````The son may wear the father's crown,
````When the gray old father's dead;
````May wear his shoe, and wear his gown,
````But he can never wear his head.=
|How few realize that we are so swiftly passing away, and giving our
places on earth, to new men and women.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, and on we go, from the cradle to the grave, without
stopping to reflect, that an old man is passing away every hour, and a
new one taking his place.
Like drops of rain, descending upon the mountains, and hurrying down to
form the great river, running them off to the ocean, and then returning
in the clouds. The change is almost imperceptible.
New men come upon the stage of life as it were unobserved, and old ones
pass away in like manner, and thus the great river of life flows on.
Were the change sudden, and all at once, it would shock the philosophy
of the human race. A few men live to witness the rise and fall of two
generations. Long years have intervened and the characters portrayed in
the preceding part of our story, have all passed away.
Some of their descendants come upon the stage to fight the great battle
of life.
Young Simon will first claim our attention; he is the only son of S. S.
Simon by a second wife, his mother is dead, and Young Simon is heir to a
large estate.
The decade from eighteen hundred and forty to eighteen hundred and
fifty, is, perhaps, the most interesting decade in the history of the
settlement and progress of the Western States.
In that era, the great motive power of our modern civilization, the iron
horse and the magnetic telegraph were put into successful operation,
across the broad and beautiful Western States.
The history of the West and Southwest in the first half of the
nineteenth century, is replete with romance, or with truth stranger than
fiction. The sudden rise of a moneyed aristocracy in the West, furnishes
a theme for the pen of a historian of no mean ability.
This American aristocracy, diverse from the aristocracy of the old
world, who stimulated by family pride, preserved the history of a long
line of ancestors, born to distinction, and holding the tenure of office
by inheritance, could trace the heroic deeds of their fathers back to
the dark ages, while some of our American aristocrats are unable to give
a true history of their grandfather.
In the first half of the nineteenth century the cultivation of the cotton
plant in the Southern States assumed gigantic proportions. The Northern
States bartered their slaves for money, and the forest of the great
Mississippi river fell by the ax of the colored man; salvation from the
_demons of want_ was preached by the nigger and the mule.
Young Simon was a cotton planter, inheriting from his father four
plantations of one thousand acres, and more than six hundred slaves.
Young Simon knew very little of the history of his family, and the
more he learned of it, the less he wanted to know. His father in his
lifetime, had learned the history of Roxie Daymon alias Roxie Fairfield,
up to the time she left Louisville, and had good reason to believe
that Roxie Daymon, or her descendants, also Suza Fairfield, or her
descendants still survived. But as we have said, S. S. Simon stood in
the half-way-house, between the honest man and the rogue. He reflected
upon the subject mathematically, as he said mentally, “Twenty thousand
dollars and twenty years interest--why! it would break me up; I wish to
die a _rich man_.”
And onward he strove, seasoned to hardship in early life, he slept but
little, the morning bell upon his plantations sounded its iron notes up
and down the Mississippi long before daylight every morning, that the
slaves might be ready to resume their work as soon as they could see.
Simon's anxiety to die a _rich man_ had so worked upon his feelings for
twenty years, that he was a hard master and a keen financier.
The time to die never entered his brain; for it was all absorbed
with the _die rich_ question. Unexpectedly to him, death's white face
appeared when least expected, from hard work, and exposure, S. S. Simon
was taken down with the _swamp fever_; down--down--down for a few days
and then the _crisis_, the last night of his suffering was terrible, the
attending physician and his only son stood by his bedside. All night he
was delirious, everything he saw was in the shape of Roxie Daymon,
every movement made about the bed, the dying man would cry, “_Take Roxie
Daymon away._”
Young Simon was entirely ignorant of his father's history--and the name
_Roxie Daymon_ made a lasting impression on his brain. Young Simon grew
up without being inured to any hardships, and his health was not good,
for he soon followed his father; during his short life he had everything
that heart could desire, except a family name and good health, the lack
of which made him almost as poor as the meanest of his slaves.
