ST. JOHN’S CHURCH, ASHWOOD, TENN.

(See “Historic Highways of the South,” in this issue.)

TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY

Christmas Eve Decorations.

Garlands of starlight o’er the heavens toss’d,

And mistletoe of moonmist hung afar,—

Wreaths of star-leaves, berry bright, emboss’d

In cluster’d panicles of full red-ripe star.

And trellises of soft white—coronals flung—

In winding wreaths and festoons of star-spray,

And lighted planets in dim alcoves hung

Unto the coming of His natal day.

And potted star-plants massed in splendor bright

About a lake whose mirror is the moon,

While sprays of milky-ways float soft and light

Or sink into the placid lake too soon.

And blossoming chorals burst from star-bud pod:

“The Heavens declare the glory of our God!”

John Trotwood Moore.

A Caprice of Santa Claus

By Valerie Farrington.

“How long is it before Christmas, Miss Edith?” inquired Mammy Rose, bending forward to peer into the oven where two mammoth fruit cakes in the process of baking were sending out a delicious, savory odor.

“Just five days more, I am sorry to say. The yellow opera bag is still unfinished, so are the monogram handkerchiefs; these nuts must be picked for the praulines, and Agnes and I have undertaken to set the children’s doll house in order before the holidays. Rob and Jerry say we girls ought to begin to make our Christmas gifts on the 26th of December to be ready by next year.”

“Hit ’pears to me, honey, you an’ Miss Agnes with yo’ needles and paintin’ has turned out nigh ’nough contraptions fur a county fair. Sakes alive! Miss Edith!” exclaimed Mammy Rose, glancing through the window into the garden, “Look at dat big barr’l w’at Jeff’s a-bringin’ in!”

The kitchen door opened suddenly and the good-natured face and woolly head of the yard man appeared inside for a moment.

“Here’s a heap o’ apples or oranges w’at somebody’s done sont,” he announced. “De ’spress man dumped ’em at de side do’. I ’spect dey’s a present; he said thar wan’t nothin’ ter pay.”

“O! They must be oranges or grapefruit for Mother from Florida. Uncle Alex always remembers us at Christmas time,” said Edith. “Roll them into the store room and remove the head of the barrel!”

“We sho’ air gwine ter hev’ some nice little puddin’s did Christmas ef folks does say de orange crap’s a failure,” declared Mammy Rose, standing with arms akimbo, her face brightening over the prospect of good cheer, then, in a stentorian voice she hailed the young negro who was disappearing in the direction of the barn.

“You Jeff! Stop dar! Wa’n’t dar a box or a package or somethin’ else lef’ here? Dar ought ’er been,” she said, assuming an air of mingled mystery and importance. “I was kind o’ ’spectin’ a ’spress package myse’f.”

“You? An express package, Mammy Rose? From whom?” asked Edith, pausing in her work to scrutinize the picturesque and somewhat bent figure in the plaid gingham apron and bandanna head-handkerchief.

“From dem lazy niggers up dar in Virginia, Lizzie and Callie. I’m gittin’ mighty tired o’ deir onreliableness, always promisin’ an’ promisin’ ter do things an’ neber doin’ ’em. ’Pears ter me like a little book learnin’s done turned ’em plumb fools, but ef dey does flop dey se’ves ’round wid dey high edycation, de’s one word in the booktinary dey ain’t neber foun’ de meanin’ ob; dey don’t know nothin’ ’tall ’bout gratichude. Ain’t I done had dat Lizzie and Callie down here, livin’ off o’ me a whole winter, neber feelin’ sure fur cartain dat dey was my nieces, dey being yaller-brown like m’lasses candy an’ me as black as der pot hit’s made in? Ain’t I axed ’em ter come all unbeknownst ’case dey wrote dey was my sister Car’line’s orphan chil’un, an’ case dey come from Petersburg whar I come from when I was a little gal? Ain’ I sont ’em things an’ sont ’em things Christmas after Christmas till I’se clean wo’ out? I b’lieves in ’ciprocation, I does fur er fac’!”

For more than thirty years Mammy Rose had been a faithful employee in the Radcliffe family, and naturally everything that affected her happiness was a matter of household concern. She had taken up her abode in the old Colonial residence before any of the children were born, and, in point of fact, she was as much a fixture there as were the drawing-room mirrors or the mahogany stairway. As an accomplished cook, Mammy Rose’s reputation had spread far and wide till she had become the envy of every troubled housekeeper in the vicinity. Strange to say, though she could prepare a hundred dainty dishes fit “to set before a king,” she couldn’t for the life of her have given the exact recipe for a single one. When asked how she made her famous Sally-lunn, corn-pudding, waffles or jelly cake, she would look very wise and say, “You see, I cooks by ’sperience; I takes a little ob dis, an’ a little of dat, an’ ef tain’t ’nough I takes some mo’.” But, perhaps, in the care of young children Mammy Rose was most truly in her element. She loved them and “spoiled” them as if they were her own, and often, when tired of wrestling with the pots and kettles, she would resort to the nursery for a fresh assignment of duty. Nothing delighted her more than to play the role of fairy godmother to the little folks.

Provoked beyond her habitual good humor on this December afternoon by the neglect of her young kinswomen, Mammy Rose’s tirade was at its height when Mrs. Radcliffe stepped into the room to give an order. Upon hearing the names Lizzie and Callie pronounced in strident, contemptuous tones, she glanced significantly at Edith, suspicioning that the derelict nieces were again at the bottom of the trouble.

“I wouldn’t set my heart upon getting that box if I were you, Rosa,” said the mistress, when the matter had been explained. Judging from past delinquencies that the girls’ promises were of the pie crust kind, she wished to soften the servant’s disappointment.

“Now, see here, Mammy, Lizzie and Callie may not be totally ungrateful, but perhaps they just won’t remember to send you a gift,” suggested Edith, offering the only consolation that came to mind.

“Humph! won’t remember!” sniffed the old darky, with a fine show of scorn. “What is it de Scripture says about rememberin’—Thee, O, Jerusalem, if my right hand be cut off? They can’t fergit dis time! I done made Jeff write ter Lizzie and Callie mo’n a month ago tellin’ ’em ’xactly w’at I’se ’spectin’!”

“Oh, you surely didn’t do that!” cried Edith, amused as well as shocked at the old woman’s candor.

“Yes’um, I swar I did!” came the unwavering reply. “Thar’ ain’t no beatin’ ’round de bush ’bout me; ef dey’s got a spark ob decency or se’f-respec’ dey’ll do w’at I tole ’em.”

“What did you say you wanted?” asked Mrs. Radcliffe, whose curiosity had become thoroughly aroused.

“I tole ’em ter sen’ me a bedquilt an’ I sent ’em a bushel o’ calico scraps ter he’p it ’long. Then I wanted a big jar of watermillon-rind pickle, a gallon of peach preserves, an’ er sack full ob fresh goose feathers. Last of all I axed fur er warm gray shawl. Ef dey had ter leabe off anything, I said let it be dat shawl, ca’se my ole one’s mighty nigh good ’nough to w’ar to pra’r meetin’s an’ funerals.”

During the days that intervened the conversation in the kitchen and the Christmas festivities, Mammy Rose was constantly on the alert, each morning awakening with new hope and at night evincing great disappointment as package after package arrived for old and young and nothing came for her. By the morning of the 24th, she had become extremely morose and ceased to take further interest in the holiday preparations. However, even in that state of mind she continued to hail every express man, delivery man, and “A. D. T. boy” who came in sight, demanding to know whether they had a package at the ’spress office for Rose Wilkerson that they were “too triflin’ ter deliver.”

