Charles H. Smith (Bill Arp) is one of the oldest of living humorists.
Under the _nom de plume_ of Bill Arp he has given the world some
very rich things in the way of humor, and the columns of the Atlanta
(Georgia) Constitution, have, during the past few years, teemed with
his witty, sparkling letters. Bill Arp is known all over the South,
and in many of the Gulf States his reputation is equal to that of Mark
Twain.
Mr. Smith lives in a retired manner at his country-seat near
Cartersville, Georgia. From this rural retreat, he writes me of his
life as follows:
“Speaking as though I was another fellow, let me say that--Major
Charles H. Smith was born in Lawrenceville, Georgia, June 15,
1826--that is to say, the ‘major’ part was not born then, though
I suppose he was born all at once, but the title, the prefix, the
dignity I mean, wasn’t born to him until June, 1861, when he was
knighted by Jeff Davis, and assigned to the staff of Colonel Barton,
with aspirations more sanguine than sanguinary. The Major used to be
a ‘peace colonel,’ but was reduced to a war major, for you must know
that these peace colonels abounded in the land. There was no harm
in them, and the title signified only a patriotic devotion to the
political fortunes of the governor--that is, the commander in chief.
“You must know, if you do not, that Georgia boasted of an army and
navy in the good old times. The navy was altogether imaginary,
picturesque, esthetic, and did not muster nor parade; but the army was
a fact, and was mobilized twice a year, not in corpses, or cores, or
whatever you call them, but in brigades and regiments, in each county,
and as the commander in chief could not be in every county at the same
time to review his ‘meelish,’ he had to attend by proxy, therefore
he appointed a proxy in every county, with the rank of colonel. This
honor when conferred was intended as a kind of mucilage that cemented
the donee to the donor, and the donee was expected to cry ‘encore’ if
the donor wanted to be re-elected to the gubernatorial chair. Parties
were pretty equally balanced in Georgia, and every time we had a new
governor we had a new set of colonels, say an hundred or more, on
the average, every two or four years. This is how we boasted of so
many peace colonels, for when a man once got the title he kept it,
no matter if he didn’t keep the office. All this is to explain how
Major Smith came to be a colonel under Governor Howell Cobb, and was
afterwards reduced to his present rank. He says he really prefers
the minor title to the major, for it is based on a war footing, and
besides, the ladies have a way of saying ‘major’ with a softer and
sweeter inflection than they used to say colonel.
“The Major was born and bred as usual, but his singular parentage is
to be made a note of. His father was a Massachusetts man, and his
mother a native of Charleston. This combination was happy enough in
itself, but developed in the ‘boy’ a disposition to fits of passion,
on which occasions he used to bite himself and bump his head against
the door, but his good mother always said he couldn’t help it, for it
was South Carolina fighting Massachusetts.
“The Major’s father was a merchant, and as the boy grew up he trained
him to trade and traffic behind the counter. Later in life he sent
him to a manual labor institute, where the boys were expected to
pay for their board by working in the field three hours every day.
Presumptuous expectation! It generally took the boys about three hours
to find their tools and get ready for work. Link pins were stolen, and
by the time the wagon reached the field the wheel came off. When the
overseer was watching one squad another slipped off to the creek to
go in bathing, and so in due time the school collapsed. The ‘boy’ was
next initiated into the mysteries of riding the mail to a neighboring
village. This was not considered a very elegant or aristocratic
occupation. The steed was a kind of equine dromedary, and jogged along
at his leisure without regard to whip or spur. The monotony of this
employment became very monotonous to the boy, and gave him abundant
leisure for mental exercise.
“There is nothing romantic or thrilling about riding an old-fashioned
mail--nothing like the long express across the plains that Mark
Twain has so bewitchingly described in Roughing It; no fleet-footed
mustang, no ’ostler standing with another ready at the station, no
running against time, no passing returning post-boys with a smile and
a salute, no nothing but an occasional old woman coming to the fence
with a pair of socks she wanted to send to town to exchange for indigo
or copperas, and as she looked over her spectacles inquired ‘Are you
the mail boy?’ The youth sometimes looked smilingly at her as he
replied: ‘Why--yes--mam, you didn’t think I was a female boy, did you?’
“In due time the boy graduated at this business, and his father sent
him to college. He had as good a time there as is usual. He made many
pleasant acquaintances, some lasting friendships, and a love or two,
and at the close of his career married a daughter of Judge Hutchins.
He next studied law with the judge, and after his admission to the
bar, removed to Rome, Georgia, and founded a partnership with Judge
Underwood, a gentleman noted for his ability, both as a judge and
a statesman. This partnership was pleasant and profitable. It was
obliged to be profitable as a matter of necessity, for it continued
until there were a score of children in the two families, and paternal
ancestors knew but little of economy, or its prudence of laying up
money for a rainy day.