Young Simon received some comfort in his last days from his cousin
Cæsar. Cæsar Simon was the son of the brother of S. S. Simon who died in
early life, leaving three children in West Tennessee. Cousin Cæsar was
raised by two penniless sisters, whom he always called “big-sis” and
“little-sis.” “Big-sis” was so called from being the eldest, and had the
care of cousin Cæsar's childhood. Cousin Cæsar manifested an imaginary
turn of mind in early childhood. He was, one day, sitting on his little
stool, by the side of the tub in which “big-sis” was washing, (for she
was a washer-woman,) gazing intently upon the surface of the water.
“What in the world are you looking at C-a-e-s-a-r?” said the woman,
straightening up in astonishment.
“Looking at them bubbles on the suds,” said the boy, gravely.
“And what of the bubbles?” continued the woman.
“I expected to see one of them burst into a l-o-a-f of b-r-e-a-d,” said
the child honestly.
“Big-sis” took cousin Cæsar to the fire, went to the cupboard and cut
her last loaf of bread, and spread upon it the last mouthful of butter
she had in the world, and gave it cousin Cæsar.
And thus he received his first lesson of reward for imagination which,
perhaps, had something to do with his after life.
Cousin Cæsar detested work, but had a disposition to see the bottom of
everything. No turkey-hen or guinea fowl could make a nest that cousin
Cæsar could not find. He grew up mischievous, so much so that “big-sis”
would occasionally thrash him. He would then run off and live with
“little-sis” until “little-sis” would better the instruction, for she
would whip also. He would then run back to live with “big-sis.” In this
way cousin Cæsar grew to thirteen years of age--too big to whip. He
then went to live with old Smith, who had a farm on the Tennessee river,
containing a large tract of land, and who hired a large quantity
of steam wood cut every season. Rob Roy was one of old Smith's wood
cutters--a bachelor well advanced in years, he lived alone in a cabin
made of poles, on old Smith's land. His sleeping couch was made with
three poles, running parallel with the wall of the cabin, and filled
with straw. He never wore any stockings and seldom wore a coat, winter
or summer. The furniture in his cabin consisted of a three-legged stool,
and a pine goods box. His ax was a handsome tool, and the only thing he
always kept brightly polished. He was a good workman at his profession
of cutting wood. No one knew anything of his history. He was a man that
seldom talked; he was faithful to work through the week, but spent
the Sabbath day drinking whisky. He went to the village every Saturday
evening and purchased one gallon of whisky, which he carried in a stone
jug to his cabin, and drank it all himself by Monday morning, when he
would be ready to go to work again. Old Rob Roy's habits haunted the
mind of cousin Cæsar, and he resolved to play a trick Upon the old
wood cutter. Old Smith had some _hard cider_ to which cousin Cæsar had
access. One lonesome Sunday cousin Cæsar stole Roy's jug half full
of whisky, poured the whisky out, re-filled the jug with cider, and
cautiously slipped it back into Roy's cabin. On Monday morning Rob Roy
refused to work, and was very mad. Old Smith demanded to know the
cause of the trouble. “You can't fool a man with _cider_ who loves
good _whisky_,” said Roy indignantly. Old Smith traced the trick up and
discharged cousin Cæsar.
At twenty years of age we find Cousin Cæsar in Paducah, Kentucky,
calling himself Cole Conway, in company with one Steve Sharp--they were
partners--in the game, as they called it. In the back room of a saloon,
dimly lighted, one dark night, another party, more proficient in the
sleight of hand, had won the last dime in their possession. The time had
come to close up. The sun had crossed the meridian on the other side of
the globe. Cole Conway and Steve Sharp crawled into an old straw shed,
in the suburbs, of the village, and were soon soundly sleeping. The
sun had silvered the old straw shed when Sharp awakened, and saw Conway
sitting up, as white as death's old horse. “What on earth is the matter,
Conway?” said Sharp, inquiringly.
