Chapter XVI: The Second Day at Shiloh

By Lewis M. Hosea

[We give way in this issue to Judge Lewis M. Hosea, Judge of
the Superior Court of Cincinnati and late Brevet Major U. S.
Army, 16th U. S. Infantry, who gives us the viewpoint as seen
by Buell’s army. In this paper by this distinguished gentleman,
appears the best description of how it feels to be under fire
and how the Confederate columns appeared that we have ever seen.

That particular description deserves to live as a classic and
no one may read it without afterwards seeing “the surging line
of butternut and gray moving rapidly across our front” and
“the accompaniment of a leaden blast of hell sweeping into
one’s face as though it were a sort of fierce and deadly wind
impossible to stand against.”

It will also be observed that Judge Hosea takes decided issue
as to certain facts published in the History of the Shiloh
Battlefield Commission which we take pleasure in publishing and
will accord the same privilege to any one who cares to reply,
as it is by this kind of personal testimony that the truth of
history is eventually established.

To the readers of TAYLOR-TROTWOOD we wish to state that these
Historic Highways of the South have been running serially
through Trotwood’s Monthly for fifteen months and include The
Hermitage, The Creek War Highways, New Orleans, Battle of
Franklin, Ft. Donelson, Shiloh and others.—THE EDITOR.]

The two days’ battle at Pittsburg Landing on the Tennessee River, fought on Sunday and Monday, April 6th and 7th, 1862, viewed from the standpoint of forty years later, looms up as one of the most significant contests of the great Civil War. The entire battlefield was a wilderness of scrub oak and kindred growths, unbroken save by a few settlers’ clearings located at random upon a plain traversed only by irregular “woods-roads,” and by drainage ravines leading by winding courses into the two creeks bounding the field of operations on the north and south—these discharging into the Tennessee River behind the Union Army.

The troops were for the most part new and untried, and the conditions of the ground made the transmission of orders difficult and uncertain. It was impossible for commanders of large bodies to obtain a comprehensive view of the field so as to perceive and provide intelligently for the varying exigencies of the battle as it progressed. They could only guess the swaying movements of the fight by sounds of musketry and by the chance reports of messengers who could locate nothing by fixed monuments. Nor could the men in ranks, or even regimental officers, see beyond a limited distance; and the direction of enfilading or turning movements could be discovered only by the course of bullets among the trees or the tearing of the ground by solid shot or shell.

These things made the battle a supreme test of the quality of the individual units of the army rather than of any directing skill of its higher commanders. The bulldog courage of individual groups of men who hung on and fought “to a finish,” or who, like Prentiss, sacrificed themselves where they stood because of no order to withdraw, delayed the general advance of the enemy and thus saved the first day from overwhelming and complete disaster. It became a case of “night or Blücher;” and when, toward evening, the leading regiments of Buell’s army arrived upon the field and interposed a fresh line of resistance, the Union troops had been driven from the field and huddled as a mass of disorganized fragments in a semicircle of half a mile radius about the landing.

But the Confederates drew off flushed with the spirit of victory and ceased fighting only to prepare for an expected certain and triumphant finish in the morning. Knowing that they had the Union forces hemmed in the semicircle of their lines extending from river to river, every Confederate soldier fully believed that surrender or annihilation of the Union forces would be easy of accomplishment.

This was the spirit and purpose that animated the Confederate forces on Monday when they began to attack soon after daylight on that second day. To the forces of Buell, arriving during the night on transports from Savannah (on the river twenty miles below), and marching up the bank in the dim light of dawn to form a cordon around the fragments of Grant’s army, the scene was dismal and discouraging in the extreme. Making our way through the thousands of men huddled on the bank, hearing at every step the doleful prognostications of defeat, the wooded plain above presented to us visible proof of the disastrous conflict of the day before in the dead and wounded who lay unattended, and the broken and discarded arms and equipments that strewed the ground. These were the sights and sounds that greeted us as we marched to our place in line of battle on the second day; and they fully justified the compliment paid us by our brigade commander, General Lovell H. Rousseau, who says, in his official report of the battle in substance: “Seldom have men gone into battle under such discouraging circumstances, and never have they borne themselves more gallantly.”

In the personal reminiscences that follow I shall speak more particularly of the part taken by Rousseau’s brigade of McCook’s division.

I was personally present throughout the second day, as Adjutant of the First Battalion, Sixteenth U. S. Infantry—which, with similar battalions of the Fifteenth and Nineteenth Infantry, and the First Ohio, Fifth Indiana, and Sixth Kentucky Volunteers—constituted Rousseau’s brigade (4th) of McCook’s division (2d) of the Army of the Ohio commanded by General Buell.

My position as adjutant gave me a somewhat wider range of observation than that of a line officer on duty with a company, and I retain some very distinct recollections of the battle, which I will briefly state in so far as they bear upon the movements of Rousseau’s brigade; but I shall leave others to speak of the severity of the fighting, and leave to you to estimate the quality of the service the brigade rendered the Union cause.

Rousseau’s brigade reached Pittsburg Landing during the night of the 6th of April, 1862, by steamers from Savannah, and disembarked just before day. On the level just back of the landing, in the dim light of the coming dawn, we deposited knapsacks and advanced in a southwesterly direction through the woods, passing through camps (probably Hurlbut’s) where our dead lay unburied as they had fallen the day before. After a short halt we were advanced and deployed to the right and front at the hither edge of a broad and shallow depression, where a small brook coursed on to our right through a comparatively open forest without any visible clearing. Here we were halted, muskets loaded, and, in a short time, at a little after six o’clock, we heard firing toward our right rear, and almost immediately our own skirmishers were driven in and we were engaged with a battle line of the enemy. Then followed a steady and vigorous “stand-up” musketry fight which lasted the greater part of an hour, when the enemy drew off, but soon renewed the attack with greater vigor, only to be again repulsed.

This position was probably on Tilghman’s Creek, shown on the map of the Shiloh Battlefield Commission to which I shall refer; but the hour stated on the map as eight o’clock is wrong and should be six o’clock. By eight o’clock we had been baptized with fire and blood. Here Captain Acker of the Sixteenth was killed, and a number of other officers and men were killed and wounded.

It is an old story, perhaps, to most of you—this first experience of actual battle; yet, even now, dimly remembered through the intervening years, it seems to me the most horrifying experience that can possibly fall to the lot of man.