But, poor old soul, miserable as she was, she was by no means the only individual who was dejected over the non-appearance of the presents from Lizzie and Callie. Edith and Agnes were inclined to regard the matter very seriously. In fact, after luncheon on Christmas Eve, they called a family council in the library, desiring that some action be taken in the case. In spite of pressing engagements elsewhere, Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe, Grandfather and Grandmother, Rob and Jerry, and Uncle Joe Echols were present to lend a sympathetic ear to this vexed domestic problem.

Edith as voluntary counsel for the faithful stewardess plead her cause feelingly, eloquently, and with eminent success. Every member of that august body agreed that Mammy Rose must receive her box before bedtime on Christmas Eve, preferably by fair means, otherwise, by foul. If, upon investigation at the Southern office, there proved to be no package for her from those Virginia ingrates, why Old Santy himself must provide one. A very simple plan was put into operation. The men formed themselves into a “ways and means” committee, authorizing the girls to draw upon them for the necessary finances. Mrs. Radcliffe believed that she could purchase a pretty calico quilt from the “Ladies’ Aid Society” of her church, and the pickle and preserves could be procured from the Woman’s Exchange. Grandma thought she knew where a soft, warm shawl might be found and she put on her bonnet and cloak to go and select it herself. In the bustle and stir of the fleeting afternoon, however, the sack of fresh goosefeathers loomed up as a staggering proposition.

“Suppose we give her an eiderdown sofa pillow; she can rip it and take the feathers out after Christmas if she wishes to make some other use of them,” proposed Agnes.

“Yes, that’s all right. We haven’t time to go poking around in poultry yards or to rip Grandma’s feather bed,” chimed in Rob.

“Buy her a pair of flannel foot-warmers as a contribution from me,” said Grandpa Radcliffe. “I am aware how uncomfortable cold feet are in the winter.”

“Well, if you’ll have all of that—I was about to say plunder—up at my office at five sharp, I’ll undertake to send it out in a transfer wagon by half-past six,” said Uncle Joe, thus solving the last difficulty.

By the time the family had assembled for the sumptuous Yule feast that evening, the depression of Mammy Rose’s mental status manifested itself in grumpy monosyllables. She was secretly lamenting the fact that she had told anybody about her expectations. The other servants had been whispering and snickering over her chagrin, or, she thought they had, while the white people from the children up seemed fairly bubbling over with Christmas mirth. Apparently, every one had some particular reason for rejoicing except herself. Thus far, this Christmas had been the most “disappintin’” one that she could remember.

Half an hour later when the salad course was being served the cuckoo clock and the front door bell sounded in unison. Everyone seated around the table gave an expectant start. Presently the man servant staggered in under the weight of a great wooden box that was directed to “Rose Wilkerson, Care of Mr. Theodore Radcliffe, 456 Spruce Street, Memphis, Tenn.” Mammy Rose bounded in through the back hall door the moment her name was pronounced. The thunder clouds had disappeared from her brow and her face was wreathed with smiles. “I know’d it, I know’d it all along!” she declared. “My, but ain’t it heavy, an’ don’t h’it rattle. It’d be jes like dem scatter-brained gals ter pack things so as ter get peach preserves all ober my bran’-new shawl.”

A friendly audience followed the radiant old woman to the kitchen amid stifled laughter and concealed nudging and many pairs of eyes rested with affectionate interest upon her while she nervously assisted Jeff to draw out the nails. The first thing that met her gaze was the peach preserves; three whole jars of it were lifted out in succession. “Land o’ Goshen!” she exclaimed. “Ain’t I gwine ter hab a feast? They must o’ thought I was gwine ter set up a eatin-house—an’ a whole gallon o’ watermillon-rind pickles. Ef dat don’t beat——”

Rob had extracted the gray shawl from the odd conglomeration in the box, and he laid it lightly over her shoulders. “Lor! Dis here gyarment sho’ is warm an’ must er cost a heap o’ money. All dis comin’ on top o’ my grumbling, too. ’Pears like wonders don’t neber stop ceasin’!” Next she drew out the satin sofa cushion and for a half a minute she stared at it in blank amazement. For the first time vague misgivings as to where the gifts came from began to arise within her. “My—ee! Dis sho’ is pretty, an’ somebody had mighty good taste,” she ventured to say. She handled it very gingerly, however; according to her way of thinking it hardly seemed intended for her personal use and was far too perishable to adorn a negro cabin.

“Well, I guess Lizzie and Callie must hev struck the Louisiana Lott’ry,” she declared, sighting the pink and white satin quilt. “Dis here spread cartin’ly is made after a handsome pattern, but I’ll be blest ef I knows how dey done it out o’ dem mixed calico scraps. Jes ter think o’ dem young niggers puttin’ dey se’ves to all dis trouble fur de sake ob Mammy Rose!”

In the midst of her jubilation the electric bell rang again; rang furiously this time. A man at the door handed in a wooden box about two and a half feet square. It was for Mistress Rose Wilkerson and came from Petersburg, Virginia. Every confederate in the room gasped audibly. Mammy Rose grasped the end of the table to steady herself. Mr. and Mrs. Radcliffe exchanged uneasy glances, Grandma Radcliffe turned very white and sat down suddenly, and a sepulchral silence reigned broken only by the sound of the hatchet in Jerry’s deft hand. To the darkies assembled in the background there was something “spookey” about the square parcel; they wouldn’t have touched it for worlds. Edith was the first person to whom the humorous side of the situation presented itself. Stepping forward with commendable presence of mind, she tore away the brown butcher’s paper that concealed the contents of the second box. A small gray plaid shoulder shawl fell out upon the floor; a card was attached to it bearing these words: “To Aunt Rose from her deserving nieces Lizzie and Callie Goode.”

Simultaneously both women dived into the melange of queer treasures and brought forth a little China vase that was decidedly “niggery” (no other word could adequately describe it

), a small jar of peach marmalade, and a sack of loose goose feathers. That last article broke the spell. Further effort at maintaining the deception was useless—the plot was out. Mammy Rose, no longer mystified, but on the verge of hysterics over the honors done her, essayed to express her gratitude: “Well, if you all ain’t de beatin’est white folks an’ ef I ain’t de discomboberatedest critter dat ever——!” Choking with emotion, she raised her brimming eyes to her benefactors to find herself—alone.

The Air and the Water

By Wm. Denison, Fargo, N. D.

“The air and the water contain all the invisible essences of things, that from which all plants and minerals arise, and of which they are, so to speak, only condensations or precipitations, so that they become manifest to our crude senses.” Assuming that the above idea is the truth, and we fully believe it is, then the air and the water of this earth certainly must play a most important role in the weal or woe of all things terrestrial, whether animate or inanimate.

Corroborating the above idea, at least the air part of it, which is true, being of such paramount importance was advanced four or five years ago at a meeting of the National Convention of Chemists, at Washington, D. C. But they failed to recognize that the water was equally as important. However, some wonderful things were said at that meeting of chemists, among others, that for a long time past suggestions had been thrown out to the effect that the exhaustion of the soil would inevitably wipe out the human race; or at least reduce it greatly in numbers before many hundred years. But these scientists announced a new discovery, which put another face on the problem. They declared that this country alone was able to support In comfort 500 million people—a number equal to nearly one-third the world’s population at that time. Thanks for this discovery. The land, while producing greater amounts of foods, is to become steadily richer and more fertile. This great discovery of these chemists at the national convention, is that it is atmosphere, and not the soil, mainly, that produces the crops. Take all the hay or wheat or corn that is yielded on an acre of land and burn it, stalks and all. It will all disappear save about two per cent of the total weight. This two per cent of ash represents what the soil has furnished in the shape of mineral matter. The farmer of the future must look above for his nitrogen. Aye, and also look below for his moisture. With the aid of this new knowledge the present wheat growing regions can be multiplied by three. Today ten average acres planted to wheat produce 150 bushels of cereal. With very little trouble and slight cost those average ten acres can be made to yield 400 bushels. This is simply a question of increasing the average yield from thirteen to about forty bushels.

