appointment as Judge of the State Supreme Court,
by Governor Sevier, when he was in his twenty-second year, and a few
months later was elected to Congress.
Claiborne was in Congress as member from Tennessee when the petition
from Mississippi against Sargent was presented; was on the committee to
which it was referred, and strongly recommended the change of the form
of government in the territory. He is known to have censured Sargent’s
course, and there is proof that Sargent subsequently doubted whether his
motives in so doing were free from self-interest. It is not, however,
necessary to think of Claiborne as guilty of meanness of this sort.
He was no place-hunter, nor one who, at any time in his life, placed
self-seeking above principle. He was an ardent Jeffersonian, and his
sympathy was naturally with the party opposing the governor. He was
young, too, twenty years Sargent’s junior, and his rapid advancement had
doubtless rendered him a trifle “bumptious.” But from his standpoint,
the contentions between Sargent and his people were quite unnecessary,
and should not be tolerated.
[Illustration: WILLIAM C. C. CLAIBORNE
Photographic facsimile from the oil painting in the possession of W. C.
C. Claiborne, New Orleans]
I think that Jefferson commissioned Claiborne as governor of Mississippi,
not because he thought the young man wanted the place, or for the
adjustment of any political bargain. He named him because he was
convinced that such selection would prove to be the right man in the
right place, and so indeed it was.
Claiborne reached Natchez, November 23, 1801, and one of his first
official acts was a message to the first Legislature of Mississippi,
meeting a few days later. Records of the time assure us that his suavity
of manner and speech made him popular with all classes from the very
first. But his efforts to ensure perfect harmony between contending
factions of the people were not immediately successful, as is shown by a
most unworthy attack made by some members of the new Legislature upon the
justices of the Territorial Supreme Court. This came to nothing, however,
and at the election for representatives held in July, 1802, so many of
the contentious spirits were relegated to private life, that it might
have been well judged that the people at large were already ashamed of
their unfair actions toward the previous governor.
I like to think of Claiborne as becoming more charitable toward Sargent
as time went on and he learned the many difficulties of the situation;
less inclined to censure the “contumacy” of the older man in feeble
health, as he found the problems besetting him difficult enough to tax
the powers of his own vigorous strength. From his journals we learn that
the same hindrances which harassed Sargent tormented his successor—the
imperfect military equipment of the feeble garrisons, the need of a
trained militia, the interference of Spanish plotters, the tendency
of the floating population toward brigandage, the greed of the idle
Indians, and so on. One of his very first requests of the authorities at
Washington was that he be allowed the services of an interpreter, to aid
him in carrying on his dealings with the Indians, a privilege for which
Sargent had begged in vain.
Things, however, improved rapidly under the new incumbent, whose
talent for administration was the most remarkable, perhaps, of his
many gifts. Few men more richly endowed, not only in the line of pure
intellect, but also in that wisdom that guides toward the best in man’s
intercourse with his fellows, have figured in American history. During
his brief career as governor of Mississippi he ensured the construction
of a government fort near Washington, then the capital of the state;
established Jefferson College at Natchez, the first institution of
learning in the great Southwest; laid out roads; surveyed boundaries
and mail routes; prepared the new land, in fact, for the forces of
civilization on their way to enter it. His dealings with the robber bands
that infested river traffic and with the disaffected Indians was prompt,
decisive and thoroughly effective, compelling the order so essential to
the prosperity of a young community.
When, in October, 1802, the port of New Orleans was closed, by the
Intendant there, against foreign commerce and the American right of
deposit, much feeling was aroused in Mississippi, since the injury
thereby caused to American trade was great. Governor Claiborne, in
his letters to the President and others, advocated stern measures of
retaliation, which indeed would doubtless have been tried, had it
not been generally known that Spain was negotiating for the sale of
Louisiana. Indeed, there was more than a suspicion current as early
as 1801, that the sale had been secretly consummated. In 1803, when
the purchase of this territory by the United States from France was
announced, it was known that no further fear of our encroaching neighbors
need be cherished; they were now at our mercy.
One of the most important acts of Claiborne’s administration was the
collection, at the request of James Madison, Secretary of State, of
facts relative to land claims in Mississippi, and conflicting titles
thereto. These included, Mr. Madison noted, not only claims grounded
upon two grants of land made by Georgia to Mississippi, but also claims
under the French government prior to 1763, those derived from the
British and Spanish governments previous to the Spanish treaty of 1795,
and those under Spanish title subsequent to this treaty. On all these
items Governor Claiborne made a most exhaustive report, which became the
foundation on which Congress based all future measures for the settlement
of local land titles not only in Mississippi, but other Southern states
as well.