First came the startling report of a musket fired by one of our own skirmishers out in our front; then a crackling of responses from the woods beyond, but we could see only a little blue smoke rising above the undergrowth—for it was early spring and the green leaves were just beginning to appear—and hear the skipping of stray bullets through the branches with a whirr of spent force. A stir went through the lines and faces grew pale, for we knew that the battle was sweeping toward us and that these shots were the first sprinkle of the coming storm. The quiet command of “Attention!” was obeyed ere it was uttered; but the climax of first impressions came with the order to “load.” That order, like the jarring touch upon the chemist’s glass, crystallized the wild turmoil of thoughts and focalized all upon the actual business of war. I can realize now how important a thing in war is the musket as a steadying factor for overwrought nerves; and how that first order to “load!” brought the panicky thoughts of men back with a sudden shock to the realization that they were there upon equal terms with the enemy to do and not alone to suffer. I remember the “thud” of the muskets as they came down upon the ground almost as one,—for our men had been well drilled,—and the confused rattle of drawing ramrods, and their ring in the gun barrels as they rebounded in ramming the charges home. Every movement and every sound was an encouragement; and in the reaction of feeling the interchange of boastful speech almost ripened into cheers. But, meantime, the fire of skirmishers increased to an almost continuous rattle and grew closer, until—for all this was a matter of minutes only—our skirmishers could be seen coming in, firing as they came, and half carrying two or three wounded men. This, of course, again deepened the tension of nervous expectation, and faces took on a look of grim determination, as eyes peered forward to catch the first glimpse of the approaching enemy. As our skirmishers came into the lines, there went a hoarse whisper down the ranks, “There they are!”—and looking out through the woods I saw the flutter of battle flags and beneath them a surging line of butternut and gray moving rapidly across our front just beyond the shallow ravine, perhaps fifty or seventy-five yards away. In a moment, as it seemed, there burst forth a rattle of musketry that almost drowned the command of our officers to “fire at will!”

The first shock of battle is appalling. The rattle deepens into a roar as men get down to the work of loading and firing rapidly; but it is not alone the _noise_ of firing that appals, the vicious “whizz,” and “zip” past the ears; the heavy “thud” of bullets that strike the tree-trunks with the force of sledge-hammer blows,—all these make up a horrible din that has no parallel on earth. But with it all is the realization that this is but the accompaniment of a leaden blast of hell sweeping into one’s face as though it were a sort of fierce and deadly wind impossible to stand against; and the rain of leaves and twigs cut from the trees, and the occasional fall of larger branches, heightens this impression of a raging storm. After a little the smoke obscures everything and the battle goes on in an ever-increasing acrid fog that would make breathing impossible were it not for the frenzy of battle that seizes upon every other faculty, physical and mental, and makes one oblivious to all other surroundings.

Here and there a man drops his musket, throws up his hands and falls backward dead; or another lunges heavily forward on hands and knees, mortally wounded; and no one who has seen it will ever forget that look of agony unspeakable on the faces of those stricken by sudden death in battle.

For what seemed an interminable time the angry buzz of bullets clipped by our ears and overhead; and I remember, that, as I passed up and down the line assisting the commanding officer of the battalion in encouraging the men to take time in loading carefully and aiming low, a bullet struck a musket in the hands of a young Irishman of my own company, just as he was about to bring it to his shoulder, and the force of the impact shattered the stock and turned him partly about and almost threw him down. I saw the blood spurt from his arm, for he had in the excitement rolled up his sleeves to handle his piece the better. I sprang forward to assist him; but with a cry of rage he stripped off his sleeve, and with the assistance of a comrade, bound up his wound, which proved to be not serious, and seized a dead comrade’s musket beside him and went on with the fight.

But after a time the whirr and hiss of the bullets slackened and finally ceased; finally, skirmishers were ordered out to reconnoiter, while disposition was made of the dead and wounded. Soon, however the skirmishers came hastily back and reported new and heavier lines advancing, and again we saw the battle-flags among the trees, nearer than before. This time, however, the fight opened with the thunder of field guns whose missiles went shrieking overhead with a horrible sound that made the blood run cold. Then came the order to hug the ground and fire at will; and the fight went on as before except that as we had advanced a few rods down the gentle declivity of the ravine, and the line of the enemy was at a relatively higher level, the majority of bullets and the cannon shots passed above us and but few came dangerously close.

But the success of our first experience seemed to tell upon the ranks, and the coolness and deliberation of both men and officers were noticeable thenceforward; and soon the artillery discharges ceased, and after a time we knew, as before, by the lessening of the whizz of bullets, that the enemy had again yielded the ground in our front.

As I look back upon it, it seems astonishing how soon all the natural feelings of apprehension and fear give way to what has been aptly termed the “battle rage” which lifts a man up to a plane where the things of the body are forgotten. Amid the roar and din of musketry and the horrible swish and shriek of shells, the intellect seemed to be disembodied, and, while conscious of the danger of being hurled headlong into eternity at any moment, the pressure upon the brain seemed to deaden the physical senses—fear among them. Fear came later when the fight was over, just as in the waiting moments before it began; but throughout the day while the battle was on I remember having a singular feeling of curiosity about personal experiences. I seemed to be looking down upon my bodily self with a sense of impersonality and wondering why I was not afraid in the midst of all this horrible uproar and danger. I suppose this was the common experience of soldiers, for if it were not so, battles could not be fought.

From “Life of General Nathan Bedford Forrest.” Copyright, 1899, by Harper & Brothers.]

After repulsing the second attack, at about eight o’clock, we moved forward slowly across the brook, with skirmishers advanced, fighting at intervals, for the enemy stubbornly contested the ground. On reaching a clearing (probably the Duncan field) in the line of our advance we were met by an opposing concentration of the enemy in great force at the far side of it, who attempted a desperate charge upon us. This was met by a steady fire and an unswerving line; and the fighting that ensued is described by Judge Force, in his account of the battle published in the “Campaigns of the Civil War” by the Scribners (p. 171), as a “desperate struggle”—and indeed it was! Guenther, with a section of Terrill’s battery, arrived upon the scene, coming in upon our right, which was unprotected, at the crisis of this fight, and, as the enemy gave way at our front and ran together in a mass to pass through a gate or break in a fence in the rear, he directed his rapid discharges of canister to the same point. The effect upon the enemy was appalling and horrible beyond all description. Among our killed were Lieutenant Mitchell, a most gallant officer of the Sixteenth, and it was here also that Wykoff, then a captain of the Fifteenth, lost his eye.

