a carriage stopped. This carriage, lately built in a Boston workshop, was
the first seen in Tennessee, and had been followed, on the latter part
of its journey, by a large and motley company, constantly reinforced by
recruits, all anxious to see this wonderful structure on wheels, with
postillions, and drawn by four horses, reach its destination.
When the carriage stopped there was a general halt. A black footman,
descending from a seat on the box, solemnly opened the door, and Sir
Peyton Skipwith, the owner of the “Rock House,” and the thousand acres
surrounding it, descended from the carriage and assisted a young and
elegant woman to alight. This was unexpected, and a slight cheer went up
from the curious onlookers. To this the new land proprietor and his fair
companion gravely responded with a bow, and with a lingering glance at
the setting sun and the broad acres of their new domain, they entered the
house, and the happiness of Sir Peyton Skipwith and his bride was only to
be surmised by the outside world.
This outside world, a new settlement with the newspaper from the “Mother
State” a month old, and languishing to hear the latest fashion in
kerchief and stomacher, and the news of Mr. Washington’s re-election,
naturally took an absorbing interest in the latest acquisition to their
society; but with the exception of an occasional courteous word from
Sir Peyton, and a smile and bow from Lady Cornelia’s carriage, their
curiosity concerning the newcomers received no encouragement. The young
couple were probably too much absorbed in each other to be properly
benevolent, and public interest was beginning to wane when a rumor was
circulated that excited a thrill in all.
Built on Sir Peyton’s ground was a small church where the early
settlers met to unite in divine worship. As they passed to and fro on
these pious pilgrimages—the rumors were conflicting, but one fact was
unanimously declared—each evening, when the darkness came on, wonderful
and mysterious sounds were heard to issue from the brilliantly illumined
windows of the “Rock House.” The music (for such it seemed to be) was
said to have a most disquieting effect upon those who heard it; even the
reverend pastor, Dr. McGinty himself, was seen to stop on his way and
take most unseemly steps for one of his age and godly calling.
Such a state of affairs would never do! All concurred in one opinion,
that the matter should be investigated, and a committee of church members
appointed to make known to the public the nature of these profane sounds
that were so disquieting to the God-fearing flock of Zion Church. It
seemed most proper that an explanation should be demanded of “Mr. Peyton
Skipwith and Mistress Cornelia, his wife (titles were abolished as
savoring of earthly pride and not consistent with republican teaching).”
This course having been adopted and not found satisfactory, it was
agreed that on a certain evening the secret committee, composed of grave
and reverend Presbyters, should conceal themselves beneath Sir Peyton
Skipwith’s open windows, and I will try and describe what they saw.
Seated at an instrument somewhat like our modern piano, with small
spindle legs and white, shining ivory keys, sat Sir Peyton’s bride. The
light from innumerable silver candelabra fell upon the coils of her fair
hair and the silk of her gown and delicate laces, while Sir Peyton, his
tall form attired in full evening costume, with silk hose, knee buckles
of brilliants and low dancing shoes, turned pages from which she seemed
to play. Her white, jeweled fingers ran over the keys of the instrument,
and brought forth sounds so delicious, so entrancing that the world
seemed to be floating off in melody, and the church committee, secreted
beneath the open window, held their breath in rapt wonder, but this was
not all; for next, looking up into Sir Peyton’s eyes, she sang in a voice
like a flute:
“My ain laddie is a sodger boy;
Oh, I will cast off my gay, costly gown,
And follow him on from town to town,
And I will sell the kaims from my hair,
And follow my true love for e’er mair.”
As her voice died away a lady seated in the shadow, whom those watching
had not before noticed, dressed in a pale silk gown and lace cap and
kerchief, took her seat at the instrument, and Lady Cornelia, standing
up, gaily threw her silk petticoat over her arm and made a deep courtesy
to Sir Peyton, who stood opposite, bowing to the ground. Then they began
to dance. The music had changed now, and the church delegation began to
shuffle their feet uneasily, and take quick uncertain steps until—“Tell
it not in Gath,” for the oak that over-shadowed Sir Peyton’s doorway
alone was the witness—these staid, silent church members began to bow and
curtsy and pirouette in the moonlight beneath Sir Peyton’s window, while
inside the house, with the light from the candelabra falling on their
silk and jewels, Sir Peyton and his lady swept up and down the polished
floor in the stately figures of the minuet. As the music continued, the
dancers seemed to gain fresh inspiration, but at last, like a knight
of old, Sir Peyton kissed his lady’s hand, the lights went out in the
“Rock House,” and the church delegation, with exhilarated but somewhat
sheepish countenances, parted company and wended their ways to their
respective homes.