A good many acres of new land in the Northwest produce forty bushels of wheat at a crop. They do it because the land contains the requisite quantities of nitrogen, phosphoric acid and potash. Supply those materials to other acres in proper amounts and with climatic conditions not unfavorable their yield will be as great.

According to these chemists this is the keynote of the whole business. They say it is no longer accepted as a fact that a non-fertile field is useless. On the contrary, it is known that such a field merely needs to be supplied with the proper elements, cheaply obtained, in order to produce richly. Suppose a farmer has such a field, and that he has intelligence enough to take advantage of the new knowledge. He goes to a chemist and has a sample of the soil analyzed. One, perhaps more, of three things is certainly the matter with it. It lacks potash, it does not contain sufficient phosphoric acid or there is an undue absence of nitrogen. Just for argument’s sake, suppose that there is enough potash and phosphoric acid—the two mineral earth elements essential to the make-up of plant life, but that nitrogen is lacking. The chemist, in that case, tells the farmer that he must put his field into condition to absorb the nitrogen from the air. This is extremely simple, and this is all there is about it. All the farmer has to do if his soil is deficient in nitrogen is to plant a legume (of which there are 6,500 species scattered over this earth of ours) suitable to his section of country. The cowpea is best adapted for the South, and beans and red clover for the North, or any other leguminous plants suited to his locality. These plants have an affinity for nitrogen, and they drink it from the atmosphere as a baby takes milk from a bottle. The most costly and indispensable of all plant foods is nitrogen. Yet there is plenty of it at hand, inasmuch as that substance composes eighty per cent of the atmosphere. The only trouble is to get it out of the air and into the soil, but there is no real difficulty about that.

Strange, is it not, readers, that the costliest, most expensive plant food—nitrogen—heretofore, to every farmer, is so abundantly supplied by an all-wise Creator.

We have been advocating through the press this knowledge for the past twelve years, which these scientists call new. But we regret that in their deliberation they did not give due consideration, in fact, not any at all, of the equal importance to the water end of this article.

If the reader will refer to the account of the creation in the first chapter of Genesis, seventh verse, he will see that the Creator’s second day’s work was dividing the waters of the atmosphere and the waters of the earth.

This preceded the third day of creation, when vegetation began, which shows conclusively that the waters were equally as important as the air. It is obvious, then, that this covering of the earth’s surface with vegetation was for a wise purpose, that of conserving the moistures of the earth without which there can be no successful crops raised. It is evident that our climate is changing in this country. Ten years ago a writer of Chicago, now deceased, gave a theory for the cause of our changing climate, which I indorse. “The cutting down of our virgin forests, which has been going on at a fearful rate for the past sixty years, and also the breaking up and putting under cultivation so large an area of prairie land in so short a time, is the direct cause. The equilibrium between the moisture of the atmosphere and the moisture of the earth is maintained by the virgin forests of a country, and when the virgin forests are slaughtered, as they have been in this country by the lumber kings, that equilibrium is lost. Then comes drouth, fires, famines, pestilence and death.”

This theory is borne out in the fact that there always is so much humidity in the atmosphere during a protracted drouth. The histories of the ancient and modern civilizations also bear out this theory. There is no doubt but that the ancient civilizations had immense virgin forests to begin with, and that as soon as these virgin forests were consumed, then the equilibrium between the moisture of the atmosphere and the moisture of the earth were destroyed and one after the other of these great nations have perished by drouth, famines, fires and pestilences. I cannot recall to mind ever having seen a natural spring of water on a treeless prairie. It is in the timber we find them, showing conclusively that the forests of a country make the great reservoir of its water supply.

To come down to modern civilizations, a pertinent comment is that made by Mr. Charles F. Adams on one of the causes that have led to the downfall of Spain. It is a fact that this peninsula once supported a population of about 45,000,000, but now holds a meager 17,000,000. The main reason for this is stated by Mr. Adams. “During the last three years I have spent much time in Europe, visiting among other countries Spain, Italy, Germany, France and England, and whoever wishes to study the effects of deforesting on a country and on its people should by all means visit Spain. Not only has the country been ruined, but the character of the people has been changed by the wholesale destruction of trees, and the neglect of their renewal. The rivers have become mountain torrents and a large portion of the country is a rugged upland desert. The same process is to-day going on in Italy. The results in that country as noticed by me in visits ten years apart is lamentable. The ancient forests are being wholly stripped from the mountains, and while the rivers are converted into torrents, the water is not held in the soil. In Germany, on the other hand, the forestry laws are admirable. The result upon the country, climate and rainfall is apparent to the most careless observer.

“It is certainly timely to urge the United States that it shall not permit itself to copy the Spanish example of decay in this or any other respect.”

The facts stated by Mr. Adams have been corroborated again and again, to the effect that the denudation of the mountain slopes of Spain and the erosion of its soil have reduced it to a condition of semi-aridity and lessening its power to support population, one-third of which are to-day indulging in bread riots. Of all the civilized nations, we most nearly copy the Spanish stupidity in the waste of our forests. We should certainly set about showing ourselves to be wiser than the nation whose decay is now so evident.

Historic Highways of the South

Part I. St. John’s Church, Ashwood, Tennessee.

By JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE

In “The Banner of the Cross,” a Philadelphia paper, a writer, whose name is unknown, wrote, in 1842, the first description of the now famous chapel, St. John’s Church, on the pike leading from Columbia, Tenn., to Mt. Pleasant.

“It was my privilege,” says the writer, “in the month of January, 1834, to listen to the details of the progress of the Church in Tennessee from the lips of Bishop Otey, who had just been consecrated. I did not think then that in God’s providence I should ever witness in person the results of the Bishop’s labors in the then far-off country. But yesterday (September 4, 1842), which was a bright, beautiful Sabbath, I witnessed a scene gladdening to a church-man’s heart, and knowing your interest in all that concerns the Church in the Southwest, I have thought a sketch of it might be interesting.

“In this country, upon the road leading from Columbia to Mt. Pleasant, and about six miles from the former place, in a grove of majestic and towering oaks, may be seen a neat brick church of simple Gothic architecture; its interior plain and appropriate and capable of seating five hundred persons.

“It has been just completed and is the result of the joint liberality of Bishop Polk and three of his brothers, who, with a spirit worthy of commendation and imitation, have devoted a portion of the wealth with which God has blessed them to his service.

“Without aid from abroad, these gentlemen have erected and paid for this edifice and presented it, together with a plot of about six acres of land, to the diocese. The lot has been selected from an eligible portion of the bishop’s plantation, within a few hundred yards of whose mansion the church stands. It has been erected for the convenience of the few families in the neighborhood who, with a large number of negroes on their plantations, will make quite a congregation. For the latter class the bishop has been in the habit, for a long time, of holding regular services in his own house. They will now have an opportunity of worshiping in a temple which they may almost call their own.”

After referring to the services in the church on the day of its consecration, the writer continues:

“There is yet one thing which I must not forget to notice. I have said that on the adjoining plantations there are negroes for whose spiritual good this church was in part erected. By the time the white congregation was seated in the body of the church, the door, the vestibule, the gallery and staircase were crowded with blacks. Even the vestry room was filled with them, an old man sitting within the doorway, almost at the very feet of the clergy. A happier group I have seldom seen. Some of them had prayer books in their hands, but, for their general benefit in singing, the psalms were given out in the old-fashioned way—two lines at a time—and, I am sure, during the singing the loudest psalms of praise came from the sable groups.

“When the whites had commenced, a cordial invitation from the bishop was given to the blacks to come forward. At the same time he explained in a few words what was required of them in worthily partaking of that sacrament.