I recall one striking incident of a personal character connected with this part of the battle. A sergeant of C Company, which I had commanded, was wounded in the shoulder and disabled though not vitally hurt. A moment later, as the sergeant was making his way to the rear, I was knocked down by an exploding shell, whose fragments relieved me of one boot-leg and left one leg of my pants in shreds, but fortunately left the leg intact, except for a wrench and a few bruises of no serious consequence. It so happened that my sergeant saw me fall, and, as he was among the first of the wounded taken to Cincinnati, he reported me as killed, to the great distress of my family at home. My brother, who came down a few days later, found me very much alive, though very ragged, very dirty, and very thankful that the shell that took my boot-leg took no more. I was thankful even for the limp that made me the subject of good-natured derision for some days as I performed my duties as adjutant on one leg.

We immediately followed in pursuit, after this last fight, capturing two field-guns from the enemy, and continued the advance until we had repossessed General McClernand’s headquarters of Sunday, beyond which we again met a determined resistance, but eventually drove the enemy back through a large open field into what has been termed the “water oaks thicket.”

The enemy seemed to be massed in great force at and beyond this point to oppose our further progress, and a heavy line of battle occupied the woods beyond the clearing on the hither edge of which we were halted to replenish our exhausted ammunition.

Our advance, though slow, had been continuous and resulted in projecting a sort of wedge into the enemy’s lines, of which wedge we seemed to be the apex. It resulted, therefore, naturally and necessarily that the enemy concentrated more and more in our immediate front to break the force that was gradually splitting them in two and endangering their communications in rear. Firing still continued toward the rear on both flanks, for we had considerably outstripped the general advance. Our men fixed bayonets and lay down under orders to hold the position, if attacked, at all hazards. The firing against us grew quite heavy, but no reply was made, although some were killed, among them Lieutenant Keyes, a splendid officer of the Sixteenth, with whom I was standing arm in arm at the time his summons came,—for among the regulars it was not then considered “good form” for officers to take shelter.

I have before spoken of the impact of a minie bullet against a tree as like the blow of a sledge hammer. The Keyes incident gives a very realistic illustration. As I have mentioned in another place, Lieutenant Keyes and I were standing arm in arm—my right interlocked with his left,—in rear of his company. We were, as I recall, just exchanging sorrowful remarks over the death of a Sergeant Baker—a fine man—who received a bullet through the forehead just a moment before, while Keyes was exchanging words with him. Just then the sledge hammer struck one of us—for a moment I did not know which—and hurled us both to the ground backwards. As I scrambled to a footing I saw Keyes’ blanched face and the torn garment showing the passage of the bullet through the left shoulder joint where a hasty examination showed that the bony structure of the vicinity had been shattered. He was taken to the rear and died the second day after.

Here, after a long wait, General Sherman came, and I saw him for the first time. I will let him tell you what next occurred. General Sherman is describing, in his official report of the battle, his own movements as he came up on our right; and is speaking of a battery that had reached him at the rear. He says:

“Under cover of their fire we advanced until we reached the point where the Corinth road crosses the line of McClernand camp, and here I saw for the first time the well ordered and compact columns of General Buell’s Kentucky forces whose soldierly movements at once gave confidence to our newer and less disciplined men. Here I saw Willich’s regiment advance upon a point of water oak and thicket, behind which I knew the enemy was in great strength, and enter it in beautiful style.”

(The thicket described by General Sherman, I may remark, was just beyond the field on the edge of which we were lying and through which it was necessary to pass. The Thirty-second Indiana was regarded as the crack German regiment of our western army.)

General Sherman continues:

“Then arose the severest musketry fire I ever heard, and lasted some twenty minutes when this splendid regiment had to fall back.”

(The Thirty-second, let me explain further, had passed around our left and formed in our front, in the open, in column of companies—“double column to the center,” as the formation is described by its commander in his report. The absurdity of this formation seemed to strike even the rank and file, for it drew a direct and enfilading fire from the extended line of the enemy in front that reached even the rear companies and gave rise to the claim on their part that they had been fired upon by the troops in their own rear. This claim was and is, of course, ridiculous. The regulars were at that moment engaged in replenishing their cartridge boxes in the rear of Kirke’s brigade which had been in reserve and had taken our position temporarily for this purpose. The claim was made as an excuse for a most unmilitary blunder in placing a column formation in the open in the face of a battle line, and, as it naturally resulted in a complete rout of the regiment, some excuse was sought as a salve for wounded pride).

General Sherman continues:

“This green point of timber is about five hundred yards east of Shiloh meeting house, and it was evident here was to be the struggle. The enemy could be seen also forming his lines to the south.... This was about 2 p.m. The enemy had one battery close by Shiloh and another near the Hamburg road, both pouring grape and canister upon any column of troops that advanced upon the green point of water oaks. Willich’s regiment had been repulsed, but a whole brigade of McCook’s division advanced beautifully, deployed, and entered this dreaded wood.... This I afterward found to be Rousseau’s brigade of McCook’s division.

“Rousseau’s brigade moved in splendid order steadily to the front sweeping everything before it; and at 4 p.m. we stood upon the ground of our original front line, and the enemy was in full retreat....

“I am ordered by General Grant to give personal credit where I think it is due, and censure where I think it merited. I concede that General McCook’s splendid division from Kentucky drove back the enemy along the Corinth road, which was the great center of the field of battle, where Beauregard commanded in person, supported by Bragg’s, Polk’s and Breckinridge’s divisions.”

General Sherman lived many years in the belief that he had fully and truly stated the facts in this matter, but we now know from a veracious history to which I shall refer, “compiled from the official records upon the authority of the Shiloh Battlefield Commission,” that what Sherman supposed to be a concentration of the Confederate army under Beauregard, including many divisions under distinguished leaders, was only Colonel Looney, of the Shiloh Battlefield Commission, with his regiment “augmented by a few detachments” from others, “driving back the Union line to the Purdy road” and enabling the Confederate army to “leisurely” walk away unmolested without our even suspecting it!

At the time Sherman came to us, Willich, with his large regiment, was just going into the open field and our reserve brigade—Kirke’s—was taking our position while we retired to the road to get a supply of ammunition which had come forward meantime; so that Sherman saw the advance and repulse of Willich, and the re-forming, deploying and advance of Rousseau’s brigade that so favorably attracted his attention as to merit official praise.

Between three and four o’clock in the afternoon we had pushed the enemy, still fighting, back to the vicinity of Shiloh Church. This, as afterward appeared, was Beauregard’s headquarters which he vacated about two o’clock, from prudential motives, and, manifestly by an afterthought, sought to minimize the fact of his own defeat by making it appear that an order to withdraw his army had been given long before. As a matter of fact, we know now from the records that the only order given was an order to the extreme wings of his army to fall back to this very point as a concentration of his forces against the center of our army.