November 9, 1803, Governor Claiborne received notification of his
appointment as commissioner, associated with General James Wilkinson, to
receive from France the Louisiana Purchase, and to succeed the Spanish
governor provisionally, until a government for the new territory should
be established. This transfer was received with all due ceremony, in the
building known as the Cabildo at New Orleans, December 20, 1803.
Claiborne, though still nominally governor of Mississippi, exercised no
further the functions of that office, these devolving on his secretary,
Cato West. But he fulfilled the duties of provisional governor of the
newly acquired province until October 2, 1804, when he was made governor
of the “Territory of Orleans.” He served in this capacity until this
territory was admitted to the Union as the State of Louisiana, when he
was elected governor of the new state. He held this office for two terms,
after which he was elected to the United States Senate, January 13,
1817. He did not live to take his seat in the Senate, dying November 3,
following. Thus passed away, at the early age of forty-two, one who had
already given a long life of active effort to his countrymen. Had he been
spared for twenty years longer, his would surely have been one of the
grandest national careers of America’s first century of history.
HOW OLD WASH PLAYED SANTA CLAUS
By Old Wash
“No, no, Marse John,” said the old man, as he staggered in the other
night, “don’t git excited, it ain’t de kuklux done it. I ain’t seed eny
o’ dem sense I tried ter be smart an’ own a few po’ white fo’ks arter de
war. No, sah, it ain’t kuklux,” and he tried to sit down, but gave it up
and held on to the arm of a chair.
I was horrified, for I had never seen the old man look like that. His
head was bandaged in cotton batting and the eye he had left was trying to
look at me through a slit in an arnica poultice.
“Sit down,” I cried, reaching for a bottle of horse-medicine I kept for
him in the sideboard.
“I can’t, Marse John, I ain’t got a spot lef’ to res’ on. I’m branded
on bofe hips wid de bar o’ de cannon cracker. If I tries to recumber
longerturdernal I lays on de bran’ o’ de sky-rocket, an’ if I goes in fur
horizontal recumbrance I gits on de spot lef’ by torpedoes. Dar ain’t
but one spot lef’ for me to res’ on. If dars a iron hook in de wall jes’
hang me up on it by de coat collar. I’ve be’n playin’ Sandy Claws,” he
groaned—“tryin’ to do lak white fo’ks an’ lak de mos’ of dem kerried my
religgun too fur.”
I did what I could to help him.
“Ah, boss, didn’t you put a leetle too much turbentine in dat whiskey?
Lord, but I’m a wrick o’ myself.
“If I had it my way,” he went on, as he adjusted himself to a soft spot
on the sofa, “dar jes’ nurver would be ernuther Kris’mus. We niggers
copies ev’y thing frum de white fo’ks, even borrowin’ dey religgun. But
I’m blest ef it fits us eny mor’n it fits some o’ dem, an’ dis Kris’mus
is jes’ a nuessence an’ a nonsense. Why, boss, de gloomes’ time o’ dey
year is jes’ arter Kris’mus. When de foolishness and de fiahwucks is all
over dar ain’t nuffin lef’ but tucky feathers, taxes and a tired stumic!
You owe ev’ybody from de grocer’s lergitermates to de ole-skin nabur dat
saunt you a cyard headed, “De Foot-paths ob Peace,” an’ spen’s de res’ ob
de year scrappin’ wid you, kase you furgot to sen’ him a fat pullit in
return. Yo’ taxes is due, yo’ wood is out, yo’ stumic is de only thing
you knows you own, kase you kin feel dat’s in revolt, an’ you spen’s de
res’ ob de year takin’ to cal’mel an’ tall timber.
“When you look ’roun’, sah, it’s jes’ awful—twixt dried holly hung
around, orange peelin’, dirt, chicken feathers an’ fish bone, de home
looks like a wolf-den at weanin’ time, de chillun ruint fur wuck an’
school, an’ dey cough and cut up like distempered colts. Yo’ wife’s made
pincushens an’ Kris’mus gif’s till she broke you, and her constertushun
an’ gone to bed, dey cows got garget when dey oughter hab milk, an’ de
cat you be’n tryin’ to git rid of all de year bobs up wid a basketful o’
kittins.