“I slumbered heavy in the latter end of night, and had a brilliant
dream, and awoke from it, to realize this old straw shed doth effect
me,” said Conway gravely. “The dream! the dream!” demanded Sharp. “I
dreamed that we were playing cards, and I was dealing out the deck; the
last card was mine, and it was very thick. Sharp, it looked like a
box, and with thumb and finger I pulled it open. In it there were
three fifty-dollar gold pieces, four four-dollar gold pieces, and ten
one-dollar gold pieces. I put the money in my pocket, and was listening
for you to claim half, as you purchased the cards. You said nothing more
than that 'them cards had been put up for men who sell prize cards.' I
took the money out again, when lo, and behold! one of the fifty-dollar
pieces had turned to a rule about eight inches long, hinged in the
middle. Looking at it closely I saw small letters engraved upon it,
which I was able to read--you know, Sharp, I learned to read by spelling
the names on steamboats--or that is the way I learned the letters of the
alphabet. The inscription directed me to a certain place, and there I
would find a steam carriage that could be run on any common road where
carriages are drawn by horses. We went, and found the carriage. It was
a beautiful carriage--with highly finished box--on four wheels, the box
was large enough for six persons to sit on the inside. The pilot sat
upon the top, steering with a wheel, the engineer, who was also fireman,
and the engine, sat on the aft axle, behind the passenger box. The whole
structure was very light, the boiler was of polished brass, and sat upon
end. The heat was engendered by a chemical combination of phosphorus
and tinder. The golden rule gave directions how to run the engine--by
my directions, Sharp, you was pilot and I was engineer, and we started
south, toward my old home. People came running out from houses and
fields to see us pass I saw something on the beautiful brass boiler that
looked like a slide door. I shoved it, and it slipped aside, revealing
the dial of a clock which told the time of day, also by a separate hand
and figures, told the speed at which the carriage was running. On the
right hand side of the dial I saw the figures 77. They were made of
India rubber, and hung upon two brass pins. I drew the slide door over
the dial except when I wished to look at the time of day, or the rate of
speed at which we were running, and every time I opened the door, one
of the figure 7's had fallen off the pin. I would replace it, and again
find it fallen off. So I concluded it was only safe to run seven miles
an hour, and I regulated to that speed. In a short time, I looked again,
and we were running at the rate of fifteen miles an hour. I knew that I
had not altered the gauge of steam. A hissing sound caused me to think
the water was getting low in the boiler. On my left I saw a brass handle
that resembled the handle of a pump. I seized it and commenced work. I
could hear the bubbling of the water. I look down at the dry road, and
said, mentally, 'no water can come from there.' Oh! how I trembled. It
so frightened me that I found myself wide awake.”
“Dreams are but eddies in the current of the mind, which cut off from
reflection's gentle stream, sometimes play strange, fantastic tricks.
I have tumbled headlong down from high and rocky cliffs; cold-blooded
snakes have crawled 'round my limbs; the worms that eat through
dead men's flesh, have crawled upon my skin, and I have dreamed of
transportation beyond the shores of time. My last night's dream hoisted
me beyond my hopes, to let me fall and find myself in this d----old
straw shed.”
“The devil never dreams,” said Sharp, coolly, and then continued:
“Holy men of old dreamed of the Lord, but never of the devil, and to
understand a dream, we must be just to all the world, and to ourselves
before God.”
“I have a proposition to make to you, Conway?
“_What?_” said Conway, eagerly.
“If you will tell me in confidence, your true name and history, I will
give you mine,” said Sharp, emphatically. “Agreed,” said Conway, and
then continued, “as you made he proposition give us yours first.
