for fourteen miles on the edge of the canals and locks, and between it
and the river. Now it shoots through classic-looking caves, in somber
woods, that brings to one’s mind Keats’ Temple of Latona:
Beyond the matron temple of Latona
Which we should see but for these darkening boughs
Lies a deep hollow from whose ragged brows
Bushes and trees do lean all round athwart.
Now it whirls around a great, lofty cliff, around whose neck the red
berries cling like beads on savage shoulders, and then into valleys where
the skies seem to stoop down to kiss the river.
It is a poem to look at all this—a never-forgotten poem—a poem, and an
opera to live and act it.
* * * * *
Strolling through the grounds which Uncle Sam has made to look like
a paradise in the wilderness, I ran upon a unique character in Uncle
Reuben Paterson, one of your old-time darkies. Uncle Rube is a character
in his way. A giant in stature, except a lameness which has made him
always prefer riding to walking. Hence this yarn. He is one of the few
darkies you meet who is really humorous. Many people think all darkies
are more or less funny, and while they are, it is rarely you find one
who appreciates the humorous, from an intellect capable of seeing it.
It took me some time to draw Uncle Rube out—he is a darky of more than
usual intelligence—but when he found I was fond of horses he gave this
experience of his in the Civil War:
“You see, boss, I wuz body servant for Colonel Josiah Patterson, endu’in’
de wah, an’ I got inter some purty close places. Bein’ crippled, I seldom
could walk much, so I was mighty nigh raised on a hoss. I regards ’em
ez bein’ made fur man, an’ I allers thought I wuz entitled to my sheer.
Talk about these heah merchines dats run widout hosses, I’d like ter
know whut dey’d done in de wah! De wah suited me fine. I got a new hoss
ebry time I wanted ’im. Ebry fight we’d get inter I’d come out on a new
hoss. I started in on a little gray jackass. At Shiloh I swapped ’im off
fer a good government mule. Dat is ter say, I allers called it swappin’
yer know. It’s true Uncle Sam didn’ hev nobody ter repersent ’im at de
swappin, but when de fight gits hot an’ his nat’ul agents gits kinder
rattled and retires kinder briefly to de reah fur consultation, a-leabin’
fine mules stampedin’ ’roun’ an’ tryin’ ter tramp on my toes, dey needn’
wonder ef I swaps den an’ dar. ’Taint my nature to let no mule tramp
’roun’ over me. Wall, sur, in de scrimmage in Kentucky I swapped de mule
fur a fine, gray mare. She wuz mighty good, but wuz kinder mixed gaited.
I wuz ’fraid she mout be a knee-banger when I called on her fur speed in
a close place, an’ yer know we hed ter come out’n Kentucky purty fas’,
boss, purty fas’. We hed cross-firin’ ernuff frum de Yankees, widout
bein’ mounted on a mare dat kep’ it up too! Wall, sur, at Mission’ry
Ridge I swapped her off fer a black stallion thet come tearin’ out’n de
ranks in de full regalier uv a colonel’s saddle, bridle an’ holster. An’
he wuz a good one, an’ I didn’ think he’d need any hobbles. I rid ’im a
little while an’ den give ’im ter my colonel. It come so easy ter swap
fer ’em I’d ruther do it den ter eat. Whilst de fight wuz goin’ on I’d be
swappin’ hosses, an’ I’m black ef in de battle uv Stone Ribber I didn’
mouty nigh mount ebry man in de company. Whilst dey wuz fightin’ I wuz
swappin’ hosses, an’ I done hit all frum one little ole bay mule. Ef de
wah hed gone on much longer, I b’lieve I’d swapped Uncle Sam afoot.
“But yer ax me about close places. Wall, et warn’t allers a honeymoon. I
b’lieves ’twuz in ’63, ennyway we wuz holdin’ back Gin’ral Blair’s corps,
an’ Marse Josiah sont me through de enemy ter git ’im er new uniform.