Not many days after this occurrence the following report was submitted
with much solemnity to the pastor and presiding elders of Zion Church:
“Dr. McGinty and Reverend Sirs: Being appointed by ye reverend
gentlemen to investigate certain musick not consistent with ye
pious teachings of ye church, said committee will state that
they found this music in their own minds most conducive to deep
religious meditations, and much sobriety of thought and action.
“Howsoever, said committee advises ye congregation not to
linger in ye pathway near ye seats of ye mighty in high places,
for ye machinations of ye evil one are past ye understanding of
man.
“Respectfully submitted.
“JONAS FRAME,
“OBADIAH DILLWEED,
“KESIAH TROTTER.”
Notwithstanding this caution to Dr. McGinty’s flock, they were still wont
to linger near the “Rock House” and listen, until one night there was
no light to be seen, nor sound issued from the darkened windows. Lord
Peyton’s horse had returned riderless, and his lifeless body was found
near a trysting place where he and Lady Cornelia were wont to meet.
The “Rock House” was closed now, and Lady Cornelia traveled in foreign
lands. Years passed, and once more sounds of music, plaintive now, were
heard—but these also ceased in time, and the house passed into other
hands.
And now, nearly a hundred years after, with the generations that it has
sheltered sleeping a dreamless sleep near by, this old house alone seems
to preserve its pristine youth.
Once again it is occupied by a young couple, and the music that now
floats from the open windows is that of childish laughter. But on one
occasion the children grow serious, when they are trying to spell the
name cut in the rock on which the house is built, and as with chubby
fingers they point out and spell L-a-d-y C-o-r-n-e-l-i-a S-k-i-p-w-i-t-h,
one older than the rest, holding up a warning finger, tells them to
“Listen!” Do you not hear Lady Cornelia’s spinet? She is singing:
“My ain laddie was a sodger boy;
And I will sell the kaims from my hair.
And follow my true love for e’er mair.”
And then they all listened, and—who can tell? We all know that the
refrain in Lady Cornelia’s song will never pass away—that love is the
secret spring of perennial youth, and will be with us until time is no
more.
With Our Writers
John Trotwood Moore, Esq.
Wilmar, Minn., Feb. 17, 1906.
Sir: Two copies of Trotwood’s Monthly have been sent me, and I greatly
enjoyed the well-chosen, readable articles, and think there must surely
be a field for such a magazine.
In “Educating the Horse,” you give a much-needed warning against the
abuse of the checkrein, and the following is written in the hope that
so great a lover of horses as your article shows you to be may pick up
a real sharp-pointed pen and with black ink give somebody a well-meant,
gentlemanly roasting. Like your monthly, it is dedicated to the horse.
The name of Jackson is greatly revered by the American people, and
deservedly so; for there have been distinguished soldiers, statesmen,
horsemen and whole-souled Southern gentlemen among the Jacksons, but
there was one of that name who, I think, ought to have his effigy placed
in front of every judge’s stand at every racecourse of the nation. This
particular one is the Mr. Jackson who invented that rotten abomination
called the Jackson, but now called the overdraw checkrein.
I think not one sound reason can be given for its use, not even on the
score of ornament, and twenty could be given against it. It is as cruel
as the “scavenger’s daughter,” which the guides will show you in the
torture chamber in the Tower of London, and works on the same principle,
and is kin to the diabolical contrivance so graphically described by
Charles Reade in his inimitable novel, “It Is Never Too Late to Mend,”
and again works on the same principle.
Some of the best horsemen, the most carelessly careful drivers, and
the best horses are to be found in the coaching clubs in large cities,
particularly in New York.
Do you suppose there is money enough in all New York City to induce one
of those men to use that check to drive a coach load of people down
Broadway at a busy time, or up and down the Adirondacks or Catskills,
where close driving and short, quick turning are wanted? Not much, and he
does not like spoiling his horses’ necks and legs; besides he wants them
to plunge into their collars at a word.
The only two lines that can be effectively used against it, I think, are
fashion and ridicule. Make its use “bad form,” and guy it into the ground.
Every user of that check rein ought to memorize some of the sublime lines
of Shakespeare. Anyhow, every time he checks a horse up he ought to
repeat that immortal speech of Dogberry.
GEORGE MADDISON.
[We thank Mr. Maddison and heartily agree with him.—Ed.]