“Ain’t it strange, sah, dat we celerbrates de buff-day of sech a man in
sech a way? He cum to tell us to be meek, an’ we starts in fur mischief;
he tells us to git religgun, an’ we all git drunk; he tells us to gib,
an’ we do it wid de hope o’ gittin’ mo’ in return; he say be temprit, an’
we start in to stuff. His whole life wuz to entice us to heaven, an’ we
gits so happy at de very thought dat we ’megiately starts off to hell wid
a pocket full o’ fiahwucks fur fear de Debil didn’t hab enuff of his own
down dar!
“Hold on, old man,” I cried, “you have expressed just what I have been
wanting to say all my life, but didn’t have your flow of language!
Excuse me while I go to my iron safe and get a bottle of Frank Chaffin’s
twenty-year-old—that horse medicine is not good enough for such
sentiments. I’ve got the other in my safe and I am the only man who
knows the combination.”
“Ah, dat’s better, Marse John,” he said a moment afterwards—“I’ve jes’
be’n scorin’ now—jes’ watch me pace.
“An’ swappin’ dese Kris’mus gif’s, Lord, it do make me tired! It’s like
de time ole Marster tole ole Miss he sold his fine hound fur a thousand
dollars, an’ ole Miss wuz so glad, kase she hated dat hound, he sucked
her eggs. But she wuz hot when she found out ole Marster had jes swapped
him fur two five hundred dollar pups.
“Dat’s Kris’mus givin’ all over.
“Kris’mus gif’s now is jes’ Kris’mus gittin’, an’ ev’y man is jes tryin’
to git his piece on earth an’ de good will o’ de other man long enuff to
skin him endurin’ de year.
“Now, dar’s Dinah. She starts in right after Jinuary an’ spen’s de
res’ o’ de year gittin ready fur Kris’mus, an’ no heathen in Aferca
spen’s a year of harder wuck, whittlin’ his god out o’ a gum-stump wid
a clam shell, den my ’liggus ole ’oman does fixin’ fur Kris’mus. ‘Save
it fur Kris’mus, Wash,’ is whut she chirps on frum Jinuary to Jinuary.
She’s tuck down de good ole sign I useter hab up in de house, ‘_Save a
nickel and own a dime_,’ an’ now all she’s got up is, ‘_Save it all fur
Kris’mus!_’ She drilled dis so in our chillun dat it liketer led to a
’vorcement wid our oldes’ gal, Sally. Sally she married a nice nigger,
but I soon seed sumpin’ wuz wrong. De nigger got mad an’ started for a
’vorcement, an’ when I gits to de bottom of it, he said Sally nurver had
kissed him yit. I gin dat gal a strappin’ an’ she ’fessed up and sed she
lubbed de nigger, but she lubbed ’im so hard she wuz savin’ de fust kiss
fur Kris’mus!
“I tell you, sah, it’s jes got redikerlus de way we go on. Now heah’s de
way it wucks wid me:
“We spen’s de summer an’ fall raisin’ a flock o’ tuckies es Kris’mus
gif’s fur our frien’s. Fur dese we gits back a armful ob ‘Foot-paths ob
Peace’ cyards, a few po’ pullits an’ a lot o’ candy made in Black Bottom
an’ painted by dat Irish Dago you calls Mike Angelo. Fur de fall lambs
er two we sen’s out mos’ly to de preachers, we gits back sumpin’ dat
looks like wool, but it ain’t, on de painted toys de chillun can’t eat;
an’ fur de good garments Dinah makes an’ distrubutes ’mong her frien’s,
she gits back cobweb collars dat you can’t wear an’ hankerchefs dat you
wouldn’t no mo’ think o’ blowin’ your nose in den you would in a sifter.
“An’ some fool ’oman had spent a half a year a-makin’ ’em.
“O, we gits cyards a plenty. But I’ve noticed dat de ones dat sen’s me de
‘Foot-paths ob Peace’ is allers in a scrap er fuss wid us, an’ de very
nigger dat led de prayer-meetin’ an’ sent us dat framed card, ‘Our Faith
is Our Fishiency,’ ’loped wid our darter an’ tuck all de blooded chickens
wid him dat night. Eny way, he didn’t leab us a fishiency—no, not eben a
minnery.
“But I got enuff now sense I played Sandy Claws last week.”
“You played Santa Claus after all you have said?” I asked.