“Then quite a great number came, with much reverence and devotion, to that feast precious alike to bond and free. Ah! could some of our friends have witnessed that scene, how it would have silenced a suspicion that a slaveholder values not the soul of his slave. Thus does the enlarged benevolence of these men embrace a class hitherto too much neglected, a class which, in our good city of brotherly love, are suffered to grovel in ignorance, degradation and sin:

“Here will they learn to worship God in spirit and in truth; here be taught to pray with the heart and with the understanding also; and here, when death has arrested their course upon earth, will they find a resting place under the tall old oaks in their own churchyard; for the lot upon which the church is built has, for some time, been set apart for the purpose.”

As intimated above, the church was built by the then bishop, after Gen. Leonidas Polk and his brothers, upon their own estate, for the accommodation of the communicants around them and their slaves. The description above presents a feature of slavery which was common throughout the South, and shows how zealously the master looked after the spiritual welfare of his slaves.

View of St. John’s from the Pike.

The Polk family—not the President, James K. Polk—who lived in Columbia, six miles away, and was a relative of the Ashwood Polks, but the Polks at Ashwood—lived in true baronial style. The most distinguished of that family was Bishop Leonidas Polk, who, while bishop, was the moving spirit in the erection of the chapel, copying after the rural chapels of England. Leonidas Polk was educated at West Point for a soldier, and graduated in 1827, but so strong was the other side of his character that he resigned his commission in the army and entered the ministry. This was a sore disappointment to his father, the old Revolutionary soldier, Col. Wm. Polk, causing him to write to his son that the step was the spoiling of a good soldier for a poor preacher.

But the old gentleman, who himself had joined Washington’s army at the age of eighteen years and had fought all through the Revolutionary War, being thrice wounded and gaining the title of Colonel and the reputation of being one of the ablest soldiers of his day, was greatly mistaken in this choice of his soldier-preacher son. Not only did Leonidas Polk become one of the great pioneer preachers of his day, but, as Dr. Wm. M. Polk says in his biography of him: “It might have touched the feelings of the veteran if he could have known that Leonidas would one day buckle on the sword—that he would lead more men in the field than his father had ever seen arrayed in battle, and that he would die at last a soldier’s death in the field of honor, fighting for what he deemed to be the cause of right and liberty.”

Speaking of Col. Wm. Polk, the same historian tells this amusing incident of the old soldier:

“When Lafayette returned to America in 1824 and made his memorable tour through the States, Colonel Polk was one of the commissioners appointed to do the honors of the State of North Carolina to his old comrades in arms.

“An eye-witness has left an amusing account of some incidents of the reception of Lafayette on his passage through North Carolina. Col. William Polk has been requested by Governor Burton to provide a cavalry escort for the illustrious visitor, and a troop of excellently drilled and handsomely uniformed volunteers was formed from the Militia of Mecklenburg and Cabarrus escort, under command of General Daniel, and met Lafayette near the Virginia line. There was much hand-shaking and speech-making.”

“But,” as the narrator writes, “Lafayette spoke but little English and understood less. He had retained a few phrases, which he would utter, generally in an effective manner, but sometimes ludicrously mal a propos.”

“Thanks, my dear friend! Great country! Happy man! Ah, I remember!” were nearly his whole vocabulary. He was received at the borders of each State by appointed commissioners, and when he had been escorted through it he was safely delivered to the commissioners of the next commonwealth. At Halifax the cortege was met by General Daniel, who had stationed a company of soldiers by the roadside, flanked by the ladies, who were assembled to do honor to the guest of the State. It had been arranged that the ladies were to wave their handkerchiefs as soon as Lafayette came into sight, and when General Daniel exclaimed “Welcome, Lafayette!” the whole company was to repeat the welcome after him. Unluckily, the ladies, misunderstanding the programme, waited too long, and were reminded of their duty by a stentorian command of, “Flirt, ladies, flirt! flirt, I say!” from the general, who walked down the line to meet the Marquis. Equally misunderstanding their part, the soldiers, instead of shouting, “Welcome, Lafayette,” in unison at the close of the general’s address, repeated the sentence, one by one, and in varying tones.

“Now a deep voice would exclaim: ‘Welcome, Lafayette!’ then perhaps the next man in a shrill tenor would squeak: ‘Welcome, Lafayette!’ and so on down the line. Daniel, frantic at the burlesque of his order, vainly attempted to correct it, but as he unfortunately stammered when he was excited, his ‘Say it all to-to-together!’ could not overtake the running fire of ‘Welcome, Lafayette!’ which continued all along the line. ‘Great country! Great country!’ replied Lafayette, turning to Colonel Polk, who was vainly trying not to smile. Observing and recognizing an old acquaintance, Lafayette greeted him with great effusion: ‘Ah, my friend; so glad to see you once more! Have you prospered and had good fortune these years?”

“‘Yes, General, yes; but I have had the great misfortune to lose my wife since I saw you.’

“Catching only the ‘Yes, General,’ and the word ‘wife,’ Lafayette supposed he was informing him of his marriage, and patting him affectionately upon the shoulder, he exclaimed: ‘Happy man! Happy man!’ nor could be made to understand that his observation was not a happy one.

“After replying to the address of welcome, which had been delivered by Colonel Polk from the steps of the Capitol, Lafayette, with all the dramatic action of a Frenchman, turned to Polk and before the old soldier knew what he was about, threw his arms about his neck and attempted to kiss him on the cheek. Colonel Polk straightened himself up to his full height of six feet four, and instinctively threw his head back to escape the caress; but Lafayette, who was a dapper little fellow, tiptoed and hung on to the grim giant, while a shout of laughter burst from the spectators and was with some difficulty turned into a cheer.

“Of Col. William Polk’s influence in the State of Tennessee, Governor Swain, of North Carolina, has said: ‘He was the contemporary and personal friend and associate of Andrew Jackson, not less heroic in war and quite as sagacious and more successful in private life.”

“It is known that Colonel Polk greatly advanced the interests and enhanced the wealth of the hero of New Orleans by information furnished him from his field notes as a surveyor, and in directing Jackson in his selections of valuable tracts of land in the State of Tennessee; that to Samuel Polk, the father of the President, he gave the agency of renting the most fertile section of that State; and selling his (William Polk’s) immense and valuable estate in lands in that, as first President of the Bank of North Carolina, he made Jacob Johnson, the father of President Andrew Johnson, its first porter, so that of the three native North Carolinians who entered the White House through the gates of Tennessee all are alike indebted for benefactions and for promotions to a more favorable position in life to the same individual, William Polk—a man whose insight into character rarely admitted of the selection and never of the retention of an unworthy agent.”

At the outbreak of the war, Leonidas Polk was appointed Major General by Jefferson Davis and became one of the great generals of the Confederacy. He was killed by a cannon ball, on Pine Mountain, near Marietta, Ga., June 14, 1864.

Continuing the subject of the slave-owners’ interest in the spiritual welfare of his slaves, Miss Beauchamp, who was governess in Bishop Polk’s family, tells this amusing story:

“The Bishop, who would at times be away for weeks on visitations through his diocese, always brought on his return joy and pleasure to the household. He would amuse us for days with a recital of his adventures in the border regions of Louisiana and with the people he would meet there. On one occasion, having been up Red River, where an Episcopal clergyman was seldom seen, he was called in to baptize a sturdy, four-year-old youngster, who defiantly resisted sacrament unless his black Fidus Achates, Jim, would receive it at the same time. ‘Well,’ said the Bishop, ‘bring in Jim and I will make a Christian of him, too.’ Accordingly, Jim, being instructed by his mistress, was brought into the parlor; the pair went through the ceremony with perfect propriety and were dismissed to their play. Meanwhile, the friends and neighbors who had called to assist at the baptism and pay their respects to the Bishop, sat in solemn state, awaiting the announcement of dinner. Smallpox had been lurking in the country. Every one was excited on the subject of vaccination, and discussions as to whether it had taken on this or that subject had been the order of the day for more than a week. Suddenly the circle was astounded by the reappearance of Jim, who exclaimed, almost breathless with excitement: ‘Mistes! mistes! you must have Marse Tom baptized over ag’in; it never tuck that ar time. He’s out yonder cussin’ the steers wusser’n ever, and says he ain’t gwinter stop for nobody.’ The ice melted at once, and the stiffness of the circle vanished as the Bishop turned to his hostess and said: ‘A commentary on the doctrine of baptismal regeneration, my dear madam.’

