Trotwood's Monthly, Vol. I, No. 3, December 1905

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.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: 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.