“Yes, boss, I played Sandy Claws, an’ God knows I find his claws an’ his
paws, an’ heah I pause,” he winked, looking toward the sideboard.
“Now, boss,” he said, after he tapped the bottle, “I didn’t wanter play
dat Sandy Claws, but de church saunt a committee of one—a mighty hansum
an’ hefty ’oman to see me—Sis Tilly—an’ she begged me to do it jes’ fur
her sake. Now, es I sed she wuz hansum an’ Dinah wuz bizy makin’ Kris’mus
gif’s outen cotton battin,’ dog hair an’ exselsor, dat I knowed she
wouldn’t kno’ a side-steppin’ waltz from a breakdown, so I ’cided to he’p
Sis Tilly out. Dis led to a lot o’ practicin’ twixt me an’ Sis Tilly at
de church, an’ by de time dat Kris’mus night cum I wuz fitten an’ good.
All de sisterin he’p fix me up wid whiskers an’ a pillar stumic an’ a big
pack o’ fiah-wucks an’ things on my back, an’ when I wuz finished dey
said I wuz hansumer den dey eber seed me befo’, an’ I had ’em, boss, whar
I could er started a church o’ my own wid all dem sisterin es charter
members. Two o’ de bes’ lookers kissed me kase dey said dey nurver had
kissed Sandy Claws in dey life. When it comes to inventin’ a reason fur
eatin’ furbiddin’ fruit don’t ole Eve’s gals all over de wourl’ sho’ dey
pedigree? But Sis Tilly wuz de one I wuz arter, an’ she sed she wuz gwine
ter kiss me arter de ball ef I acted ole Sandy well.
“De sisterin’ had spent a week on de tree an’ it looked mighty putty all
lit up, new candles all ober it an’ in de house. De leetle niggers sot
in de front pew waitin’ fur ole Sandy lack dey knowed him all dey life
an’ de church wuz full an’ all o’ dem happy an’ me de biggest man in de
bunch, prancin’ behind de stage wid Kris’mus in my bones an’ feelin’ like
ole Tom Hal at de fust signs of blue grass in de spring. Brer Jones, de
preacher, wuz makin’ a leetle talk an’ tellin’ de chillun de usual lies
about ole Sandy, an’ what a mighty man he wuz, an’ heah I cum prancin’
out, like a blin’ horse over potato rows. I wuz so dazed when I cum out I
couldn’t see nuffin but holly an’ wool all ober de house. But I seed Sis
Tilly on de fus’ bench wid a big smile on reddy to vote in de affermative.
“‘Dar’s old Sandy! Dar’s ole Sandy!’ dey all shouted, an’ sech a hurow!
“It wuz up ter me to act, boss, an’ I done my bes’, but I’ve reached dat
stage, like all ole men, when I thinks I wants a whole lot mo’ than I do,
an’ I out-acted myself. I ripped an’ I r’ared, I pranced an’ I prared an’
shuck my head at de chillun like a billy goat, whilst ev’ybody howled an’
de organ struck up.
“I’ve heerd, boss, dat Marse Horris Greely sed dat ef our foresight wuz
es good es our hin’sight we’d be better off by a dam sight, but dat is
whar Marse Horris wuz wrong—it wuz my hin’sight dat went back on me, fur
in prancin’ an’ backin’ aroun’ I backed dat pack o’ fiahwucks into a
lighted candle an’ jes es de congregashun struck up dat good ole hymn,
‘_Shell I be kerried to de skies on flowery beds o’ ease_,’ I heerd
sumpin’ goin’ off in my rear like de parked guns at Shiloh an’ I started
to de skies sho’ nuff, an’ nuffin but de cealin’ kept me frum gwine
on! It looked like ter me fur ten minets I rid de air on fiahwucks. Two
cannon crackers tuck off my boots, my pants went out de winder actin’ as
de tail ob a skyrocket, a torpedo scattered my stumic till de feathers
looked like sno’ fallin’, I wuz sot afiah from my shurt to my whiskers,
an’ ef I hadn’t lit in de baptismal pool when I fell, God knows I
wouldn’t a bin heah to-night.
“I’d bin baptized twice befo, but I nurver seed any candidate go into
de water so willing agin. I’ve allers sed emershun wuz de only way o’
salvashun’, an’ now, thank God, I kno’s it!
“But so he’p me, boss, dem fiahwucks wuz so spiteful dey eben kep’ a
poppin’ under de watah. Dey sed it wuz a sight ter see dey blue balls
an’ yaller balls an’ high balls cum bilin’ outen dat baptismal pool an’
sprinklin’ Baptis’ niggers wid Presbeterian dictrine.