* * * * *
Editor Trotwood’s:
In your March issue, reprinting the familiar poem, “The Old Canoe,” which
the anthology-makers so persistently ascribe to the late Gen. Albert
Pike, you say: “Like many other good poems, it was, perhaps, the only one
some poet wrote, and, never thinking it would be immortal, or that it had
any special merit, failed to sign his name to it.... Its authorship has
never before, perhaps, been publicly corrected.”
Both these statements are erroneous.
Nine years ago, when Miss Jennie Thornley Clarke’s “Songs of the South”
was published, it contained this poem, marked “anonymous.” As I chanced
to know its real authorship, and hence knew that it lacked several
hundreds of miles, geographically speaking, of being a “song of the
South,” I sent a communication to the New York Critic, which was printed
in its issue of March 13, 1897, giving the facts. I have several times
since publicly corrected the statement that General Pike was the author
of the poem. The actual author was Miss Emily Rebecca Page, who was born
in Bradford, Vt., in 1834, and died in Chelsea, Mass., in 1862. “The
Old Canoe” was written in 1849, and appeared in the Portland Transcript
in that year. It was not by any means “the only one the poet wrote.”
Miss Page was a voluminous writer of both verse and prose, having been
a constant contributor to many New England periodicals. She was later
assistant editor of “Gleason’s Pictorial” and “The Flag of Our Union,”
two Boston literary publications which were very popular forty or fifty
years ago. She also published several volumes of poetry.
R. L. C. WHITE.
Nashville, February 26, 1906.
[We knew there must be a history for this poem, and we thank Dr. White
for his letter.—Ed.]
* * * * *
Editor Trotwood:
Old Tom’s body lies mouldering in the grave, but his spirit goes pacing
on. The gifted pen of the good man, Col. Frank Buford, calls attention
to the fact that the sacred dust of the grandest and noblest old Roman
is being disturbed. The evergreen of the old tree which marked the
revered spot has withered and gone. The Colonel’s item in Trotwood’s
jewel case carries us back to a great day in the history of the horse.
That the passing of old Tom Hal No. 1 marked a distinct epoch in the
equine history of the world may seem a far-fetched statement, but
where on the face of the earth is there record, in horse lore, of a
greater achievement? Bought by the gallant Capt. Thos. Gibson as a
stable companion to the great John Dillard, Jr. (Gibson’s), for the
sole purpose of production and betterment of the army of fine saddle
horses of the “middle basin,” in good old Tennessee, he grandly served
the purpose, for who that has had a “Hal” mount, on a typical Tennessee
spring morning, for a ten-mile spin on its fine roadways, over hill
and down valley, by babbling brook, has failed to thank God for life,
liberty and the capture of happiness on that particular horse. He had
populated the fields with a family of superb saddlers, and made greatest
achievement of the day as a sire of speed, for “Little Brown Jug,” as the
fore pacer of old Tom’s coming family and fame as a sire of the greatest
race horses, set the stride, to be bettered by the immortal Hal Pointer
2:04½, who hauled the grim-visaged, silent old warrior to victory in
hundreds of hard-fought battles, and the other “Pointer,” blazoned on
the course “1:59¼,” a race record not to be rivaled by any other blood.
And so, when as a progenitor of size, and beauty, and intelligence, and
speed, and stamina, and saddle, and all purpose qualities old Tom had
distanced the best hopes of his early admirers, and was gathered to his
fathers, his hoofs beat a tattoo down the gold-paved streets leading
to St. Peter’s beautiful stables. And the sir knight who drew his rein
at the door announced to St. Peter, “Old Tom Hal, Jr., No. 16934, from
Tennessee!” and St. Peter looked sad as he said: “I know him not by that
cognomen. Take him away. He bears the dub title given by the arch foe of
his race of pacers. Clean him of his saddle and cloth, bridle and dub;
groom him and clothe him in new purple and gold, and place on his saddle
skirt his proper title, viz., ‘Old Tom Hal No. 1,’ and return and ask Ed
Geers to ask ‘Old Wash’ to give him the first box stall to the right, and
care well for him. The bin of clipped golden oaks is for him, and you,
for having the temerity to bring this King here with such a dub title,
will go to outer darkness for sixty days.” And it was done.