“My name is Steve Brindle. My father was called Brindle Bill, and once
lived in Shirt-Tail Bend, on the Mississippi. He died in the state
prison. My mother was a sister of Sundown Hill, who lived in the same
neighborhood. My father and mother were never married. So you see, I am a
come by-chance, and I have been going by chance all of my life. Now, I
have told you the God's truth, so far as I know it. Now make a clean
breast of it, Conway, and let us hear your pedigree,” said Brindle,
confidentially.
“I was born in Tennessee. My father's name was Cæsar Simon, and I bear
his name. My mother's name was Nancy Wade. I do not remember either of
them I was partly raised by my sisters, and the balance of the time I
have tried to raise myself, but it seems it will take me a Iong time
to _make a raise_--” at this point, Brindle interfered in breathless
suspense, with the inquiry, “Did you have an uncle named S. S. Simon?”
“I have heard my sister say as much,” continued Simon.
“Then your dream is interpreted,” said Brindle, emphatically. “Your
Uncle, S. S. Simon, has left one of the largest estates in Arkansas,
and now you are on the steam wagon again,” said Brindle, slapping his
companion on the shoulder.
Brindle had been instructed by his mother, and made Cousin Cæsar
acquainted with the outline of all the history detailed in this
narrative, except the history of Roxie Daymon _alias_ Roxie Fairfield,
in Chicago.
The next day the two men were hired as hands to go down the river on a
flat-bottom boat.
Roxie Daymon, whose death has been recorded, left an only daughter, now
grown to womanhood, and bearing her mother's name. Seated in the parlor
of one of the descendants of Aunt Patsy Perkins, in Chicago, we see her
sad, and alone; we hear the hall bell ring. A servant announces the name
of Gov. Morock. “Show the Governor up,” said Roxie, sadly. The ever open
ear of the Angel of observation has only furnished us with the following
conversation:
“Everything is positively lost, madam, not a cent in the world. Every
case has gone against us, and no appeal, madam. You are left hopelessly
destitute, and penniless. Daymon should have employed me ten years
ago--but now, it is too late. Everything is gone, madam,” and the
Governor paused. “My mother was once a poor, penniless girl, and I can
bear it too,” said Roxie, calmly. “But you see,” said the Governor,
softening his voice; “you are a handsome young lady; your fortune is yet
to be made. For fifty dollars, madam, I can fix you up a _shadow_, that
will marry you off. You see the law has some _loop holes_ and--and in
your case, madam, it is no harm to take one; no harm, no harm, madam,”
and the Governor paused again. Roxie looked at the man sternly, and
said: “I have no further use for a lawyer, Sir.”
“Any business hereafter, madam, that you may wish transacted, send your
card to No. 77, Strait street,” and the Governor made a side move toward
the door, touched the rim of his hat and disappeared.
It was in the golden month of October, and calm, smoky days of
Indian summer, that a party of young people living in Chicago, made
arrangements for a pleasure trip to New Orleans. There were four or five
young ladies in the party, and Roxie Daymon was one. She was handsome
and interesting--if her fortune _was gone_. The party consisted of the
moneyed aristocracy of the city, with whom Roxie had been raised and
educated. Every one of the party was willing to contribute and pay
Roxie's expenses, for the sake of her company. A magnificent steamer, of
the day, plying between St. Louis and New Orleans, was selected for
the carrier, three hundred feet in length, and sixty feet wide. The
passenger cabin was on the upper deck, nearly two hundred feet in
length; a guard eight feet wide, for a footway, and promenade on the
outside of the hall, extended on both sides, the fall length of the
cabin; a plank partition divided the long hall--the aft room was the
ladies', the front the gentlemen's cabin. The iron horse, or some of
his successors, will banish these magnificent floating palaces, and I
describe, for the benefit of coming generations.