Bein’ a nigger, uv co’se I cud pass off fer ennything. I hed dem clo’es
an’ wuz steppin th’u’ de ranks all right, when I run splank-dab up agin a
reg’ment uv Yankees. I hed de good sense ter th’ow Colonel Josiah’s fine
cloes ober in er thicket, an’ ’tend lak I wuz a Union nigger gwine ter
meetin. Sez de colonel:
“‘You damned pair uv brackets, whar yer gwine?’
“‘Gwine ter meetin’, boss,’ sez I.
“‘Wall, we’re needin’ a teamster right now more’n you need salvation, so
I guess we’ll get you to team a little for us.’
“‘Boss, I cain’t drive er waggin,’ sez I.
“‘Yer cain’t? Wal, we’ll call up er drumhead cote martial in de mawnin’
an’ see erbout it. Yer knows whut dat means, don’t yer?’
“‘Boss,’ sez I, ‘dat’ll jes fetch on mo’ talkin’ an’ sputin, so I’ll do
de bes’ I kin ter drive er team.’
“I noticed de colonel wuz mounted on be finest black hoss I hed eber
seen, an’ ez dey hed treated me so bad, I concluded den an’ dar I’d
swap fer ’im. Dat night dey tuck me to haidquarters an’ made me sleep
jes’ outside de colonel’s tent. I’d seed whar dey hed tethered de hoss
down by de fence, so ’bout ’leben o’clock, I laid out by de tent, jes
outside, and made lak I’d gone ter sleep. When all wuz quiet, I run my
han’ under de tent an’ pulled ez easy ez I cud, twell I pulled out de
colonel’s bridle. Den I pulled er little at er time twell I got de saddle
and holsters, pistols an’ all. I slipped ’em off, put ’em on dat hoss,
struck up de crick so ez ter keep frum bringin’ on enny furder talk wid
de pickets, an’ I rid dat hoss inter camp, twenty odd miles away, in jes
two hours. O, he wuz er dandy, saddle an’ all. Marse Josiah rid dat hoss
mouty nigh two years, but I kep’ on a-swappin’.
“But de funnies’ thing happened down in Mississippi whilst we wuz
fightin’ Sherman ’roun’ Jackson. Dar wuz er nigger dar named Torm. Torm,
he wuz de body-servant ob de colonel ob er Tennessee reg’ment, an’ hed er
mighty rep fer bein’ de bes’ furrager in camp. I didn’ ’fess ter bein’
much uv er furrager, but I know Torm cudn’ hold er candle ter me. Marse
Josiah ’u’d laff an’ say:
[Illustration: The Forks and the famous old home of Jas. Jackson. He
imported Glencoe and owned many famous racers.]
“‘When Rube goes er-furragin’ you’d think we’d done struck de valley ob
de Nile.’
“Wal, Sherman wuz keepin’ us purty hot, an’ grub wuz hard ter fin’. In
our marchin’ one day I seed a mighty fine mud-lark ober in a farmer’s
orchard.
“What’s a mud-lark,” I asked.
“Wal, a mud-lark in wah times,” said Uncle Rube, “is a fatt’nin’ shote,
an’ I wanted dis one, but I wanted to tote fair wid Torm, an’ dat
ebenin’ I ’proached ’im on de subjec’ uv gwine in partnership wid me an’
dervidin dat hawg up ’twixt our messes. Now, I knowed Torm w’u’d steal de
repertashun ob er guvment mule, but when I proached ’im, you jes orter
seed ’im git indignant an’ ’low he wuz er genl-mun an’ w’u’dn’ steal no
hawg an’ er Christian, an’ all dat. Wall, sur, wheneber er man ’gins to
fall back on his ’ligion, I know he’ll do ter watch. ’Sides dat, I nurver
did b’lieve in bein’ too active in ercomplishin’ er thing when and gib
you de proceeds. Somepin’ in Torm’s talk made me know he wuz gwine at dat
berry hawg, so dat night I hid out in de bushes whar he hed ter pass, an’
sho nuff, ’bout midnight heah he come wid dat mud-lark on his back, all
done scraped an’ cleaned fer de mess. When he got close ernuff I riz up
an’ sez:
“‘Halt! Who goes dar?’