The funeral of old Tom Hal No. 1 was celebrated at the beautiful mansion
place of the famed Bufords, near Buford’s Station, Giles County, Tenn.,
and when the thousands from forty miles around, and mourners from Ohio
who came to do honor had tethered their saddle steeds in the great open
timber, one could well imagine that the brilliant legion of the immortal
“Wheeler” had camped close on our trail. There were hundreds of sons,
daughters, grandsons and daughters and nephews and close kin to old
Tom Hal there, with moistened eyes and somber mien, as the band played
the dirge. The “silent Wheeler” of the harness brigade was there, with
the incomparable “Pointer,” 2:04½ as chief mourners, came in a special
coach, but there was not time for Pointer’s mourning compatriot to
deliver a eulogy. His was the still grief of one who mourns, but cannot
weep. All the good people of Maury, Giles, Williamson and adjoining
counties were there. The woods seemed full of the cavalry of peace.
Cannons of war had been molded into ploughshares, and swords had been
fashioned into blacksmith’s pruning knives, and after the time for music
and oration, there was a time for feasting, and then the assembled
multitude witnessed, not a miracle as to loaves and fishes, but a master
demonstration of the measureless, distinctive Southern hospitality
(which has to be born Southern to be operative, and seen and realized
to be appreciated) of Colonel Buford, on whose estate the funeral was
held. People had heard of barbecues, but some of us had never before
sniffed the enticing odors of meats thus baked, while our stomachs were
collapsed. Trenches some hundreds of feet long, and three feet wide,
were filled with live coals, embers of burning firewood, and across
these trenches, on green poles, lay wired the fresh sacrifices of lamb
and shoat, burnt offerings to the god of the race course, cut in half
lengthwise, and these poles (in the brawny hands of the dark-skinned,
faithful tillers, the salvation of the people in past time of peril,
and the necessity of the future for the development of the wonderful
Southland’s broad acres), so frequently turned as to insure a beautiful
bake. Suffice it to say the meat and bread and coffee went the whole
rounds with the great multitude, and there were many more than the
“twelve baskets” after all the people were fed. And while old Tom’s
spirit will go pacing on, his name, and his fame briefly, should be
carved on a native granite boulder of as many tons weight as can be moved
to a conspicuous place in the public square at Columbia, or some other
public center, where time or change of ownership would not interfere, as
the generations pass. I will be glad to aid such movement.
E. Z. STRIDE.
Cleveland, O., March 1, 1906.
The Old Cotton Gin
[There have been so many requests for copies of this poem that it is
reproduced. It has been adopted in all the public schools of Alabama and
recited on Alabama Day, December 14, each year.—E. E. Sweetland.]
It lies alone in the rank June corn,
A relic of days that are numbered and gone;
The June wind sings a song in its throat,
The June clouds lovingly over it float,
And through its skeleton ribs of steel
The moth-flies dance in a drowsy reel.
For its saws are rust
With canker and crust,
They hum no more from dawn to dusk—
And the lizard is ginner,
And out and in,
The spider is spinner
At the Old Cotton Gin.
Ay, many a day for the old, old South,
He spun his fleece from a fiery mouth,
And wove his woof in a fabric of gold—
As a picture is painted, a tale that is told.
And he sat in his might, this fallen thing,
A hoary monarch, an uncrowned king,
And over the land
With an iron hand,
He flung his wealth with a gesture grand,
And Might was the ginner—
Of barn and of bin
There was never a winner
Like the Old Cotton Gin.
Broad was the kingdom he ruled in his might,
Brave were the armies he rallied for fight,
Bright were the wings of his ships on the seas,
Bold were his merchantmen—kingly his ease.
True were his women in hut or in hall,
Sweet the soft sunshine that fell over all.
From banjo and bow
And the cotton’s long row,
Free-song and slave-song would mingle and flow.
And Pride was the ginner—
(Unpardonable sin!)
Was there ever a sinner
Like the Old Cotton Gin?
Alas, for his weavings—ay, tears for the day
When out from his loom came the jackets of gray,
And the locks that were plucked in despair from his head
Were woven to crimson in shrouds for his dead.
They died for the Sin the centuries had given,
And their blood is the pledge on the lintels of heaven.
By river and plain
They march not again,
And wet was his fleece with the blood of his slain—
For Death was the ginner—
And Riot and Din—
And Sorrow the spinner,
At the Old Cotton Gin.
He buried his dead, and a tenderer tone
Crept into his song, for he sang it alone;
But he wove as he sang and the pattern was bright—
The tapestry of stars that come with the night—
And he built his waste places and conquered by toil
And garnered in peace what was gathered in spoil,
And all the day long
He wove in his song
The patience of right in the pillage of wrong—
And Faith was the ginner,
The fabric to spin,
And Hope was the spinner
At the Old Cotton Gin.