“When I got up near ’nuff to peep ober de brim, de mos’ o’ de
congregashun wuz under de benches, but Br’er Jones had be’n blowed up
a-straddle de stove pipe an’ de benzine and bar’s oil dat he’d greesed
his hair wid wuz a-fiah. One o’ my boots, wid a skyrocket in it, had
caught Sis Tilly in de mouf jes es she opened it to lead in de singin’.
She couldn’t talk, but she wuz gwine ’round makin’ signs fur sumbody to
git a boot jack an’ pull it out. Nearly eber nigger dar had caught a red
ball or a yaller ball an’ wuz bilin’ out o’ doors an’ winders cussin’
Sandy Claws an’ all his kin.
“By dis time I wan’t lookin’ fur yellow balls nor black balls, but I sot
up to my neck in de watah beggin’ fur a high ball. Some still had sense
enuff lef’ to put out de fiah wid watah frum de pool, an’ when dey pulled
me out I didn’t hab on nuffin but a dough face, some burnt whiskers an’
patches o’ chicken feathers an’ a leetle skin in spots.
“No, boss, nobody b’leeves in Sandy Claws dar now, nor in de preacher dat
lied to ’em, nor in me, dat tried to find Sandy an’ found his claws. De
fac’ is, de plan ob salvashun is mighty nigh blowed up in dat chu’ch.”
BECAUSE
By Catherine Carr
They were preëminently suited to each other, The Bachelor and The Single
Lady. All the other boarders saw that, and they marveled among themselves
at the blindness of the two.
They were most excellent friends, The Bachelor and The Single Lady, their
work forming community of interest. He was an instructor of mathematics
at the college and she the teacher of a heterogeneous mass of foreign
youth in the public school. They had the same tastes in books and
pleasures—either preferred a botanizing excursion to the theater—and
they were agreed on such homely but vital questions as grape fruit for
breakfast, and the rareness of beef. It was an affinity of heaven’s own
making, The Girl Who Sang declared.
The Girl Who Sang was particularly impatient with them. She considered
that they had wasted quite enough time already. She had romantic ideals
and was rather intense about things. It was this, perhaps, which gave her
songs such charm.
The Bachelor and The Single Lady were indulgent toward the intensities of
The Girl Who Sang, though they did not in the least understand them or
her. They had no youthful memories to help them to such comprehension,
for life had not been kind to the days of their youth. They had been
dull and gray, and their present congenial tasks had been achieved
through many struggles and much self-denial; but neither had been
embittered by their trials, and The Single Lady’s brown eyes were still
bright and The Bachelor was still a fine figure of a man.
Three years of placid companionship brought them to a night in May.
A notable night in May. The air was soft and rich with sweet scents
and the moon was at its full. The Bachelor and The Single Lady sat
side by side on the gallery, talking of vacation plans with obvious
matter-of-factness. The young boarders sat about also on the steps and
the gallery railing, laughing and talking, and saying things with their
eyes, for it was springtime and life and the world were very fair. And,
by-and-by, The Girl Who Sang went into the house and seated herself at
the piano.
And very soon the young people had strolled away in pairs to the
summer-house and the shaded places of the yard, and only The Bachelor and
The Single Lady remained on the gallery, talking still of commonplace
affairs.
Then the arc-light swaying before the house flared up and flickered and
went out, and the moonlight reigned supreme. On the flood of golden
moonlight floated the flood of golden melody which was the singing of The
Girl.
She sang of love, as was natural with one who was romantic and intense
about things.
A gay _chanson_ at first, with a waltz refrain which sent even sedate
pulses to beating the time. Presently The Bachelor’s geological
intentions were being presented to the accompaniment of its measure
tapped out by The Single Lady’s unconscious shoe-toe. And then came a
little thing all about kisses and bliss. Such a silly little trifle it
was, yet gradually it overcame the commonplace designs in The Bachelor’s
mind with subtle suggestion of the delights it celebrated. To kiss
now—might it not indeed be a pleasing experience? It had never occurred
so strongly to him before. He found his imagination quite touched by the
idea. His recollections furnished only kisses bestowed upon sisters and
an aunt or two, and they were suddenly inadequate.