“I seed he thort he’d run inter er Yankee picket, an’ I pulled my
gun—bang! bang! bang! Lord, you orter seed ’im drap dat hawg an’ come
out’n de woods lak de ole gray hoss a-tearin’ down de wilderness. I tuck
de hawg an’ put ’im in our chist, an’ de naix day Torm got me off,
lookin’ mighty mournful, an’ ’lowed he wuz mouty nigh starved. Sez he,
sheepishly.
“‘Brer Rube, arter I lef’ you, I prayed ober de thing, an’ de angel tole
me whar I’d fin’ a fat mud-lark. I bagged ’im in good fashion an’ wuz
comin’ home wid ’im when I run inter de whole Yankee army an’ come mouty
nigh bein’ kilt, an’ den an’ dar I drapt de purties’ mud-lark dat ever
sung in de cane-brakes.’
“Sez I: ‘Brer Torm, arter I lef’ you, I prayed ober de situation too, an’
I tole de angel I wuz crippled an’ c’u’dn’ do much myse’f, but dat I wuz
mouty hungry an’ wanted a mud-lark. De righteous am nurver fursaken,’ sez
I, ’an’ dat night he made a fool nigger go out an’ fotch me one to my
very door.’
“I gin Torm a shoulder,’ laughed the old man, ’an’ he nurver talked no
mo’ ’ligion ter me dat yeah.
“But ter show yer jes whut kin’ uv er furrager I kin be when I gits my
han’ in,” he went on, “a week or so arter dat, we got clean out, an’
I went out ter git somepin ter eat. I c’u’dn’t fin’ nuffin but some
bee hives in a farmyard. Wall, I wuz ez handy wid bees ez I wuz wid
mud-larks, an’ de nex’ mawnin’ fo’ gallons ob lubly honey wuz in de
haidquarters mess chists.
“De ole farmer raised Cain when he foun’ it out, an’ heah he come down
to haidquarters nex’ mawnin to tell de majah. Wall, de majah, he tells
de colonel, an’ de colonel he gits mouty mad. He draws de reg’ment up
an’ makes ’em er speech, an’ he sez, sezee: ‘Enny man dat’ll rob his
countryman am worse dan er dawg;’ an’ ef he c’u’d fin’ de man whut robbed
de ole man’s bee-gums he’d hang ’im up by de thum’s. Wall, sur, he talked
on twel he git so patriotic he issues er sarch warrant. De fust chist
dey went in wuz his’n, an dar sot fo’ gallons ob lubly honey. De colonel
looked dum’-founded at de majah, an’ de majah looked jes ez nachul at de
colonel, an’ de ole farmer he looked lak he done los’ all ’spect he hed
fer de Sudern Confedercy, and den de colonel, he sez ter de majah:
“‘Majah,’ sezee; ‘whyn’t yer tell me ole Rube wuz out furragin las’
night? I’d nurver let you issue dat d— little sarch warrant.’”
* * * * *
The opportunities of the Florence of to-day fills one with wonder
and enthusiasm. Here, where once were woods, is a growing city, its
manufactories covering the banks of a noble stream, which, with the
two greatest railroads in the South—the Louisville & Nashville and the
Southern—give it rates and an opportunity unsurpassed anywhere. It is
as sure to be a great city as men are to see and hear. Here is the
opportunity of a life for any young man who wishes to till the land or to
build factories or stores.
But this part of it is all better told by Mr. Sweetland in another
chapter herein, and I desist.—Ed. Trotwood.
Florence As It Was in 1820.
By ANNE ROYAL.
(The following account of Florence, written two years after the
town was laid off, will be interesting to all.—Ed.)