“Prior to the war Major Smith had frequently indulged his inclinations
for humorous and critical observations on men and measures, but it
was not until the spring of 1861 that his peculiar genius found a
field rich enough to harvest in. The famous proclamation of President
Lincoln, ordering the people of the rebellious South to ‘cease their
turbulent demonstrations and to disband their military companies, and
disperse and retire to their homes, within thirty days, under penalty
of being arrested and tried for treason,’ seemed very ludicrous and
absurd to the hot bloods of the South, who really felt like they
could whip all the world and the rest of mankind, and so the Major
burlesqued it in his way as though he was an unlettered countryman who
wanted to disperse but couldn’t. He said he ‘had done his darndest to
disperse, but the boys were so hot that when you throwed water on ’em
they sizzed, and that was the way they was making up their companies.’
If a boy ‘sizzed’ they took him, and if he didn’t, they didn’t, and he
respectfully asked ‘Mr. Linkhorn’ for a little more time.
“The Major read his manuscript to two or three friends in his office,
and at the conclusion noticed that the original Bill Arp stood at the
door a listener.
“Bill’s merry eyes seemed to enjoy it, and he came forward with a
query, ‘Colonel,’ said he, ‘are you gwine to print that?’
“‘I think I will, Bill,’ said he.
“‘What name are you gwine to put to it?’ said Bill.
“‘I don’t know, Bill,’ said he.
“‘Well, put mine, by golly; for them’s my sentiments,’ said Bill, and
so Bill Arp’s name was put to please him, and it was thus that the
_nom de plume_ was acquired. This same Bill Arp kept a ferry near
Rome, and was so fond of hearing lawyers talk that he would slip off
from his ferry during court week and stay all day in the court house,
or he would frequent their office just to get into good company. He
was wholly unlettered, could neither read nor write, but had a good
mother wit of his own, and was never considered an interloper by any
sociable crowd. He was wont to say that every poor man ought to be
tackled on to a rich one; that he belonged to Colonel Johnston, and
didn’t want a better master. He was asked one day who he was going to
vote for, and says he: ‘I don’t know, till I see Colonel Johnston, and
he won’t know, till he see Judge Underwood, and the Judge won’t know
till he hears from Alexander Stephens, but who in the dickens tells
Alec Stephens, I’ll be dogged if I know.’
“Bill Arp joined the army with the Major, in the same command, on June
8, 1861. Bill lost two sons in the conflict, but got through safe
himself, and lived until 1878. Peace to his ashes.
“In 1866 Major Smith was unanimously chosen to represent his district
as State Senator, and was made chairman of the financial committee.
This is the only official dignity he has borne, and this was wholly
unsought. In 1877 he retired from his profession to the more peaceful
and congenial pursuit of tilling the soil, and seems extremely
happy in his communion with nature and the quiet seclusion of his
family from the follies and cares of society life. He has ten living
children, and has a lot of grandchildren coming on, whose greatest
delight is to go to grandpa’s and play in the branch and catch
minnows, ride the colts, and hunt hens’ nests, and fish all the day
long. The Major says a grandparent has no business living in town,
on a half-acre lot, for it is no pleasure to the grandchildren to
visit him and grandma in a pent up Utica or a Rome either. They want
latitude and longitude, so let grandparents move into the country,
where the little chaps can come and go, and spread out and ‘holler,’
and be happy. Solomon says that children’s children are the glory of a
man, and there is nothing better to work for than glory.”
In a recent letter to the author of this volume Major Smith tells a
funny story in his own peculiar style. He says:
“Speaking of children, reminds me of Dr. Johnston, and so I must tell
you that I spent a few days last winter with General Loring, who was
born and bred a soldier. He was in the cavalry service in the far West
with Fremont and Carson all his youth, next in the confederate army
as a major-general, and next as chief of the Khedive’s army in Egypt.
He returned laden with glory and honors, and fine clothes. He had his
servant man to dress in the Khedive’s jeweled suit for my inspection.
He showed me his portfolio of splendid engravings, and photographs of
all the notable things in the old world. Every few pages we would
come to the photo of a beautiful woman, and he would carelessly
remark: ‘Only a lady friend of mine.’ The General is a bachelor of
some sixty years, and I so much admired his conversation, I ventured
to say that he ought to write a book of his travels and exploits,
and reminded him what Dr. Johnston said to Boswell: ‘Every man owes
something to posterity, a debt that he can and ought to pay. He should
do one or more of three things. Plant a tree, the shade of which, or
the fruit of which would pleasure him, or write a book, the sentiments
of which would benefit him, or--get a child that would be an honor to
the human race.’
“‘Now, General,’ said I, ‘Have you ever written a book?’
“‘No,’ said he.
“‘Have you ever planted a tree?’
“‘Never,’ said he.
“‘Have you ever begotten a child?’
“‘None to speak of,’ said he.”