DOWN HILL.
For days after the naval battle Morgan seemed rejuvenated, ready to
begin life all over; life, with its changes of owners, its partings,
its hard work--but withal, its friendships, its moments of supreme
joy and exaltation.
It might be well to end the story of old Justin Morgan as he stood
there--so fine in his spirit and ambition--watching the fight from
the hill commanding the lake; but one or two more incidents remain
to be related which will show still greater powers of endurance and
patience in his long, hard, but nevertheless, noble life.
On the heels of the American victory came the news that the Dulaneys
had been ordered back to West Point, and would not take Morgan with
them. It was a bitter parting for the old horse and need not be dwelt
upon. All three realized fully, they should never meet again.
* * * * *
From Burlington Morgan was sold to Joel Goss and Joseph Rogers, and
taken to Claremont, New Hampshire. Here his stable was at the ferry,
on the Connecticut River, and the sight of the stream recalled his
youth.
He dreamed sweet dreams of colthood; visions of his mother, of
Caesar, of Black Baby, came to him and he was content.
But, alas, this pleasant, peaceful life ended full soon, and, in
1816 he was sold to a man by the name of Langmaid, who drove the
freight-stage from Windsor to Chelsea, a distance of nearly two
hundred miles. Thus the brave old animal, at twenty-seven years of
age, was ignominiously thrust into harness company with five other
lazy, ill-bred brutes, who dawdled along the road with slack tugs and
made the patient Morgan do most of the pulling.
For the first time in his long life the ambitious horse admitted
a feeling of discouragement into his heart; he was ill-fed, never
rubbed down, and life seemed utterly hopeless.[14]
That was the year men called “Eighteen-hundred-and-starved-to-death,”
and throughout the entire summer there was not one warm, sunshiny day.
Growing wet with their intolerably toilsome exertions over the
slippery, tumbling roads, with the wind howling and the trees bending
low about them, the horses would become chilled to the bone, with
often nothing but hemlock boughs to eat. They panted and strained
as they climbed, and the lumbering stage, with its heavy load of
freight, had to be hauled over the tops of the almost perpendicular
hills and mountains, at the crack of a long, keen whip in the hands
of a merciless driver; every moment they were in danger of crashing
over an embankment. It took steady nerve to do this, and poor, proud
Morgan, who had never before felt a whip, chafed under the treatment
and the remarks of people who had known him in his prime.
He almost fretted himself to death, he was heartsick, and a leaden
weariness of battling came over him; he was in a pitiable plight.
That year crops were all killed, famine threatened, and once more
Vermont drank the cup of desolation to its dregs. Good church people,
with their children starving, cursed their God.
On one occasion the stage passed the farm of a man driven to
desperation by the conditions--no crops--no food. He did not hear
the stage coming--the horses’ feet fell noiselessly on the soundless
road, knee-deep--the heavy wheels half hidden--in mud. There he
stood, his Bible in his hand, and in a loud voice he poured forth a
torrent of threats “to burn the Book if his crops were killed by the
threatening frost.”
Mother Nature had made her plans, and did not change them for such
impious railings.
When the stage passed, a few days later, neighbors’ tongues buzzed
with Diah Brewster’s blasphemy, for he had kept his word!
No one could suggest a punishment to fit the crime, although there
were stocks and branding for lesser misdemeanors, such as drunkenness
and lying.
Unfortunately, the stage had to go on before the driver found out
what decision the Selectmen arrived at as to proper and appropriate
penalty.
Soon after this Joseph Rogers chanced to be in Chelsea when the
stage coach drew up. Hearing his familiar voice, Morgan--wretchedly
miserable and homesick--gave a friendly and anxious whinney. Rogers
would never have recognized him otherwise, but as he looked into the
horse’s kind, gentle face he knew it was his old friend. He started
in surprise at the forlorn appearance of the once beautiful horse,
now friendless and forgotten.
That evening Morgan was bought back by Joel Goss and Joseph Rogers,
who took him again to Claremont, where he soon regained strength and
flesh. His coat took on such a gloss that after a while they began to
“spruce” him up for the Randolph Fair. And at twenty-eight years of
age!
The fair proved to be a very fine one and there were bread-stuffs,
pies and quilts of every description, linen and woolen woven by the
women, and the men exhibited their fine horses, cows and pigs.
Morgan’s stable was as popular as ever and pretty soon the judges
gave him a blue ribband, though there were many younger horses in his
class who arched their necks and attracted attention.
The chief topic of conversation at the fair was the approaching visit
of President James Monroe, who was coming to view the scene of the
great naval battle at Burlington. Morgan heard the talk outside his
stall.
“They tell me the Morgan goes up to Burlington for the President to
ride in the big parade,” said a stable boy.
“Yes,” some one replied, “Joel Goss wants to sell the horse and
thinks with the reputation of having been ridden by a President he’ll
get a better price!”
“That sounds reasonable--if Morgan was younger.”
“Younger? Why, man, this horse’ll never grow old! Wait and take a
look at him.”
The “old” horse was led out, bold and ambitious, his eyes bright,
his ears pointing, his spirit fresh as ever! He stepped smartly
about, supple and sound as a horse of ten, at the most. It is the
spirit that makes the horse and there was a springiness of youth
in his gait. Well had he known--this wise animal--that every trait
and characteristic he developed in himself would be his gift to
posterity! His feeling of responsibility to future generations was
great.[15]
A week later the Morgan was led to the Tavern entrance in Burlington.