It was a lilting lay, this, where lovers kissed and were glad, and
it quite got into the blood and set pictures before the eye—vague,
elusive and yet of singular vividness. And now the rhythm changed and
The Girl sang of love that had lost and was sad. A tender cry of heart
yearning—and this, too, was very sweet. Better, far better, the grave of
love to hallow the past than the lean memory-spaces of one who had never
loved. The Bachelor involuntarily cast about in his mind for scraps of
verse which said this very well, but he had no storehouse of such things
and he could only go on feeling the spirit of it all—intangibly, still
with distinct longing and desire.
And The Girl sang on—a varied repertoire. A song of home—and life in a
single room and with meals at a crowded table was no longer satisfying.
Home surely meant the place apart which was one’s own—small, even humble,
as the heart-song of the world tells it—but one’s own, and—“cozy.” It was
an admirably descriptive word, “cozy.” The early death of The Bachelor’s
mother had deprived his heart of this rhythm of remembrance, too—but he
knew quite well now how it should be. And he knew, too, that the center
of it all should be a well-loved woman. Was not indeed the very spelling
of home, woman? The Bachelor taught “math” and was not bothered by
phonetics. His conviction became entire while The Girl sang a lullaby.
Certainly, in the last analysis, home was the woman who was also mother.
The whole picture was easily encompassed—the hearthfire and the keeper of
it—a woman of tender eyes crooning to the wee bundle of life whose head
rested in the hollow of her arm. It was so clear—so clearly to be seen,
however strange a vision for bachelor fancy, and The Bachelor saw it in
alluring detail—and—all at once—with personal application.
He turned and looked long at The Single Lady, and the sight of her filled
all these places—and more.
She, too, had been silent for some time, and her face was tender with
thought. Could it be that her thoughts had been of like tenor to his own?
The corners of her mouth were bent into a reflective smile that was very
sweet, and the light in her eyes was soft—the light o’ dreams. If it
could only be that her thoughts were as his thoughts—and of him! If only
it could be! The Bachelor’s blood quickened and ran toward the hope, and
he knew that the worth of the world lay in this balance.
And then the honey-sweet tones of The Girl rippled out the familiar
strains of “Because I Love You.” Surely it was the cause of life’s
mysteries and their solution, and the delving of scientists was
altogether unnecessary. All of The Bachelor’s pulses proclaimed it—and
were glad.
“My only one regret—
Since then we never met,”
sang The Girl, and fear struck him chill.
Not that—not that! The mere suggestion emptied his life. The Bachelor
impulsively reached out and closed his hand over his companion’s, which
was resting on the bench between them.
“Dear”—he breathed rather than spoke, and The Single Lady turned her
eyes from their dreamy contemplation of something far away, to his, but
they did not look startled. It was easily supposed that she, too, had
listened to the music which was as the music of Isolde—“strangely-gentle,
love-persuading”—and had also seen visions. Yet they remained silent,
harkening to the melody, which was “saying all things” so immeasurably
well. It ceased, but the spell still held them. The arc-light came on and
disputed the reign of the moonlight with its cold white glare, but the
illumination of their world was still rose.
The Girl Who Sang came out on the gallery, a frivolous whirlwind of
frills and furbelows, humming the end of her song, “Because I love you,
dear, because I love you.” It was adequate phrasing of the story of life.
The Girl halted before them and swept them with comprehensive eyes.
“Oh—” she said, her tone mischievous, daring, “o-h!”
The Single Lady looked down at their clasped hands with a sudden sensing
of the conventions. She made a movement of withdrawal, but The Bachelor
held her slender fingers fast. She looked up and met his eyes. She saw in
them a compelling force strangely mingled with pleading and question.
“Yes—why—yes,” The Single Lady said, in happy confusion.
“Yes. Of _course_!” said The Bachelor, in happy decision.
THE SOUTH WIND’S SONG
Sweet and low, upon the wings of morn I come,
And bring to you fond mem’ries of the days gone by;
The fragrance of the rose, the drowsy bee’s low hum;
All these, and more, I weave for you in lullaby.
Upon the canvas stretched by the new-born sun
I paint quaint scenes of times both sad and gay;
Of dreary days, misspent when scarce begun;
Of happier times and scenes I sing my lay.
Soft and sweet and low, I sing my lullaby,
Soothing the tired soul to slumber and repose;
And bring to it, ’mid sounds of rarest melody,
The peace of mind, the calm, that waking, no one knows.
_Susie Cornelia Connolly._
[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, on the news of the approach
of General Sherman.