Florence is one of the new towns of this beautiful and rapid rising
State. It is happily situated for commerce at the head of steamboat
navigation, on the north side of the Tennessee River, in the county of
Lauderdale, five miles below the port of the Mussel Shoals, and ten miles
from the line of the State of Tennessee.
Florence is to be the great emporium of the northern part of this State.
I do not see why it should not; it has a great capital and is patronized
by the wealthiest gentlemen in the State. It has a great State at its
back; another in front, and a noble river on all sides, the steamboats
pouring every necessary and every luxury into its lap. Its citizens,
bold, enterprising, and industrious—much more so than any I have seen in
the State.
Many large and elegant brick buildings are already built here, (although
it was sold out, but two years since), and frame houses are putting up
daily. It is not uncommon to see a framed building begun in the morning
and finished by night.
Several respectable mercantile houses are established here, and much
business is done on commission also. The site of the town is beautifully
situated on an eminence, commanding an extensive view of the surrounding
country and Tennessee River, from which it is three-quarters of a mile
distant. It has two springs of excellent and never failing water.
Florence has communication by water with Mississippi, Missouri,
Louisiana, Indiana, Illinois, Ohio, Kentucky, West Pennsylvania, West
Virginia and East Tennessee, and very shortly will communicate with
the Eastern States, through the great canal. The great military road
that leads from Nashville to New Orleans, by way of Lake Ponchartrain,
passes through this town, a number of people who travel through it, and
the numerous droves of horses from the lower country, for market, are
incredible. Florence contains one printing press, and publishes a paper
weekly called the Florence Gazette; it is ably patronized, and edited
by one of our first men, and said to be the best paper in the State.
Florence is inhabited by people from almost all parts of Europe and the
United States; here are English, Irish, Welsh, Scotch, French, Dutch,
Germans and Grecians. The first Greek I ever saw was in this town. I
conversed with him on the subject of his country, but found him grossly
ignorant. He butchers for the town, and has taken to his arms a mullatto
woman for a wife. He very often takes an airing on horseback of a Sunday
afternoon, with his wife, riding by his side, and both arrayed in shining
costumes.
The river at Florence is upwards of five hundred yards wide; it is
ferried in a large boat worked by four horses, and crosses in a few
minutes.
There are two large and well kept taverns in Florence, and several
doggeries. A doggery is a place where spiritous liquors are sold; and
where men get drunk, quarrel and fight, as often as they choose, but
where there is nothing to eat for man or beast. Did you ever hear
anything better named. “I swear!” said a Yankee pedler, one day, with
both his eyes bunged up, “that are doggery be rightly named. Never seed
the like on’t. If I get to hum agin it’l be a nice man’l catch me in
these here parts. Awfullest place one could be at.” It appeared the
inmates of the doggery enticed him under pretense of buying his wares,
and forced him to drink; and then forced him to fight; but the poor
little Yankee was sadly beaten. Not content with blackening his eyes,
they overturned his tin cart, and scattered his tins to the forewinds,
frightened his horse and tormented his very soul out about lasses, etc.
He was a laughable object, but to hear his dialect in laying off the law,
was a complete farce, particularly when Pat came to invite him into the
same doggery to drink friends: “I ben’t a dog to go into that are dog
house.”
The people, you see, know a thing or two, here; they call things by their
right names. But to proceed. There may be about one hundred dwelling
houses and stores, a court house, and several warehouses in Florence.
The latter are, however, on the river. One of the longest buildings I
ever saw is in Florence. It was built by a company of gentlemen, and is
said to have cost ninety thousand dollars, and is not yet finished. The
proprietors, being of this place, are men of immense wealth, and are
pushing their capital with great foresight and activity. For industry and
activity, Florence outstrips all the northern towns in the State. More
people travel this road than all our western roads put together. I was
just going to conclude, when an old German passing through my room, from
that of my landlady’s, made me laugh, in reply to something uttered by
the lady, he said: “Poverty was no crime, when came honestly by it.”