Rousseau’s brigade continued its slow but relentless advance until we reached and passed the church itself, when the forces immediately in our front in the vicinity of the road broke in disorder, leaving, however, a considerable body of the enemy on our right against whom the regular battalions right-wheeled and whom we pursued half way through the former camps of Sherman’s troops lying parallel with the Shiloh branch, completing the rout of all the enemy’s forces in sight. They fled in disorder across the branch, and we were ordered to rejoin the brigade. At the final rout of the enemy at 4 o’clock p.m., we were astraddle of the camps of McDowell’s brigade of Sherman’s division, and this is what General Sherman refers to when he says in his report:

“At 4 p.m. we stood upon the ground of our original first line and the enemy were in full retreat.”

In this final movement the troops of Sherman took no part, nor was the division of General Lew Wallace or that of McClernand in sight. And this is what General Sherman admits by his frank confession that:

“General McCook’s splendid division drove back the enemy along the Corinth road which was the great center of the field of battle.”

This crisis of the battle really lasted from about noon, when we faced the point of water oaks, until four o’clock, when the enemy were routed and fleeing in confusion across Shiloh branch. If there was any rallying force at all on the other side of this branch, it made no demonstration and certainly it was not a battle line of the enemy as represented on the map of the commission. The only rear-guard stand mentioned in the reports was at a point two miles further on and a final stand by Breckinridge’s division at Mickey’s still further toward Monterey.

A few of the Confederate authorities place their final “withdrawal” at two o’clock, and a few others at three, but the overwhelming consensus of testimony of the reports place the final and complete rout of the enemy beyond the Shiloh Church at and after four o’clock; and Sherman again in his report particularizes 4 p.m. as the close of the engagement (p. 254).

After the fighting was over, General Sherman came over to us in his camps of the day before, and, speaking to Major Carpenter (of the Nineteenth), complimented most highly the work of the brigade and particularly of the regular battalions.

It was about this time also that General Thomas J. Woods arrived at the front, at the head of a brigade of his division, and, as Major Lowe reminds me, demanded in no “Sunday school language” to be allowed to go forward in pursuit of the enemy. But the darkness was approaching, and the impossibility of handling new troops in the dark in a wilderness of black jack was manifest, and the pursuit was given over for the night.

The map of the commission shows Wood’s entire division in line with us and taking part at 2 p.m. in the great and final crisis of the day, in which the musketry fire was, as described by General Force, “more severe than any that occurred on the field in either of the two days of the battle.” _Wood’s division was not there._ One brigade came upon the field _just as the fighting was over, at about four o’clock_, and the other did not leave the landing until dark. General Force’s statement, substantially to the same effect in his history of the battle (p. 177 in the Scribner’s Series) is:

“Wood’s division, arriving too late to take part in the battle, pushed to the front and engaged his skirmishers with the light troops covering the retreat.”

General Buell’s report states the fact as I give it from my recollection.

In the year 1901, I addressed a letter to the Shiloh Battlefield Commission, at the invitation of its chairman, stating the substance of the personal recollections herein given, with a view to the correction of some very serious errors in its official blue print maps. In this letter I referred to between thirty and forty official reports of field organizations engaged in the battle, all showing that the errors complained of existed; but from that day to this no notice whatever has been taken of the letter.

I had not then the slightest idea that the commission intended to constitute itself the official historian of the Battle of Shiloh—for certainly the law of its appointment contemplates no such thing. But, during the year 1903, there appeared from the press of the Government Printing Office, Washington, an innocent looking work bearing on its title page the following:

“Shiloh National Park Commission. The Battle of Shiloh, and the Organizations Engaged. Compiled from the Official Records by Major D. W. Reed, Historian and Secretary, under the Authority of the Commission, 1902. Washington, Government Printing Office, 1903.”

There follows, on a subsequent page, a preface addressed by the Chairman of the Commission—

“To Shiloh Soldiers”—in which, referring to the intent of the statute establishing the Shiloh National Military Park to perpetuate the history of the battle on the ground where it was fought, he expresses the desire of the commission that “this history” (meaning this publication) “shall be complete, impartial, and correct,” etc. He then states, that, “to ensure this accuracy, _all reports have been carefully studied and compared. The records at Washington have been thoroughly searched and many who participated in the battle have been interviewed._... It is, therefore, desired that the statements of the book be earnestly studied by every survivor of Shiloh and any errors or omissions be reported to the commission with a view to the publication of a revised edition of the report.”

This so-called official “history” of the battle contains in permanent form the same erroneous maps put forth as blue prints in 1901. The history proper devotes about sixteen pages to a description of the first day’s operations of the Army of the Tennessee, and one page to those of the second day covering the participation of the Army of the Ohio. Short as is the latter portion of the history, we learn that the weight of numbers really decided the issue before the fight began; and, while Beauregard made a show of resistance for a while, along about dinner time he sent Colonel Looney (of the Shiloh Battlefield Commission) with his regiment “augmented by detachments from other regiments,” who charged and “drove back the Union line,” and enabled Beauregard to safely cross Shiloh branch with his army and leisurely retire to Corinth thirty miles away! So skillfully was all this done, we are told, that the Confederate army “began to retreat at 2.30 p.m. _without the least perception on the part of the enemy_” (the Union forces) “that such a movement was going on”—and this is put forth as “history!”

When we look at the maps to which we are referred in connection with this account of the second day’s battle, the astonishing accuracy and completeness of this contribution to history begins to dawn upon us. There we find that the Union troops, after a late breakfast, came upon the field and did a little skirmishing with the enemy, who, as the odds were against them, could not be expected to stay in the game, and withdrew while the Union forces were at dinner, without letting us know anything about it. And we are told that this is real history, based upon an exhaustive search and comparison of all the records, compiled by a distinguished official body, assisted by a “historian,” and this is published by the Government of the United States!

Lest it be thought that I exaggerate, let me here quote the principal portion of this veracious history of the second day’s battle. Beginning with the statement that the battle of the second day was opened by Lew Wallace attacking Pond’s brigade, it continues:

“The 20,000 fresh troops in the Union army made the contest an unequal one, and though stubbornly contested for a time, at about two o’clock General Beauregard ordered the withdrawal of his army. To secure the withdrawal he placed Colonel Looney of the Thirty-eighth Tennessee, with his regiment, augmented by detachments from other regiments, at Shiloh Church, and directed him to charge the Union center. In this charge Colonel Looney passed Sherman’s headquarters and pressed the Union line back to the Purdy road; at the same time General Beauregard sent batteries across the Shiloh branch and placed them in battery on the high ground beyond. With these arrangements Beauregard at _four o’clock safely crossed Shiloh branch with his army_ and placed his rear guard under Breckinridge in line upon the ground occupied by his army on Saturday night. The Confederate army _retired leisurely_ to Corinth, while the Union army returned to the camps that it had occupied before the battle.”