With his Hope in the future, his Heart in the past,
He worked for his people and wove to the last;
And, tottering, he stood through the rift and the reel
And he died as he lived—with his hand on the wheel,
And sighing, his soul passed peacefully through,
As pure as the last lock of lint in the flue.
The Heart, whose beat
Was the Century’s feet,
Was willing to cease, but not to retreat.
And the New South was ginner,
The New Age was in,
The New Century spinner—
A New Cotton Gin.
Rear him—O sons of a generous sire—
Aloft on a monument, not on a pyre;
Base-stone of valor, column of youth,
Shaft-stone of chivalry, cap-stone of truth—
Honor him, sons of a land that is fair,
Let him not lie in the rank weeds there,
For see! from his night
He rises all bright,
He wakens! He wakens—a loom of new light—
With Fame for his ginner,
His kith and his kin,
And the world is the winner
In the Old Cotton Gin.
JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.
TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY
Devoted to Farm, Horse and Home.
TROTWOOD PUBLISHING CO., Nashville, Tenn.
Office 150 Fourth Ave., North.
JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE,
Editor-in-Chief.
E. E. SWEETLAND Business Manager.
GEO. E. McKENNON President.
JOHN W. FRY Vice-President.
EUGENE ANDERSON Treas.
WOOTEN MOORE Sec’y.
TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION: One Year, $1.00; Single Copy, 10 cents.
Advertising Rates on application.
NASHVILLE, TENN., APRIL, 1906.
With Trotwood
SPRING.
Lo, a faint blush runs trembling along
Through the air,
And the soul of the thrush bursts full into song
Everywhere.
There’s a throbbing and pulsing—the birth of a bloom—
Uplifting of purpose—out-shutting of gloom—
A radiancy rising of song and perfume—
And of prayer.
O listlessness sweet—O yearnings that spread
All about—
(As memories that meet in the eyes of the dead
Long shut out—)
There’s an infinite longing, a gleam and a glow
Of sapphire above and emerald below,
A bursting of buds, a melting of snow—
And of doubt.
—John Trotwood Moore.
* * * * *
Trotwood’s Department this month will discuss the old-time negro,
chiefly, all brought about by a correspondent who writes asking that he
discuss it.
The old-time darky is sui generis, and I sometimes fear his race is
almost extinct. The modern darky is no more like his ancestors, so far
as individuality is concerned, than the Greek of to-day resembles those
who fought around the walls of Troy. In other words, the modern Negro has
“caught on,” and there is now little difference between him, save in the
eternal negro that is in him, and any other class that he happens to run
with. The Negro of to-day may be divided into two great classes; he is
either a “nigger” or a “coon,” a vagabond, a shiftless, worthless fellow,
who lives to-day and lets to-morrow take care of itself; or else he is a
school teacher, a preacher, a fairly good mechanic, a good farm hand and
a peaceable, inoffensive citizen who will bear uncomplainingly injustices
under which a white race would rush to arms. These two classes make up
the Negro race, and between them they have managed to eliminate the
old-time darky we used to know and love. Out of a thousand darkies of the
present day, perhaps one old-time darky may be found; but even he may not
be found fit for character study. My observation is that it is extremely
rare to find one who gives us any idea upon which to build a story or a
poem.
* * * * *
The fact is, darky stories are always nine-tenths white and one-tenth
Negro. They are nine-tenths art, as most good stories are, and one-tenth
nature; but all so nicely blended that the art—as all real art is—is
concealed in the colors of the natural. And yet these stories are true to
nature—in fact so natural that we fail to see where the natural ceases
and the art begins. The darky who told about “Marse Chan” was the same
who told of “Unk Eden’ro and Meh Lady.” They are all a clever white man
who knows the darky as a mariner knows the sea, imitating the darky and
making for him a story. Joel Chandler Harris was wiser in making one
darky—Uncle Remus—tell all of his, and they therefore sound more natural.
He was also wise in selecting the nursery yarns of “Brer Rabbit” and
“Brer Fox,” for in telling them the darky is at his best. On the whole,
I expect that Harris is the greater interpreter of the two, but this
need not necessarily follow, because the Virginia and the Georgia darky
differ very much in dialect just as the Tennessee darky differs from
either of the others. Especially is this true of the Middle Tennessee
darky who happened to belong to the wealthier class of white people. For
every Negro is a born imitator.
* * * * *