He stepped nobly, and understood all the paces and evolutions of a
showy parade-horse.
At the door of the Tavern appeared a man, noticeable for that
dignified and courtly bearing that marked the Colonial gentleman.
He was attired in a costume of the latest cut--somewhat new to the
Vermonters.
He raised his hat and bowed to the right and left as cheer after
cheer rose from the people who recognized their President.
Accompanied by General Joseph G. Swift, he started down the steps.
Suddenly over the face of President James Monroe there passed a look
of keen interest, followed by one of intense admiration.
He had caught sight of Morgan, and his eye, unerring in its judgment
of horseflesh, was arrested at once by his vigorous and fearless
style. He turned to a group of officials.
“I see, gentlemen,” he said, in a tone of genuine appreciation, “that
Vermont can produce a horse worthy of her heroes!”
A moment later and he had thrown his leg over the back of the
proudest horse in America!
THE END.
Morgan passed the remainder of his life in the kind care of Mr. Bean,
of Chelsea. He died from the effects of a kick from another horse, in
1821, at the advanced age of thirty-two years.
[Illustration:
Painted from life by Ford Attwood, N. Y.
ENTERPRISE]
FOOTNOTES:
[14] Editor American Horse Breeder:--I am an old
man, eighty-three, this month, and seeing an article
in your last in praise of the Morgan Horse, I want
to add a word of gratitude for their noble service
done me as a stage-proprietor on the Fourth New
Hampshire Town-pike; as livery man and farmer…. For
endurance, intelligence and as trappy drivers, the
Morgans have no equals. To handle six or eight horses
on a stage-coach over hills--without accident--looks
to me wonderful now, for brakes were not known in
those days. I sometimes think it could not have
been done without the Morgan horses, for their
superior intelligence was often displayed in cases
of danger--like running on icy, sidling roads, where
every tug was needed, and the horses on the run, to
prevent the coach from falling off the bank! I have
often done this and seen others do it, and accidents
were few. These horses seemed to know what was wanted
and understood the danger as well as the driver.
It was sometimes no easy matter to carry the mails
through blinding sleet and heavy drifts, but I never
had a Morgan horse look back to refuse me. They always
faced the blast. If a double trip had to be made
the _Morgans_ always did it and the long-jointed,
over-reaching, interfering span of some other breed
was kept in the barn.
Yours,
J. C. CREMER, Hanover, N. H.
_American Horse Breeder_, 1892.
[15] “I see horses every day with, perhaps, a
thirty-second part of the blood of Old Justin Morgan,
but there it is, still predominating; there is the
_Morgan_ still to be seen plainly. Every close
observer, every discerning judge of horses always
admits this tendency of his blood.”--_From an article
by James D. Ladd, Wallace’s Monthly, July, 1882._
POSTWORD.
The stable of the late George Houstoun Waring, of Savannah, at
Annandale Stock Farm, where the first Georgia Morgans were raised,
consisted of four Morgans brought from Vermont and New Hampshire.
They were, ENTERPRISE, No. 423, chestnut with flaxen mane and tail;
PARAGON BLACK HAWK, the handsomest horse I ever saw, black with
white star, very showy in tandem; CLIVE, beyond compare in Morgan
perfection, for whom, at four years of age Mr. Waring refused $4,000;
BAY COMET, perfect in form and disposition, dark with black points.
There were fifty mares, nearly all Morgans. The finest of these was
ROSALIE MORGAN, from Vermont. She was exhibited many years at the
Georgia State Fairs, and at each would take the prizes for the best
brood mare, best mare with colt at her side, and best trotting mare.
When she appeared in these three classes no other mare stood any
chance. Finally she was ruled out. She had nineteen colts, two of
which I know sold for $600 each. Rosalie died at thirty-two years of
age.
I bought from Mr. Waring a Bay Comet colt, daughter of AMANDA MORGAN,
and named her JEANNIE DEAN. Jeannie was like a member of my family
for thirty-one years. She was the perfect type in character and form.
FRANK, a grandson of ENTERPRISE, one of the later and best known
Morgans was owned and trotted by William Henry Stiles, in 2:18¼; he
inherited all the fine traits of “OLD JUSTIN MORGAN.”
ANNANDALE had a half-mile track, and every equipment for the care and
comfort of this transplanted race.
The farm was situated in Habersham Co., in a luxuriant rolling valley
of the beautiful mountainous section of Northeast Georgia; a section
almost exclusively occupied by the summer estates of the wealthy rice
and cotton planters of the Low Country.
J. W. BRYAN.
DILLON, GEORGIA, September, 1911.
Transcriber’s Note:
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Footnotes were renumbered sequentially and were moved to the
end of the chapter. Obvious printing errors, such as reversed order,
missing or partially printed letters and punctuation, were corrected.
Jargon, dialect, obsolete and alternative spellings were not changed.
Five misspelled words were corrected:
“confusel” to “confused”
“again” to “against”
“afterenoon” to “afternoon”
“corroberated” to “corroborated”
“laugher” to “laughter”
The following were changed:
“them” to “him” … as Gipsey told him they were inevitable.
“be” to “he” … Scarcely had he begun …
Added word “to” … push the cover to one side …