The final touch—“the Union army returned to the camps it had occupied before the battle”—shows how negligible a quality, in the mind of these able historians, was the contribution of Buell’s fresh troops who seem to have been spectators but nothing more.

HOW OLE WASH GOT RID OF HIS MOTHERS-IN-LAW

By John Trotwood Moore

I was telling ole Wash the other night that I thought the President was a great man and that if he didn’t make any break from now on, as for instance about knocking out states’ rights and undue blowing about the devilish little Japs who are itching to scrap with us, he would rank among the great presidents.

The old man was thoughtful for awhile, looking into the fire.

“Wal, boss, he sho’ is got all the year-marks—a senserble, dermestic wife an’ no signs of a muther-in-law. Now, sah, befo’ eny man kin be great he must fus’ ax his wife an’ arter he gits her consent he mus’ ax his muther-in-law. Now, sah, no man kin be great, don’t keer how much ’bility he’s got, if his wife is in society an’ his muther-in-law is in de house. You can look all down de line, sah, an’ when you finds dat combinashun you’ll find a man whose growin’ gourd of greatness is liable to wilt eny day, like Job’s, at de fus’ good jolt it gits. Wid both of ’em in society an’ both in de’ house, why, Lord, boss, his gourd will nurver even sprout!

“Did I urver tell you ’bout my ’sperience in dat line an’ how nigh I cum to missin’ greatness, all on account of a few muther-in-laws? It wuz a close shave an’ if I hadn’t seed de way de ship wuz headed an’ steered out from dat combernashun, instead of bein’ de gent’man an’ floserpher whose ’pinions you so highly values,” he chuckled modestly, “you’d a had a ole nigger fit only fur de woodpile an’ de blackin’ bresh.

“Boss,” he laughed as he bit off a chew of Brazil Leaf Twist, bred in the hills of Maury, “did you kno’ the ole man am a Only? The only man dat ever lived dat had fo’ muther-in-laws at unct—driv’ a fo’-in-han’ of ’em, so to speak! Oh, I kno’ what you ’bout to say, sah,—but mine wuz legitermates, de actu’l product of de law an’ matremony.”

“Nonsense,” I said, “you couldn’t have been married to four women at once, as sly an old coon as you are. Though I did hear Marse Nick Akin say that he knew of his own knowledge that you once had three wives but gave two of them to the preacher if he would make you an elder in his church, which bargain was duly consummated. Oh, I knew you were driving a very long string of tandems, old man, but four abreast? Tell about it.”

He laughed so loud the pointer jumped up from his bed on the rug and barked.

“Did Marse Nick vi’late de conferdence I composed in his veracity?” he laughed again. “Wal, I jis’ well tell it fur you’ll nurver guess how it wuz.

“Long in de fifties I spliced up wid a likely young widder dat wuz de sod-relic of Brer Simon Harris, a ’piscopal brudder up at Nashville. Befo’ dat she had been de relic of several gent’men of color. Fur a week or so I wuz so busy co’rtin’ her dat I wa’n’t very ’tickler jis’ whut her entitlements an’ habilerments wuz, nur jis’ whut mineral rights an’ easements went wid de property.

“I’ve allers noticed it’s dat a way in de co’rtin’ stage an’ hits a wise dispensashun of ole Marster to trap us all into matremony an’ make us blin’, like snakes in August; an’ eb’ry one of us, when he gits his seckin’ sight arter de entrapment, wakes up to fin’ dat in de deed to de state of matremony dar has been passed wid de free-hold a few hererditerments dat he didn’t cal’late went wid de lan’.

“Sum of us, of co’rse nurver gits dey seckin’ sight at all.

“But I ain’t talkin’ of dem. I’ve nurver writ a fool’s almernac yit!

“But I claims I am de only man dat urver got fo’ muther-in-laws, when I didn’t ’spec’ to git eny!

“Arter a breef but very pinted co’rtship, in which I done de usual close-settin’, low-layin’ an’ tall lyin’, I hitched up my team an’ driv’ up to Nashville an’ married Sally. Arter de circus I driv’ de team ’round to de door fur to carry her home an’ I went in fur to pack up her things. I got ’em all in one big box, fur Brer Simon hadn’t been very felicertus in passin’ round de hat, an’ when I tuck it out to de wag’n dar sot Sally an’ fo’ uther ladies all es cheerful an’ happy as fo’ ole tabby-cats in a hay loft.

“’Dese am my muthers, Wash,’ sez Sally sweetly, ’an’ of co’rse dey am all gwine to lib wid us.’”

“‘Look heah, gal,’ sez I sorter faintly, ‘I ain’t nurver heerd of enybody havin’ mor’n one muther.”

“‘Dese other three am jes’ as dear,’ seys she, p’intin’ to de three ole ladies, ‘dat’s Simon’s muther, dat’s mine, an’ dem two ober dar—’

“Boss, I nearly had a fit! Do you kno’ dat gal had de muthers of ebry one of her fus’ husbands dar an’ claimin’ dey wuz mighty nigh to her?

“Dar wa’n’t nothin’ to do but to git a divorcement an’ as I wa’n’t quite ready fur dat yit, I made de bes’ of it an’ driv’ off; but I knowed if dar wuz ever a day when I needed sum brains now wuz de time. An’ de three sod muthers,—dat wuz de entitlement I gib to de three muthers of Sally’s dead husbands,—dey wuz jes’ plain ole grannies, wid de usual tongue an’ de perviserty fer huntin’ up trouble dat wuz natu’lly predistined fur sumbody else.

“But Sally’s muther she wuz a fine lookin’ ’oman, jes a shade heftier an’ handsumer than Sally so I teched her mighty tenderly an’ gin her to onderstan’ dat I fully intended to fulfill to de letter de scrip’tul injunshuns of filial affecshuns. She wuz a hefty ’oman, boss, but she wuz es bossy es she wuz hansum, es I found out. De day she landed at home, sah, I seed she’d sot in to own de place an’ in two weeks, sah, sides ownin’ Sally an’ de sod-muthers, she owned de mules, de cow, de pigs an’ de farm, me an’ my ’ligious convicshuns an’ perlitical preferment.

“But es I wuz sayin’, boss, she wuz a han’sum ’oman!

“Now I’m allers willin’ to be bossed fur a while by a handsum ’oman, but when it comes to dat batch of ole sod-muthers dat looked like busted bags of dried apples, dat wuz a nurr thing. But I’ve noticed dar is allers a kin’ of communercashun ’mong women folks es to de bossin’ of a man. It jis’ travels by grapevine, or dis here wireless business in de air, to de end dat when one ’oman kin boss a man all of ’em think dey can do it.