More of Florence. I observed in my last, the surprising wealth of this
place. The principal gentlemen of wealth are General Coffee, James
Jackson, Esq., Major McKinley (now a Senator in Congress from Alabama),
and Messrs. Simpson and Gaither. Of these J. Jackson is said to be not
only wealthy, but the wealthiest man in the State. There are, however,
many others quite easy in their circumstances. General Coffee, and J.
Jackson live out of town. Major McKinley lives in Florence, and is
reputed to be the first lawyer in the three States. He is a stout, fine
looking man; of easy manners, as all gentlemen are; and his dwelling
contains more taste and splendor, by one-half, than I ever saw in my
whole life put together. But this is nothing. Mrs. McKinley, the elegance
of her manners, and the sweetness of her conversation, joined with her
interesting children, completely disconcerted me. Everything in the
house had, to me, the appearance of enchantment. I never was in such a
paradise before. Mrs. McKinley looked as though she had dropped from
above. I never was more confounded. And the children. They are truly a
pattern. The dear little things were in the nursery, and hearing there
was a stranger in the parlor, prevailed on the nurse to open the door, a
few inches, that they might see who was there, but they were instantly
upbraided by their mother. Make these a pattern for your children, if
you should have any. I begged admission for the dear creatures, and they
were admitted upon condition of good behavior. They were the handsomest
children I ever beheld, and I was so completely fascinated by their
manners, I forget every thing else. Mrs. McKinley informed me she was
from Philadelphia, and was acquainted with Mrs. Dr. Charles Lewis.
All the ladies of Florence excel in the domestic virtues. No gadding
abroad. They demean themselves with that modesty and attention to their
domestic affairs, beyond any ladies I have seen in the State. Mrs. Coffee
(a niece of Mrs. General Jackson), comes to preaching in a plain bonnet
and calico dress. General Coffee was here since I arrived, and appears to
be much reduced since I saw him in Huntsville. His constitution was much
injured by the hardships he suffered in the army. I was never in speaking
of James Jackson. It is said he is a native of Ireland. Mrs. Ward, Mrs.
Gibson and Mrs. Southworth, the printer’s wife, and several others, are
charming women. Captain Gibson, a son of the brave Colonel Gibson, of
Tennessee, is one of the most amiable men on earth.
It is unaccountable why such a number of physicians should flock into
this country. Every town is flooded with them. They are strung along the
roads like so many blacksmith’s shops. You can either walk or ride, but
you have a physician on each side, one in front, and one in rear. Here
are seven in Florence, seven more went away for want of room. There are
also here, six lawyers. I left thirteen doctors in Courtland, a much
smaller place. One hundred passed through the latter, south, unable to
get in. You cannot, as I stated before, travel a mile on any great road,
without meeting with a doctor’s shop. But this is not all. Almost every
practising doctor has three or four students. I have known mechanics quit
their trade and commence the study of medicine.
[Illustration: Florence, Alabama
THE COMING CITY OF THE SOUTH]
In writing the story of Florence, it is our intention to do it in a
different way from the usual method of writing such stories. Trotwood’s
Monthly is known as the magazine that is “Different” and we want to be
that way. The fact that “John Smith came here in 1869, commenced farming
under innumerable disadvantages, was married on February 5, 1874 to
Miss Mary Jones, and that the union was blessed with several children,
and that his sterling worth as a citizen and business man, is highly
appreciated, etc., etc.,” may be gratifying to the vanity of John Smith,
but does it help Florence? We think not, and will, therefore, write the
story in a “Different” way.
[Illustration: Old Lauderdale County Courthouse, 1822-1900.]