“Every Sunday afternoon all the negroes on the plantation came up to the house and were taught by Mrs. Polk, her daughters and myself in different classes. Singing entered largely into the exercises, many of the negroes having a taste for music, and some of them excellent voices. The ceremonies of marriage and baptism were always performed by the Bishop himself and the names chosen by the negroes were sometimes very amusing. Many of them could not read, and they showed their appreciation of Greek mythology and Shakespeare by the number of Minervas and Ophelias among them. One Sunday twenty-five little negro infants were taken into the Bishop’s arms and christened. Though the scene was a very impressive and interesting one, yet some of the names were so droll to my ears that I could scarcely preserve a becoming gravity. One was named ‘Crystal Palace,’ another, ‘Vanity Fair,’ etc. But when a little creature, black as Erebus and squalling with its mouth extending to enormous size, was taken into the Bishop’s arms to be named ‘Prince Albert’ it was impossible for me to resist longer, and a heavy fit of coughing, gotten up for the occasion, saved me from a reproving look from the Bishop.’”

The Cemetery at St. John’s, Where Generals Cleburne, Strahl and Granbury Were Buried.

One of the most beautiful and touching scenes is quoted further from the same book, and related by the Bishop’s wife, on page 176.

After describing the visitation of cholera in the winter of 1849-50, and the Bishop’s almost fatal illness from it, together with almost all his family and the death of nearly a hundred of the servants of himself and friends, Mrs. Polk relates this touching incident:

“As soon as the Bishop was able—indeed, at the risk of a relapse—he was at the bedside of the sick and the dying. The last case of cholera occurred on the 7th of June, when a very fine servant, named Wright, by trade a blacksmith, was attacked. His master had been reading and praying with him. Wright raised his head and said: ‘Master, lift me up.’ ‘I am afraid to, Wright,’ the Bishop said—‘the doctors say it might be fatal.’ ‘I am dying now, master; lift me up.’ The Bishop raised him, when Wright suddenly threw his arms around his master’s neck and exclaimed: ‘Now, master, I can die in peace; I do love you so I have often wanted to hug you, and now let me die resting here on your heart and you praying for me!’ His wish was complied with and soon he was at rest.”

St. John’s Church received its most sacred and consecrated fame during the war. When Hood’s army invaded Tennessee after the fight around Atlanta, in November, 1864, the route of the army lay along this pike in the march to Nashville. The army had been marching over the poor lands of the barrens, the hills of Georgia and the barrens of the Highland Run, and when it entered Middle Tennessee, in the garden spot of which sat this little church, Gen. Patrick R. Cleburne, who had won great fame as a dashing fighter, raised his hat to the restful beauty and quietness of St. John’s and remarked: “If I am killed in the coming battle, I would like to be buried yonder.” In a few days occurred the bloody battle of Franklin, in which not only Cleburne, but Generals Gist, Strahl, Granbury and Adams—five of the greatest field officers of Hood’s army, were killed, and all except Generals Adams and Gist, were buried in the beautiful cemetery at St. John’s. Years afterward, one by one, their remains were exhumed and carried, with fitting honors, to their former homes, where monuments had been erected to their memories. General Adams was killed on the breastworks, his horse falling half over, and he himself over in the enemy’s lines supported and soothed by one of the officers who mourned the mortal wound, saying that he was too brave a man to die. Cleburne fell leading his men up to the breastworks.

The communion silver for St. John’s was given by Mrs. Sarah H. Polk, the widow of the old Revolutionary soldier, and the mother of Gen. Leonidas Polk. It was beautiful and massive. The war left St. John’s desolate, the Federal army burned the beautiful and imposing mansion of the fighting bishop, the communicants were scattered and for nearly half a century the picturesque chapel has, with occasional services in it, alone stood silent sentinel over its great dead a monument of an heroic age.

The account of how the communion silver was saved during the war is a story told by one of the ladies of the Polk family, and so generally interesting that it is related here, as it illustrates so perfectly the peculiar superstitious nature of the negro:

One of the most faithful negroes belonging to Col. Geo. W. Polk was a negro named Wiley, who had been in the family as a trusty and faithful servant for so many years that Colonel Polk thought he could trust his life in Wiley’s hands. Another negro was old John, a very old negro, who was gardener, and too old to do much more than keep up the flower garden and the walks of the estate. Word was brought to Colonel Polk that some Federals stationed in Columbia, six miles away, intended to make a midnight raid on St. John’s and secure the silver service at the church. Perhaps it was Wiley himself who brought the information, and that the raid, or rather the theft, would occur that night. It did not take Colonel Polk long to act. Soon after dark, taking Wiley and a small express, he went to the old church and secured the silver. Silently he and the negro went out in the dark carrying the silver in a large cedar box and taking off the top of one of the old square box-tombs, he hid it there and placed the top slab back in its place.

Trusting Wiley implicitly, he did not believe the silver would ever be found.

Several days passed, and Colonel Polk felt that all was secure. But one morning as he walked early in the garden he saw old John, the gardener, looking at him furtively and in a peculiar way. Wiley was also around, and the old negro showed plainly that he wished to say something to his master that he did not wish Wiley to hear. Knowing the negro nature as he did—that they never came out openly and said what they thought—and that the furtive glances which old John gave him now and then meant more than words, the Colonel waited until Wiley had left, and purposely entered into conversation with the old negro. He did not want to flush his game, as he would have done by a direct question, so he patiently waited until the old negro should speak in his own way, for he knew that the old negro has something important to tell him in his own negro way.

“Marster,” said the old man at last, “I had sich a quare dream las’ night, I thort I’d tell you, and maybe you could ’terprit it for de ole man. It’s hung onto me all day an’ pestered me so I can’t wuck, an’ I can’t do nothin’ till I tells you. I feels sho’ it means old John is gwineter go soon, fur I seed two angels as plain as I ever seed anybody, but I can’t jes zackly understan’ it all, an’ I thort maybe ef I’d tell you, you mout he’p me.”

“Go on, John,” said the Colonel; “I shall be glad to help you interpret the dream.”

“Wall, Marse George, I dreamed I wuz down at the ole church a wanderin’ among the tombs, out in the ole part, among the trees. An’ den I kinder fell into a trance, an’ den I heard a voice say: ‘John, git up an’ come wid me.’ I riz an’ looked, an’ I see a pale light shinin’ from de church winder, an’ bimeby I seed, two angels come out uv de church. One wuz er white angel an’ one wuz er black angel, an’ dey carried de corpse of er leetle chile in dey arms. Dey come out de church an’ put de coffin in er waggin an’ den dey move off solem. I foller de sperits, an’ dey carried de corpse of dat leetle chile to er ole tomb an’ tuck offen de top an dey put de leetle dead chile in de ole tomb an’ den dey vanished. It seem lak a long time went by—mebbe two nights—an’ den I seed, way in de night, ’twix’ midnight an’ day, other sperits ride inter de ole church yard—soldier sperits, mounted on steeds—an’ dey rid up to de tomb an’ broke it open an’ tuck de corpse of de leetle chile an’ went away. Now, Marse George, dat’s pesterin’ me mighty. Whut dem soldier sperits wanter pester de body uv dat leetle chile fur?”