“An’ dey think right, only in dis case de thinkin’ hadn’t all ben dun yit. So dey all jes’ put me down as dead easy.

“I let ’em hab free han’ till de honeymoon wuz over. I didn’ think I orter mix eny vinegar wid dat; but by dat time de whole tribe of ’em wuz needin’ sum of de salt dat Lot’s wife got, an’ mebbe sum of de fire an’ brimstone dat wuz de ’casion of her saltin’. Wal, sah, dey sot in fur infairs an’ didn’t do nuthin’ but eat fur two weeks. I had to give ’em three infairs myself an’ then they gin to nose aroun’ an’ git my naburs to have infairs. Fur two weeks mo’ dar wa’n’t nuffin but infairs fur de bride, an’ groom, fur my naburs wuz polite, all wucked up by dese sod-muthers, till dey wuzn’t a chicken or shote left in five miles of my home, an’ if dar had been a hard winter an’ de white folks’ chickens had-roosted high, we would a had a hard time of it.

“Wal, I stood dat, ’caze dar wuz a honeymoon an’ good eatin’ gwine on wid it, but ’long ’bout de thud week when de sod-mammies gin to tell me how I orter roach my hair an’ run my farm I gin to lay my plans fur acshun.

“Dey wuz all ’piscopaliuns, boss, es I wuz sayin’, an’ dey bleeved tarible in Good Friday; an’ ev’ry Friday wuz Good Friday wid dem when it come to eatin’. When I seed my chickens all gwine an’ de pigs an’ sich, I got so disgusted wid dese Good Fridays dat I wanted to be a jay-bird fur a while so I cud git off to hell ebry Friday myse’f! Frum dat dey begin to rub it in to me ’bout baptism an’ so forth an’ dat didn’t tend to make me change in de resolushuns I had fixed up. I went on fixin’ my plans an’ layin’ low, meek as Moses outwardly but inwardly full of wrath.

“By dis time dey gin to ax in all de bredderin of de chu’ch to he’p ’em eat an’ settin’ up by moonlight wid ’em a holdin’ han’s an’ prayin’. Now, boss, de hefty one nurver mixed up in dese small things—she wuz layin’ fur bigger game. She seed de sod-muthers wuz managin’ it all right an’ as she knowed she owned dem an’ Sally an’ dey all owned me, why she let it res’ at dat.

“Sides dat, as I sed, she wuz a han’sum ’oman!

“I let it run on till de time whut dey call Ash We’nesday come, when dey all had a feast an’ special prayers fur de souls of all who had died frum de beginnin’ of de worl’ till den,—or sumpin’ nurr like it. I had already spent all my money an’ dey had ordered lumber fur a new house, ’sides orgernizin’ a society to build de nigger preacher in town a rookery. Dey called it a pay supper—an’ I did all de payin’! It wuz all to cum off de night of Ash We’nesday.

“Now dat Ash biziness sot me to thinkin’. Here wuz my home turned into a karnival of noise an’ carousin’ an’ drinkin’ an’ hoodoo’in’, an’ me payin’ fur it.

“‘Wal,’ sez I to myse’f, ‘I’ll jes’ turn dis thing into a Ash We’nesday sho’ nuff, so I goes out an’ cuts down a ash tree an’ makes me a good, lithe stick dat would knock a bull down, an’ den bounce back into yo’ han’s. Dat wuz fur de bredderin. Den I broke up a good ash-bar’l an’ made de paddles handy fur de sisterin, an’ I sot ’em in de corner behin’ de cup’ard.

“De night cum, but by dat time dey didn’t keer enuff fur me to ax me into de feast. I wuz jes’ a common ole Baptis’ nigger. I waited till dey wuz all dar, de sod-muthers in white apruns, candles burnin’ an’ dude niggers an’ niggeresses frum town and ev’ry whar, all s’posin’ to be payin’ fur a thing dat finally cum outen my pocket. I walked in an’ sot down by de fire, but befo’ I got sot good, one of dem dude niggers put a insultment on me.

“Dat suit me all right. I didn’t want to start de fight in my own house—dat wa’n’t good manners—but soon es dat nigger put de insultment on me, I wuz reddy.

“‘Frien’s, sez I, ‘I am a plain ole Baptis’ nigger, but es I onderstan’ it, dis am Ash We’nesday.’

“‘You bet it am, ole Moses,’ sez one of de dudes, ‘an’ it ain’t a good place fur Baptists to eat—dey am liabul to hab de collect!’

“I didn’t see de p’int, but dey did, an’ all laf’d.

“‘Yes,’ sez I, ‘he mout, but he is mor’n apt to hab stumic enuff left to read de burial sarvices over a few dudes,’ an’ I lit in. I’d locked de do’ but fergot de winder; but I hearn tell arterwards dat only two niggers got out of dar wid a soun’ head, an’ dey didn’t stop runnin’ till Easter mo’nin’!

“I lit on de sod-muthers early in de game wid de staves of de ash bar’l till dey wuz meet fur repentunce, an’ de nex’ mo’nin’ I sent ’em back to town whar I foun’ dey all had husban’s livin’ dat dey had quit fur a easier job. Wal, dey had to take ’em back.

“Now, boss, I wuz keerful not to hurt Sally an’ her mammy—dey wuz both han’sum women, es I wuz sayin’.

“I wuz now rid of de sod-muthers, but how to git rid of Sally’s mammy wuz de nex p’int. I’d figured dat out too, case es I said, she wuz a han’sum ’oman. De tacticks I used, boss, is whut’ll s’prize you.

“Bout de thud night when I had her alone for a while on de little porch an’ we wuz waitin’ fur Sally to git supper, fur she had gone to wuck in earnest arter she seed how handy I wuz wid de ash bar’l, sez I:

“‘A good meny men hab muther-in-laws dat am homely. I’m mighty proud of mine,’ sez I, ‘she is so han’sum.’

“‘Why, Washin’tun!’ she sez, ‘does you really think so?’

“I seed it tickled her, an’ arter a while I slipped over closer an’ sed:

“‘An’ I nurver seed a muther-in-law wid sech b’utiful eyes as you is got,’ an’ I took her han’.

“Dat wuz mor’n she cu’d stan’ on a col’ collar an’ you orter seed her light out—light out an’ he’p git supper, too!

“I let it res’ at dat. I’ve noticed dat too many fo’ks plants dey truck too fas’ in de spring. An’ at de same time I’ve nurver let a late frost keep me frum believin’ it’ll be summer by an’ by.