Nothing of interest occured to our party, until the boat landed at the
Simon plantations. Young Simon and cousin Cæsar boarded the boat, for
passage to New Orleans, for they were on their way to the West Indies,
to spend the winter. Young Simon was in the last stage of consumption
and his physician had recommended the trip as the last remedy. Young
Simon was walking on the outside guard, opposite the ladies' cabin, when
a female voice with a shrill and piercing tone rang upon his ear--“_Take
Roxie Daymon away_.” The girls were romping.--“Take Roxie Daymon away,”
were the mysterious dying words of young Simon's father. Simon turned,
and mentally bewildered, entered the gentlemen's cabin. A colored boy,
some twelve years of age, in the service of the boat, was passing--Simon
held a silver dollar in his hand as he said, “I will give you this, if
you will ascertain and point out to me the lady in the cabin, that they
call _Roxie Daymon_.” The imp of Africa seized the coin, and passing on
said in a voice too low for Simon's ear, “good bargain, boss.” The Roman
Eagle was running down stream through the dark and muddy waters of the
Mississippi, at the rate of twenty miles an hour.
In the dusk of the evening, Young Simon and Roxie Daymon were sitting
side by side--alone, on the aft-guard of the boat. The ever open ear
of the Angel of observation has furnished us with the following
conversation..
“Your mother's maiden name, is what I am anxious to learn,” said Simon
gravely.
“Roxie Fairfield, an orphan girl, raised in Kentucky,” said Roxie sadly.
“Was she an only child, or did she have sisters?” said Simon
inquiringly.
“My mother died long years ago--when I was too young to remember,
my father had no relations--that I ever heard of--Old aunt Patsey
Perkins--a great friend of mother's in her life-time, told me after
mother was dead, and I had grown large enough to think about kinsfolk,
that mother had two sisters somewhere, named Rose and Suza, _poor
trash_, as she called them; and that is all I know of my relations: and
to be frank with you, I am nothing but poor trash too, I have no family
history to boast of,” said Roxie honestly.
“You will please excuse me Miss, for wishing to know something of your
family history--there is a mystery connected with it, that may prove
to your advantage”--Simon was _convinced_.--He pronounced the
word twenty--when the Angel of caution placed his finger on his
lip--_hush!_--and young Simon turned the conversation, and as soon as
he could politely do so, left the presence of the young lady, and sought
cousin Cæsar, who by the way, was well acquainted with the most of the
circumstances we have recorded, but had wisely kept them to himself.
Cousin Cæsar now told young Simon the whole story.
Twenty-thousand dollars, with twenty years interest, was against his
estate. Roxie Daymon, the young lady on the boat, was an heir, others
lived in Kentucky--all of which cousin Cæsar learned from a descendant
of Brindle Bill. The pleasure party with Simon and cousin Cæsar, stopped
at the same hotel in the Crescent City. At the end of three weeks the
pleasure party returned to Chicago. Young Simon and cousin Cæsar left
for the West Indies.--Young Simon and Roxie Daymon were engaged to be
married the following spring at Chicago. Simon saw many beautiful women
in his travels--but the image of Roxie Daymon was ever before him. The
good Angel of observation has failed to inform us, of Roxie Daymon's
feelings and object in the match. A young and beautiful woman; full of
life and vigor consenting to wed a dying man, _hushed_ the voice of the
good Angel, and he has said nothing.
Spring with its softening breezes returned--the ever to be remembered
spring of 1861.
The shrill note of the iron horse announced the arrival of young Simon
and cousin Cæsar in Chicago, on the 7th day of April, 1861.
Simon had lived upon excitement, and reaching the destination of his
hopes--the great source of his life failed--cousin Cæsar carried
him into the hotel--he never stood alone again--the marriage was put
off--until Simon should be better. On the second day, cousin Cæsar was
preparing to leave the room, on business in a distant part of the city.
Roxie had been several times alone with Simon, and was then present.
Roxie handed a sealed note to cousin Cæsar, politely asking him to
deliver it. The note was inscribed, Gov. Morock, No. 77 Strait street.