The Colonel saw at once the application of the dream, and that it was the negro way of warning him without letting Wiley know that the warning had ever been given. He reassured the old darky, who walked off to his work satisfied. That night Colonel Polk went alone to the old tomb and took out the silver, burying it in his garden. About midnight, Wiley led the Federals to the tomb, only to find the silver gone. But Wiley never came home again. Knowing that his secret was out, he ran off with the soldiers.

For many years, as remarked above, St. John’s held the remains of Generals Cleburne, Strahl and Granbury, three of the five generals who fell around the breastworks of Franklin. But one by one, as the years went by, the remains of these brave men were removed and carried to their native States—Cleburne to Arkansas, Granbury to Texas—and finally, after nearly forty years of rest among the trees and under the beautiful bluegrass of St. John’s the gallant young soldier, Strahl, was taken to his old home in West Tennessee. Above them all, the people of their native soil have erected suitable monuments.

Only a few years ago were the ashes of Strahl removed. A brave, handsome young fellow he had been, daring as a soldier and true and self-poised, one of the recognized great soldiers of Hood’s ill-fated army. He led his men up to the side of the Federal entrenchments and down in the trenches. With those who had not been killed or wounded, he stood, and “keep firing” was the word he passed up and down the thin line, hugging one side of the breastwork while their enemies held the other, not six feet away. Mr. Cunningham, editor of The Confederate Veteran, who stood near the general, tells it: “The trench was filled with the dead and the dying. Standing with one foot on the bodies of my comrades and the other on the bank, I rested my rifle upon the top of the breastwork and kept firing at the enemy on the other side. The line had been so thinned that only a solitary fellow soldier stood near me, and now he was shot and fell heavily against me and tumbled over in the mass of dead men. This left me alone, and I asked General Strahl, who had stood for a long while in the trenches and passed up loaded guns to men above: ‘What shall I do, General?’ ‘Keep firing,’ came back, and almost with the word the general himself was shot, and while being carried to the rear was struck again and instantly killed.”

This was the brave young soldier who had lain for nearly forty years in his grave, and whom we were going to disinter and send back his ashes to his old home. It was a raw March day, some three years ago, when the committee from his State came for his remains, and as I stood by the grave and saw the muddy soil upturned beneath which, many years ago, had been laid the form of a handsome, brave and gallant man, cut down in the hey-day of his life and hope, I could but wonder at the changes the forty years had made. These men, who gave their lives for the cause, believing as truly as did their sires of old, that they were fighting for the right of self-government, could they awake to-day would wonder at the turn in the tide of affairs. A nation, the greatest in the world—the leader of thought and action, the champion of the defenseless and the power that stands for the real advancement of humanity; a people so thoroughly reunited that many of the very men who fought by the side of this one, who died, had fought since in the old uniform, under the old flag against the foes of their country. And, strangest of all, not one of the two things that this brave life died for would be accepted by his sons if given them to-day—the institution of slavery and the right of a State to secede.

These, if offered to the South to-day, would be unanimously rejected. Alas, what is our boasted wisdom but the wisdom of babes? And our bravery, what more than that of the unthinking school-boy who fights for a ring of marbles which he afterward throws at the birds?

Here once was a man—free, blessed, brave and handsome.—“Seeking the bubble reputation, even at the cannon’s mouth.”

Now, behold, we have gone down to where his body had been laid away, and, instead of a form, there is a dark line of mold where the coffin had been, part of the sole of a cavalry boot, a few bones and a skull.

“Behold this ruin! ’Twas a skull

Once of ethereal spirit full.

This narrow cell was life’s retreat,

This space was Thought’s mysterious seat.

What beauteous visions filled this spot!

What dreams of pleasures long forgot!

Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear,

Have left me trace of record here.

Beneath this mouldering canopy

Once shone the bright and busy eye—

But start not at its dismal void—

If social love that eye employed,

If with no lawless fire it gleamed,

But through the dews of kindness beamed.

That eye shall be forever bright

When sun and stars are sunk in night.

Within this hollow cavern hung

The ready, swift and tuneful tongue;

If Falsehood’s honey it disdained,

And, when it could not praise, was chained;

If bold in Virtue’s cause it spoke,

Yet gentle concord never broke,

This silent tongue shall plead for thee

When time unveils Eternity.”

Stooping, one of his old soldiers bent reverently to lift the skull of his general, and place it in the handsome casket intended for its final resting place. But it clung to the earth, and on looking we see that a beautiful rose bush that had been growing all the years at his head had sent its roots down, completely filling the skull and drawing nourishment from the mind that had once led conquering lines into battle.

’Tis sentiment only that counts at last. What more beautiful thought than that from the brain of the brave should come the perfume of the rose? Or, as Tennyson, In Memoriam:

“’Tis well—’tis something we may stand

Where he in English soil was laid,

And from his ashes may be made

The violets of his native land.”

The American nation, being young and foolish—a fighter, a doer, a seeker of dollars in the strenuous race called living—does not, in this century cherish as it will centuries hence, such a historical pile as the beautiful old chapel. For a sum, right now there are those who pass it dally who would tear it down to build a stolid stable for their asses. There are others who pass it without a thought, save, perhaps, that ’twere a pity so much good brick should go to waste. There are others who would like to remodel it, turn it into a dwelling, with Queen Anne shingles and a portico in front. In England, such piles as these are their inspiration and their pride—sermons in stones, history in walls, battles in bricks and mortar. It is these that cement the Englishman’s love for his country, its institutions, its laws. It is these which make him love to call it home. We are in the reckless, wild oat stage of money daring, of wealth producing, of gaudiness and strutting display. There is no place among us now for the poet and the scholar, the musician, the dreamer, the preacher. But the time is fast coming when all this will be changed—when to be unread is to be unbred—to be rich is to be rotten. In that day this quaint, epoch-making, history-shingled chapel, this pile of soul-nobleness, this monument to right on the battlefield of might, will outshine all the gilded domes which vulgar wealth has erected as a monument to vanity in the plains of plenty.

Back of the loaf is the snowy flour,

And back of the flour, the mill,

And back of the mill is the wheat and the shower,

And the sun—and the Father’s will.

M. D. Babcock.

The Drought.

It fringes the furze of the parching tongue

In the cheek of the fevered sky,

And deepens the glare of the sun’s red stare

In his dust-hung canopy.

The wrinkled rivers crawl and creep

O’er the sands of the sun-scorched bars,

And their fetid breath like the breath of Death

Floats up to the burning stars.

O it’s heat—heat—heat—

Till the heart throbs hot,

And dust, till the eyes grow dim,

And the fire-brands burn in the eyeball’s clot

And whirl while the sockets swim.

The white shafts shoot from the furnaced West

As bolts from a blazing gun,

And again from the East like a blood-red beast

Bursts out the burnished sun.

The crinkled air crawls o’er the earth,

A snake with a withered tongue—

And over the heath of his blight beneath

A spume-flaked banner is flung.

O it is dust—dust—dust—

Till the eyeballs ache,

And heat till the heart-drops run,

For the brown earth burns in the butchering bake

That leaps from the soul of the sun.

John Trotwood Moore.

A History of the Hals

By John Trotwood Moore

CHAPTER III.
THE ORIGIN OF THE PACER.

Dar cum er tur’bul freshet up on Bigby Creek one year

An’ old Marse Noah ’lowed de moon was hangin’ mighty queer,

An’ if it didn’t change its chune an’ get up on its horn

Dar was gwineter be a freshet jes’ es sho’ es you was born!

Sho’ ’nuff it tuck to rainin’ an’ it kivered all de groun’,

An’ de crick it got to risin’ an’ er spreadin’ all erroun’

Till it crip up in the stable whar de ole gray mule wus stayin’

An’ skeered ’im so he jined de church an’ got right down to prayin’.

But dat didn’t stop de freshet, Nachur’ bleeves in er variety—

An’ de good Lord He don’t bank much on dis ober-sudden piety—

So He made it rain de harder—O He was mad es pizen’—

For de rain it kep’ er fallin’ an’ de crick it kep’ er risin’!