“De nex’ night I sot out on de po’ch ag’in arter a hard day’s wuck an’ I tuck my stan’ whar I wuz de night befo’ fur I knowed de ole doe allers crosses de creek at de same place. Sho ’nuff, by an’ by heah she cum _tipperty-tip—tipperty-tip_.

“An’ all she wanted wuz to ax me if I thought de weather wuz gwine ter change! I sot up close ag’in an’ sed:

“‘Sum times a man makes a great mistake by marryin’ in too big a hurry.’

“‘How’s dat?’ she sed, tickled to death an’ nestlin’ up to me.

“‘Why,’ sez I, ‘he marries de gal an’ den he fin’s out dat whut ’ud suit him bes’ wuz de muther-in-law—shoots at de doe an’ kills de fawn,’ sez I, slippin’ my arm aroun’ her wais’.

“Up she jumps ag’in an’ goes up mad lak an’ big es a balloon.

“‘Ain’t you ’shamed of yo’se’f?’ sez she. ‘I’m gwine right in an’ tell Sally.’

“I knowed she wouldn’t an’ I set back an’ chuckled. It wuz all wuckin’ to suit me an’ I seed dar would soon be a complete separashun of de chu’ch an’ de state.

“Now, boss, you’ll wonder des why I’d play es hefty an’ han’sum a ’oman es she is sich a trick, but I ’cided dat one wife in de house am enuff in dat place.

“De thud night I had it fixed. I knowed she’d gone off mad, but I knowed a ’oman, arter one huggin’, is like a dog burryin’ a bone—he’ll leave it fur awhile, but he’s sho to cum back to it ag’in! I jes’ waited an’ let her cum back, fixin’ my plans. I tole Sally to set down in one corner of de po’ch in de dark an’ keep quiet—dat I had a s’prize fer her to sho’ how her virtuous husban’ wuz bein’ inticed by de Philistine.

“Dat wuz enuff—she sot.

“I waited till dark fore I cum an’ den I stomped aroun’, washed my face an’ han’s, an’ lit my pipe. An’ heah she cum _tipperty-tip_ an’ all she wanted to kno’ wuz, _if de moon had riz_!

“Boss, I let her do de talkin’, fur she wuz ripe fur it, an’ ’bout de time she tole me dat she lubbed me frum de fus’ an’ dat I orter married her stead of Sally, I heerd a scufflin’ in de co’ner,—Sally riz up, dar wuz much excitement an’ scatterment of hair an’ when it wuz over dar wuz nobody on dat place but me an’ Sally, _an’ I owned her_.”

SOME BEAUTIFUL WOMEN OF THE SOUTH

Versailles, Kentucky

_Buck, Washington_]

Twin daughters of Theodore P. Shonts, of Daphne, Alabama, Washington and Panama]

Monticello, Florida]

Daughter of F. Lafayette Wiggins, Nashville

_Turner, Nashville_]

Anniston, Alabama

_Buck, Washington_]

COLONIAL FOOTPRINTS

By J. K. Collins

“Ring down the curtain of to-day
And give the past the right of way,
Till fields of battle red with rust
Shine through the ashes and the dust,
Across the age and burn as plain
As glowing Mars through window pane.
How grandly glow like grenadiers,
These heroes of a hundred years!”

Our forefathers were great fighters and excelled the world as makers of history, but unfortunately for us, they were not writers of it. When a duty was done or a great victory gained it seemed not to demand the attention from them that we of the present day think it deserved, but was set aside with perhaps a brief record. It had to make way for new duties demanded by the exigencies of the times.

While they carried the weight of the nation on their young shoulders, they have left us only “shreds and patches” from which to deduce anything like specific exactness of the manners and customs of those early days of our great country. It is, therefore, difficult to elaborate the conditions of the country and particularly the distinctive qualities which made up the social life of those who evolved and produced, to us, the best government in all the world.

The peculiar conditions of early times invest our greatest leaders with additional interest and make the fact of their greatness stand out all the more clearly. Schools were few and travel much restricted. Only about thirty families had good libraries. To the women of that day has been ascribed the honor of training the great men of the nation. George Washington was only eleven years old when his father died. His mother daily taught him from a manual of maxims which he preserved and often consulted in after life. A French general, after a visit to Mary Washington, said, “No wonder America produces such great men when they have such mothers.”

Thomas Jefferson’s father died when he was fourteen. His mother was said to have been unusually refined and intellectual, evincing much literary taste in the art of letter-writing. This was the only field open to a woman with literary proclivities at that time. It was from her he inherited his intellect, and in the training of her boy all that was best and noblest in her was brought to bear upon the formation of his character. These two mothers of great men are not exceptions. History records the names of many noble women who have devoted their lives to their children, not only in Virginia, but elsewhere.

Virginians admired the king and the nobility but liked their own rights better. They loved the pride and pomp of aristocracy, but this was only a matter of taste. When it came to losing a freeman’s right they relegated their aristocratic tastes to the background. They loved the solemn ritual of the church. Governor Spottswood describes the Virginians of his time as “living in gentlemanly conformity with the Church of England,” and the famous old chapel, built in 1632, now familiarly called Old Bruton Church, is consecrated by many hallowed associations. Here worshiped the dauntless Spottswood, himself, as well as Lord de Botetourt, Lord Dunmore and many others in a pew elevated from the main floor and richly canopied. And here worshiped many men whose names are indissolubly bound up with the conception of this grand commonwealth. The churchyard is the place of sepulture of some of Virginia’s most distinguished men.

Nearly all the great Virginians were descended from the Cavaliers. Washington was the great-grandson of one of them, and Madison, Monroe, the Randolphs, Richard Henry Lee, and others were also descendants of royalists. Virginia succeeded in keeping out the importation of felons. A number of redemptioners, or political prisoners, who were sold by the English government to speculators, were traded in the colonies, but misfortune being their only crime, they became in most cases useful citizens.

The men of that time were fond of sport. Washington was ever an enthusiastic fox hunter. Patrick Henry was devoted to the woods, fields and streams; he also played the fiddle and danced with keenest zest. Social life was ideal at that time. Each plantation was a small principality and they vied with each other in hospitality. It was not unusual for a carriage full of guests to arrive without warning, and the visitors and their retinue were the recipients of the most lordly hospitality for days and sometimes weeks. Card playing was much in vogue, and under great provocation an oath or two was sometimes found to be the only expression that could do the situation justice. It is said Washington swore heartily at General Stephens for losing the battle of Germantown on account of drunkenness.