Cousin Cæsar had been absent but a short time, when that limb of the law
appeared and wrote a will dictated by young Simon; bequeathing all
of his possessions, without reserve to Roxie Daymon. “How much,” said
Roxie, as the Governor was about to leave. “Only ten dollars, madam,”
said the Governor, as he stuffed the bill carelessly in his vest pocket
and departed.
Through the long vigils of the night cousin Cæsar sat by the side of the
dying man; before the sun had silvered the eastern horizon, the soul
of young Simon was with his fathers. The day was consumed in making
preparations for the last, honor due the dead. Cousin Cæsar arranged
with a party to take the remains to Arkansas, and place the son by the
side of the father, on the home plantation. The next morning as cousin
Cæsar was scanning the morning papers, the following brief notice
attracted his attention: “Young Simon, the wealthy young cotton planter,
who died in the city yesterday, left by his last will and testament his
whole estate, worth more than a million of dollars, to Roxie Daymon, a
young lady of this city.”
Cousin Cæsar was bewildered and astonished. He was a stranger in the
city; he rubbed his hand across his forehead to collect his thoughts,
and remembered No. 77 Strait street. “Yes I observed it--it is a
law office,” he said mentally, “there is something in that number
seventy-seven, I have never understood it before, since my dream on the
steam carriage _seventy-seven_,” and cousin Cæsar directed his steps
toward Strait street.
“Important business, I suppose sir,” said Governor Mo-rock, as he read
cousin Cæsar's anxious countenance.
“Yes, somewhat so,” said cousin Cæsar, pointing to the notice in the
paper, he continued: “I am a relative of Simon and have served him
faithfully for two years, and they say he has willed his estate to a
stranger.”
“Is it p-o-s-s-i-b-l-e-,” said the Governor, affecting astonishment.
“What would you advise me to do?” said cousin Cæsar imploringly.
“Break the will--break the will, sir,” said the Governor emphatically.
“Ah! that will take money,” said cousin Cæsar sadly.
“Yes, yes, but it will bring money,” said the Governor, rubbing his
hands together.
“I s-u-p p-o-s-e we would be required to prove incapacity on the part of
Simon,” said cousin Cæsar slowly.
“Money will prove anything,” said the Governor decidedly.
The Governor struck the right key, for cousin Cæsar was well schooled in
treacherous humanity, and noted for seeing the bottom of things; but he
did not see the bottom of the Governor's dark designs.
“How much for this case?” said cousin Cæsar.
“Oh! I am liberal--I am liberal,” said the Governor rubbing his hands
and continuing, “can't tell exactly, owing to the trouble and cost of
the things, as we go along. A million is the stake--well, let me see,
this is no child's play. A man that has studied for long years--you
can't expect him to be cheap--but as I am in the habit of working for
nothing--if you will pay me one thousand dollars in advance, I will
undertake the case, and then a few more thousands will round it
up--can't say exactly, any more sir, than I am always liberal.”
Cousin Cæsar had some pocket-money, furnished by young Simon, to pay
expenses etc., amounting to a little more than one thousand dollars. His
mind was bewildered with the number seventy-seven, and he paid over to
the Governor one thousand dollars. After Governor Morock had the money
safe in his pocket, he commenced a detail of the cost of the suit--among
other items, was a large amount for witnesses.
The Governor had the case--it was a big case--and the Governor has
determined to make it pay him.
Cousin Caeser reflected, and saw that he must have help, and as he left
the office of Governor Morock, said mentally: “One of them d--n figure
sevens I saw in my dream, would fall off the pin, and I fear, I have
struck the wrong lead.”
In the soft twilight of the evening, when the conductor cried, “all
aboard,” cousin Cæsar was seated in the train, on his way to Kentucky,
to solicit aid from Cliff Carlo, the oldest son and representative man,
of the family descended from Don Carlo, the hero of Shirt-Tail Bend, and
Suza Fairfield, the belle of Port William.