Sed de mule onto de yudder stock: “Dear frien’s, you all am sinners,

Better think mo ’bout yore mortal souls an’ less erbout yo’ dinners!

’Tis cla’r to my min’ sum ob you dun clean furgot yo’ raisin’

Er follerin’ arter idul gods—or mebbe chicken chasin’!

Dar’s Tom Hal and de Donk’y jes es wurldly es kin be, sah!

Dar’s jes’ one virchus man heah and its plain dat man am me, sah!

You kno’ yo’selves I’ve nurver had no meannes’ to attone fur,

I goes by whut de good book sez an’ nurver throws a stone, sah!”

He skeered ’em so he got ’em all to start up a camp meetin’,

An’ sech er crowd you nurver seed a wailin’ an’ a weepin’,

But dat didn’t stop de freshet—O de Lord was mad es pizen—

An’ de rain it kep’ er fallin’ an’ de crick it kep’ er risin’!

Den de ’possum cum frum out de woods, de coon from out de holler,

De ba’r frum out de canebrake an’ de horg frum out de waller,

De Speckled Bull, de Billy Goat—dey all cum in a hurry—

An’ got religion den an’ dar, for all ob ’em wus skurry!

So de mule he babtize ebry one—ebry son an darter—

“Salvation it am free,” he sed—“an’ dars no eend to water!”

Den Brudder Hal pass ’roun de hat to bild de Lord a fence, suh!

De Donk’y jine de church choir an’ bin in it eber sense, suh!

De bull dey make de Eunuck of—de Billy Goat de elder—

To hold de sister when she shout—an’ Billy he has held ’er!

But dat didn’t stop de freshet—O, de Lord wus mad as pizen—

An’ de rain it kep’ er fallin’ an’ de crick it kep’ er risin’!

Den sed de mule, es up he riz from prayer, an’ Satan tussle:

“Dar’s sech a thing es savin’ grace, an’ sech a thing as hustle!

It’s plain we’ve missed de track ob good Ole Marster’s secret wishes,

An’ if we all don’t bild er ark we’ll soon be food for fishes!”

So dey bilt er ark ob gopher-wood—de mule dey ’lected Noah—

Becase he tell ’em years ago he was in de ark befoah.

An’ dey bilt it strong an’ snug an’ tight—de crick it kep’ er risin’—

To hold ’em all dat creep or crawl—from de snake onto de bisin!

An’ den dey all chip in dey grub—de mule a bar’l ob brandy—

An’ wink his eye an’ laf an’ say: “Dese snakes cum mighty handy!”

But dat didn’t stop de freshet—O, de Lord wus mad as pizen—

An’ de rain it kep’ er fallin’, an’ de crick it kep’ er risin’!

Den de mule he float de ark out near de hill dey all wus founded,

An’ tell ’em all to swim for it or stay dar an’ git drownded!

“An’ lem me tell you now, my friends, I want no half-way racin’—

Dar’s jes’ one way for you to swim, an’ dat’s to swim a-pacin’.”

An’ den dey all struck Nachur’s gait—de snake led de processhun!

De coon, de b’ar, de eliphunt—dey swum like all possesshun!

All but Tom Hal, he stood an’ snort so sassy like an’ plucky,

An’ swore he wouldn’t pace at all—dat he cum frum Kentucky.

But when de water riz up an’ he see dat bar’l ob brandy

He bust de record gittin’ dar—an’ dun it mighty handy!

An’ when Ole Marster seed de gait, an’ dat dey all hed dun it,

He let ’em all go back to earth an’ live and breed upon it.

So dey all went back er pacin’, frum de bug unto de bisin,

An’ de rain it quit a-fallin’, and de crick it quit er risin’!

—OLE WASH.

It will be news to many of my readers when I tell them that the pacing gait is the oldest and most natural gait of the horse, and that the old pacer was the thoroughbred of antiquity, the companion of kings, the warhorse of mighty warriors, the animal that carried on his back the daughters of Pharaoh and the princesses of Babylon. And yet, when this gait began to outcrop among the trotters, making that grand type of the racehorse known as “trotting-bred pacers,” hundreds of people have been wondering “Where did it come from?” Let us see from whence it came:

There is no real difference in form between the trotter and the pacer. The theory of “structural incongruity” will do to talk about, but as a matter of fact there is no such thing, and a pacer paces and a trotter trots, not from his shape, but his head—his instinct.

When the curtain went up on antiquity, horses were pacing. They paced because it was the natural gait of the animal, the trot of later years being the artificial gait. We know that the horses of the ancients were small—pacing ponies—and the running horse was not developed until centuries after.

The oldest civilizations of which we have any record of the horse are the Egyptian and the Babylonian. On the tombs the horse was always carved pacing. The frieze of the Parthenon was the work of the great artist Phidias. His horses were pacers. Five hundred years before the Christian era the great sculptors of Greece and Rome put some of their greatest work into statues of horses—all pacers. Relics of some of the very earliest Greek friezes are still preserved in the British Museum and show the horses to be pacing. At the beginning of the Christian era the Romans had conquered the Britons and the horses they found there, or carried there, they called “ambulatores”—amblers—and during the five hundred years that Rome ruled the island these horses were the favorites for the saddle and light driving. In 1215 A.D. the barons wrenched from King John the famous Magna Charta, the great seal of which is a knight in armor, mounted on a pacing horse. In a previous chapter we have told how Sir Walter Scott describes them and how for centuries the pacing horse—the ambler—the jennet, was the favorite, if not the only saddle horse of the knights and ladies and the nobility.

Could such a horse have been a scrub? For many years there has lived in England a wealthy American who is an artist and a fond lover of horses—Mr. Walter Winans. I am indebted to Mr. Winans for many valuable discoveries about the pacer, the first of them being his letter and illustrations showing the original drawings from the Egyptian tombs, these carvings being copied by Mr. Winans while studying ancient Egyptian sculpture.

Some years ago, Mr. Walter Winans, of Brighton, England, sent me sketches of bas-reliefs taken from Egyptian tombs. While never having had before the pleasure of seeing a cut of the bas-reliefs sent to the writer by Mr. Winans, I have known of their existence and have repeatedly called attention to the fact that the past history of the pacer demonstrated beyond a doubt that he was a horse of the noblest blood, the war-horse of ancient battles, the companion of ancient kings and princes. The fact that he has been able to do what he has done is convincing proof of a past greatness somewhere in his breeding—a scrub would have died at the wire long ago. If “society” is looking for something that is blue-blooded, with a hoariness that no other blue-blooded can boast of; that is eminently respectable to a degree bordering on classical mythiness; that is more ancient than the pyramids and more respectable in lineage than the longest pedigree of Norman knight, I respectfully refer it to the pacer. My only regret in the matter is that the recognition, by “society,” of distinguished lineage, illustrious achievements and present worth cannot be a subject of mutual acknowledgment and congratulation.

Brighton, Eng., Jan. 23.

Dear Trotwood: I have brought the pacer to more than four thousand years ago. Prof. J. E. Marey, Professor of the College of France, has just published a book called “Le Movement,” dealing with the correct drawings of men and animals in motion. He gives two engravings, of which I enclose pen copies, one of them from an Assyrian bas relief, the original of which is in London, England, British Museum; the other is a copy of an ancient Egyptian Bas-relief at Medynet-Abou, in Egypt. They both represent horses pacing. Prof. Marey says (freely translated from the French). “Examples of a pacing gait are here accurately represented. It is of all gaits the easiest to observe, and therefore to draw, on account of the symmetry of movement.... Trotting, which is so often represented in modern works, seems rarely to figure in that of the ancients.”