The history of Florence from the day of the Moundbuilders has been told
in this issue by Mr. John Trotwood Moore, in his “Southern Travels.” It
is our intention only to tell of the commercial advantages, and tell it
without any “hot air” attachments. Probably the most interesting story
to be told in connection with Florence at the present time is the story
of Mussel Shoals, for what it means to Florence, no one at this time can
tell. If it is true that the waste waters of the great canal are to be
harnessed, and electricity transmitted to the surrounding territory, it
simply means that “Greater Florence” will be the leading city of Alabama,
and one of the leading cities of the entire South. The story of Mussel
Shoals has been written, and appears in this number, and the main stem
of the story is facts. We prefer to allow our readers to form their own
conclusions as to the result, but it is easy enough to see that it will
mean the present Florence will give way to the Greater Florence, and
rank with the best Southern cities. We would not be dealing in facts if
we tried to convey the idea that Florence alone is to be benefitted by
this contemplated improvement, for it means that the surrounding country
and the neighboring town and cities will also reap their share of the
prosperity incidental to this improvement.
Florence is an ideal place for a home. It is much easier to tell what
they have not got, than to tell of the many advantages. There is an
abundance of pure water, an ideal climate, good schools, good society, an
abundance of the most beautiful scenery to be found anywhere and if there
is any disadvantages around Florence from the standpoint of its being
a desirable place to live, we failed to discover it. The price of real
estate in Florence, as compared with values quoted elsewhere, is below
the average. A more desirable home can be bought in Florence for the
money than can be bought most any place else in the South. Florence has
more modern homes that are up-to-date in architecture than many places
twice the size. Every street shows the progressiveness of the citizens in
building homes that are a credit to Florence and to Northern Alabama.
[Illustration: Lauderdale County Courthouse, Florence, Ala.]
Two live newspapers cover the local field thoroughly, and they are not
spending any time slinging muddy editorials at each other, but are
interested in the development of Florence, and both are a credit to the
city. Their equipment is superior to that found in many offices twice the
size, and their columns are bright and full of the latest news.
When a manufacturer investigates with a view to locating, he invariably
asks: “What are the banking facilities?” Florence can well be proud of
her banks, and a glance at their advertisements herein will tell the
story. The First National has stood the test of time, and the Alabama
Trust and Savings Bank show by their deposits that they have the entire
confidence of the people, for they are but a few months old. These banks
are safe and reliable, conservative and up-to-date.
Florence is noted for her educational institutions, and with the best
graded schools and colleges can offer more in the way of educational
features than many cities of larger size.
Florence has transportation advantages that place her in a commanding
position, and with competition from two railroads and the Tennessee
River, and with other railroads under consideration, is placed in close
touch with the markets of the world.
There is probably no city in the United States that enjoys better
advantages than Florence as a manufacturing point. Competing railroads
and river transportation, cheap fuel, cheap labor, right at the door of
one of the biggest furnaces in the South, they are able to get the best
grade of iron at a very low cost, and without the usual transportation
charges added.
Lumber in abundance, and right at the door of the best coal mines in
the South. Cheap power is one of the essential features of a successful
manufacturing point, and even with the present conditions to say nothing
of the Mussel Shoals improvement, it places Florence ahead of most any
city in the South as a manufacturing center.
As an example of the advantages of locating a manufacturing plant in
Florence we will cite the case of the Stove Foundry. They are at the
very door of the Philadelphia Furnace, and have in many cases had
deliveries of iron on two hours’ notice—sometimes less. Now comes the
point: Detroit is one of the greatest stove manufacturing cities in the
United States. Records show that pig iron is being shipped from Florence
to Detroit, and that finished stoves are being shipped from Detroit to
Florence. Labor is cheaper in Florence than in Detroit. Fuel is cheaper,
water is cheaper, and in fact everything is cheaper. The Florence
foundries can make and ship a finished casting to northern points for
the same rate the raw material can be shipped, and yet a great deal of
the finished product finds its way back to Florence and points further
South. There are a thousand arguments in favor of Florence, and none
against her. Everything is better and conditions are better in every way.
The climate is elegant, scenery sublime, and one of the most healthy
locations in the United States.
[Illustration: Jefferson Hotel, Florence, Ala.]