The dance after supper went without saying, to the music of “the fiddlers three.” It was a delight in which the stately Washington often indulged, with, it may be shrewdly guessed, the belle of the ball for a partner. In the hall of William and Mary College hangs a picture which represents him dancing the minuet with Mary Cary. The Virginia Reel called for the whole company. Flushed and breathless, full of laughter and fun they threaded its mazes in the wee sma’ hours.

“Oh, the instruments are shattered and the strings are snapped in twain,
And the fiddles are forgotten and will never play again.
But above the stars eternal in their faded pinks and blues,
With the powder on their ringlets and the buckles on their shoes,
I shall see the beaux and sweethearts in the long procession kneel,
And their harps will play the music of the Old Virginia Reel.”

William and Mary College, the oldest of the American colleges except Harvard, is situated in the old colonial capital, Williamsburg, sometimes called The Middle Plantation. Before the college was burned the first time it had many rare volumes marked with the coats of arms of royalty and noblemen whose names were connected with its early days. Within its walls were trained the youth of the eighteenth century who were to consecrate their lives to the cause of liberty. The Reverend James Blair was its founder and its first president. He went to London and unfolded his scheme of Christianizing the Indians and educating the youth of America. Queen Mary warmly approved of his plan. King William was equally agreeable and gave an order for two thousand pounds sterling to be used in the erection of the buildings. But when Seymour, the Attorney-General, received the order to draw up the charter and pay the money, he was enraged. The nation was engaged in an expensive war, he said, and needed the money for other and better purposes—why was a college wanted in Virginia, anyhow? Mr. Blair explained its purpose as being that of preparing young men for the ministry, adding that the people of Virginia had souls to save as well as the people of England. The idea struck Seymour as particularly absurd and maudlin; his retort, historically recorded, was: “Souls! ⸺ your souls! Make tobacco!”

The Phi Beta Kappa Society, the first fraternal society in this country, was organized at William and Mary December 5th, 1776, and the first meeting was held in the Apollo room at the Raleigh tavern.

Jefferson, the first Democrat, was in 1764, five years after Washington had been happily married to Martha Custis, a gay young student at Williamsburg, or “Devilsburg,” as he wrote of it, in a letter to a friend, expressing himself as being “as happy last night as dancing with Belinda in the Apollo room” could make him.

How close it brings our heroes, to know intimately their youthful loves and pleasures! “One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.” To the same chum, who seems to be in a like manner transfixed with Cupid’s dart, he writes later: “Have you any glimmering of hope? How does ⸺ do? Had I better stay here and do nothing or go down there and do less? Inclination tells me to go, receive my sentence and be no longer in suspense; but reason says, ‘If you go and your attempt proves unsuccessful you will be ten times more wretched than ever!’——I hear Ben Harrison has been to Wilton. Let me know his success.” Ben Harrison’s success at Wilton, where he was courting Anne Randolph, a cousin of Jefferson, was greater than his own, for she married him and had the honor of being the wife of a signer of the Declaration of Independence and a governor of Virginia. Jefferson’s sweetheart might have sat in like high places if she had only smiled a little more. “Cupid lacks the gift of prophecy and Fame will not tell her secrets till the time comes, for the sweetest lips that ever smiled.” Lucy Grymes, a cousin, is said to have been one of his sweethearts, also beautiful Mary Coles, the mother of Dolly Madison. It is told of Washington that before he arrived at wealth and distinction, he went courting Mary Cary and was asked out of the house by her father, the old colonel, on the ground that his daughter had been accustomed to ride in her own coach.

The Duke of Gloucester Street in Williamsburg still holds much that is interesting. The foundation of the old Capitol lies at one end and one mile away at the other end still flourishes the old college, William and Mary. The courthouse, designed by Sir Christopher Wren, bids fair to last for generations yet. Across the green stands Tazewell Hall, with its “ghost rooms high up under the eaves.” This was the home of the Randolphs. Bassett Hall is on the other side and is noted as having entertained Lafayette within its walls. Thomas Moore was also entertained here. It was at this house he first saw the fireflies, which he immortalized in his poem on the Dismal Swamp.

“And all night long by her firefly lamp,
She paddles her white canoe.”

Martha Washington’s kitchen is yet to be seen not far from Governor Spottswood’s old Powder-Horn. Governor Dunmore’s ice house is still shown to strangers. Dunmore was the last of the royal governors. Patrick Henry, as was fitting, was the first American governor to take his seat in the vice-regal palace which has now entirely disappeared to make way for a model school.

YORKTOWN

There are two monuments at Yorktown to commemorate the surrender of Cornwallis, and the old customhouse still stands, with moss-peaked roof, thick walls, massive oaken doors and shutters. It is said to have been the first customhouse erected in America.

In the colonial period, says a popular writer, it was the rendezvous of the gentlemen of the town and country surrounding it. It was there that the haughty young aristocrats took snuff, fondled their hounds and probably talked over the last Assembly ball, and, mayhap, laughed about the conquests made of their colleagues by the bright eyes of the country-side belles.

There still stands an old weather-boarded mansion whose antique roof and fireplaces set across the corners demand for it the reverence inspired in us by a relic of bygone days. Here in the sitting room were drawn up the articles of capitulation and surrender. It was historical long before that, as being the country residence of Governor Spottswood. Here he held his mimic court, entertaining in the most lavish and ostentatious manner his knights of the Golden Horse Shoe. Not far away is the foundation of a curious building said to have been a temple of worship built by Governor Spottswood. The spectacular taste of the governor gives this an appearance of truth which is borne up by the name of the surrounding plantation. It is called Temple Farm.

PITHY POINTS FOR PONDERING PEOPLE

By William J. Burtscher

A dishonest man doesn’t care for honest criticism.

Don’t _stop_ to think if you can think without stopping.

Energy keepeth her eyes open twenty-four hours every day.

Life is a chain of duties. Discharge one, and another looms up ahead.

Do as you please as long as you please, as long as you please to do right.

It is hard for a man to hang to the religion that he hangs on the outside of himself.

While the lazy man lies in bed dreaming of success, energy gets up and hustles for it.

Some people are so busy grieving over being poor that they have no time to begin to get rich.

Some men are so liberal in their criticism that they forget to compliment the deeds that please.

It is easy to follow the path of an optimist on account of the sunshine he leaves behind him.

Work is a lazy man’s enemy. So long as he loves not his enemy religion abideth not with him.

When in Rome do as Rome does—not want you to do. Do as Rome ought to do, or as right requires.

The rich man is seldom as thankful for his wealth as the hungry tramp always is when a morsel of bread comes his way.

While some men are waiting for a rich relative to die and leave them a fortune they could attend to business and make one.

A little man brags of his bravery when the danger is past. The man who is really brave doesn’t need to brag. His friends do it for him.

HISTORY OF THE HALS