I noticed lately in one of your contemporaries, which goes in for “society,” a suggestion that pacing races should not be held on days that trotting is indulged in, so as not to offend road riders (a long list of which it gives), who dislike to see a pacer. It is a good thing that these road riders did not live four thousand years ago, or they would have been shocked to see all the rulers and great men of Assyria and Egypt driving pacers. The ancient Romans called trotters “tormentores,” on account of the way they shook them up, riding without stirrups.

Referring to the pictures again, the reason the figures holding the symbols of authority (the half-circles) and the groom at the horses’ heads being so small, is because that in ancient Egyptian conventional art figures were not drawn in their proper proportions, but large or small, according to the importance of the person represented.

The Assyrian pacer looks as if he must be the champion stallion of the period.

Yours truly,

WALTER WINANS.

I agree fully with Mr. Winans concerning the form of the Assyrian pacer above. Fewer can show up today with a finer turned muzzle, face and neck, or show more strength, beauty and symmetry in form than the one in the outline above. Concerning the cobwebbed suggestion of the “society” paper about pacers being barred the track on trotting days, I beg to assure the author of the above letter that the brilliant idea died a-borning. There is plenty of brains and progressive spirit yet left among the managers of American trotting associations, and these gentlemen prefer rather to increase than to diminish the interest in the light harness horse. The pacer and the trotter are indissolubly linked together—in interest, destiny and blood. They have, too, much of the same breeding, too many kindred ties. Joined, as they are, by so many common ancestors, united as they are by so many great horses, no number of society asses can now pull them asunder.

In discussing this subject later, Mr. Winans wrote:

“There is one difference between a trotter and a pacer which I can show in sculpture, which has never been shown before by any artists, as painters cannot show it. I mean the upright, locomotive-like progression of a trotter and the side stride of the pacer. In a picture the difference of the gaits can only be shown by the position of the legs. In sculpture we can show how a trotter puts down his feet on each side of the imaginary line drawn on the ground straight under him, in the direction he is going, as the following illustration will show.

“But this is not true with the pacer. On the contrary, he puts his feet right on the line, as the following diagram will show:

“I can better explain myself by the following: If I model a horse standing still, and then cut off the two left side legs and model fresh ones in the act of being lifted up, so as to represent one position of the pace, I would have to push or bend the body of the horse over to the left till a plumb line from the center of his body would hang down to touch a line drawn on the ground from his two feet touching the ground, but if I wanted to make a trotter from the same model of a standing horse, I could make the fresh legs without having to bend over the body to either side.

“It is curious that the bronze statuettes of the pacer would not stand firm unless I bent the body over, which shows that nature knows just how to place animals so that the center of gravity should be right. Horses in the instantaneous photograph positions balance on their legs, but if I model in the conventional position of the run, I have to put a prop under the bronze horse’s belly, like most artists do.”

The subject of the proper balancing of harness horses is generally recognized as one of the most important in the business, and it is highly probable that more otherwise good drivers fail there, in the proper management of their horses, than in any other thing. Properly balanced, the battle is half over in the training of a naturally speedy horse.

The idea suggested in the letter above, if true, as it undoubtedly appears to be, naturally suggests that a very different system should be adopted in the proper balancing of pacers and trotters. It is impossible, of course, to tell how much the individuality of each horse would assert itself in attaining the ends sought in this direction, but so far as the mere matter of avoirdupois is concerned, it will be seen that on general principles the pacer, on account of moving a rear and fore foot at the same time, can come nearer having both shoes on those feet equal, than the trotter, where the aim should be to equalize the alternate feet.

It is very plain the balancing required for one will not do for the other, and horsemen who think they know all about a pacer from successful handling of trotters will find out their error. For my own part, I believe it requires less skill to balance a pacer than a trotter, for the reason that, because of his simple action he can come nearer wearing the same weight on all feet than any other horse. As proof of this I have only to refer my readers to the fact that nearly all the very fast pacers carry but little weight, equally distributed, and require little protection.

This correspondent has placed us under additional obligations by enclosing us a pen drawing, executed by himself, on a trip into Northern Russia, which we reproduce below, and which he calls “a typical pacer from Finland, Russia, used by the peasants for farm work, fourteen hands high.” As Finland is in the northern part of Russia, beyond the latitude where the native horses of any country grow much higher than fourteen hands, the height is not to be wondered at; and as the peasants of Finland are of the poorer classes the natural inference is that the pacer is a natural product of northern Europe, and, no doubt, may be found in their native state in many, if not all, of these countries, such as Siberia, Sweden, Denmark, Norway, The Netherlands, and even North Germany.

A Typical Pacer from Finland, Russia. Used by the Peasants for Farm Work—14 Hands High.

“There is no native trotter in England,” writes Mr. Winans. “That is to say, there is no breed of horse that can beat the very low standard of 3:30. The so-called Norfolk trotter is too slow and is never used for racing purposes in England. To supply this dearth of trotters, they had to import from Russia and the United States. Now, a fast trotter from the States costs more than the class of men who go in for trotting in England cared to pay, so pacers, which could go in three minutes or a little better, were got over instead, and as the difference between trotting and pacing is not understood in England, they got to be called trotters, and raced as trotters. As a proof of their not understanding pacers, a big dealer in horses saw a friend of the writer’s driving an American pacer and said, ‘There, that is what I call trotting in good form!’ The other country the English import trotters from is Russia. Now, in Russia there are two sorts of trotters, the ordinary Orloff carriage horse, which can go close to three minutes, if a good one, and the racing Orloff trotter, which can go up to about 2:20. Now, the latter are too expensive, so the ordinary Orloff carriage horses were imported. It was soon found that they were not fast enough to have any chance even against very poor American pacers, so the American pacer became the trotter of England. This refers to the high class, or what corresponds to the free-for-all trots. There is another lower-down class of trotting which is by far the most common in England. The races, or generally matches, take place on the road, and the police (it is forbidden to race on the roads) often put a stop to the races, and they have to be arranged discreetly. The matches are announced on some such lines: ‘Mr. So-and-So’s pony, Tommy, matched for $25 to trot two miles on the So-and-So road against Mr. So-and-So’s pony, Billy.’

“By the way, till quite lately a trotter in England was always a pony; they did not talk of trotting horses, but trotting ponies. For this class of racing the ponies are some 12½ to 14½ hands high and driven to very heavy, old-fashioned sulkies. The ponies used are not English-bred, but what are called in England ‘Russian’ ponies. They are not really Russian, but come from Finland. These ‘Finnish’ ponies are a distinct breed. They are on an average 14½ hands high or under, strongly built, with thick, short necks, very good feet and legs, bushy tails, and very hard mouths. They are generally all shades of sorrel, dun or chestnut, many with donkey marks down the back, and light-colored manes and tails, and they are for the most part natural pacers. These are the horses that are used in St. Petersburg for the public droshkies which ply for hire and are very cheap. Some can go close to three minutes, with an occasional one close to 2:40, and are imported wholesale into England for light tradesmen’s use. In Russia they are also used by the peasants for farm work.

“The Orloff trotter is quite free from pacing. The many I have driven have never showed the least sign of pacing, with one single exception; this horse was not one of the racing Orloffs, but one of an ordinary carriage pair. I think he had a cross of the ‘Fin’ pony, by his shape. He used to pace when jogging, but I never tried to get any speed at the pace out of him.

“The little ‘Fin’ ponies are very fast occasionally for their size. As an instance, we had a black pair of Orloffs when I was last in St. Petersburg, which used to pass everything on the road. It is the custom there, when you have fast horses, to brush with anything you meet. One day a victoria, drawn by two little dun-colored ‘Fin’ ponies, with some ladies in it, came along. We turned out to pass them and they ran right away from us, which no big pair had been able to do all the summer. This particular pair trotted, but as I said before, most of them are pacers, and these are what race in the minor races in England as ‘trotting ponies.’”

The conclusion is evident—the pace is the natural and probably the first fast gait of the horse.

(To Be Continued.)