Chapter IV: Part 4

Just before the match came off, the Boston party concluded not to run, but to pay forfeit, which they did. Their idea was that they could bet their money to better advantage in the four-mile purse race, which was to come off in a day or two, and in which both horses would enter, knowing that Decatur would be largely the favorite in the betting, and even more so, as they had paid forfeit to him. On the day of the race the track was quite heavy. This also lengthened the odds on Decatur. But Boston won, after a close contest, and largely enriched his friends. He was now considered the champion racer of America, and he was sent over to Long Island to attend the second spring meeting, to come off in a few weeks.

In the meantime Duane and Charles Carter had been winning fame and most of the large purses in Maryland and Virginia, under the management of that shrewd and competent horseman, Billy McCargo. They were now turned toward the metropolis, with a view to catching this new champion at Long Island and taking a measure of his courage and speed. McCargo thought either of his horses was better than Decatur, and as good, if not better, than Boston. At Long Island he decided to make his first battle on Boston with Charles Carter, the lesser light of the two stars of the turf. The horses came together in a four-mile purse race, and for the character of the soil and condition of the track, it was the most fiercely-contested four-mile dash I ever saw. The first three miles were run in 5:36, the fastest, notwithstanding the poor condition of the track, ever made up to that time. As they passed out on the fourth mile the horses were going like a matched team, and the contest appeared in great doubt, but on the back side Boston began to draw away and won easily by half a dozen lengths, and when Carter came in it was seen that he was broken down and had run his last race.

Boston and his friends now crossed over to Hoboken, followed by McCargo, with Duane. Over the new race course on Beacon Heights it was decided that Duane should give the champion a beating or the race of his life. McCargo had managed his fight on Boston with consummate skill. He had selected the weaker of his two horses, Charles Carter, to make the first assault, and it was evident from the terrific fight he had made over the Long Island track that he hoped, even if he could not win with Carter, to at least run Boston such a race that he could beat him with Duane on Beacon Heights. Therefore they were quite sanguine of victory and freely took all bets offered.

Beacon Heights was a new course just opened near New York, easy of access, and costing only a trifle to get from the city there and to see the race. Excitement was intense over the coming race between these two famous Southern champions, both sons of Virginia, and I am confident that a hundred thousand people witnessed the race. They came from every section of the United States, and all classes were represented. Mr. Van Buren, who was then President, and all of his Cabinet occupied a conspicuous place in the grandstand, as did also nearly all of the foreign legations, who were out in full force. The beauty and chivalry of the nation had assembled to witness what was expected and what proved to be the greatest horse race that ever occurred in this or any other country. The great sea of humanity was kept in the best of humor by lively music from a number of bands, the most noted being the United States Marine Band, which had been sent out in honor of the assembled dignitaries.

In those days there was but little betting done until the day of the race, and most generally not until the horses were on the track. On this occasion Commodore Stockdon, who, besides being a Commodore in our navy was also a true sportsman and a prominent breeder and importer of thoroughbreds, and who owned and raced some prominent horses of the day, proposed on the evening before the race to Mr. Pringle, the most noted sporting man of that day, in Washington, that he would bet him $5,000 on Duane, provided he liked the looks of the horse the next day. The bet was promptly taken, and the next day when the horses were brought out, after carefully inspecting Duane, the Commodore told Pringle it was “a go.” This settled it. No money passed, and rarely ever did with big bettors. In those days men’s words were sufficient. What a striking difference between then and now! Here a Commodore in the navy bets $5,000 with a noted gambler, with nothing more than the word “go” between them, and yet either would have sold the clothes off his back rather than to crawfish out of the bet, or in any way defraud the other. This even bet seemed to make the mark for others to go by, and the money went on even up, and by the cartload in sums from fifty to five and ten thousand dollars a side. As a rule the Southern contingent backed Duane, while the New Yorkers piled their wealth on Boston. McCargo’s mulatto boy, Steve, who had ridden Carter against Boston, at Long Island, was now up on Duane to make another desperate effort to down the champion, while Cornelius, Boston’s old rider, a negro boy who belonged to Mr. Reeves, the owner of the horse, was in the pigskin on his favorite.

After having gone through the racing season, running from two to four mile heat races every week, the two horses, as they stepped out on the track, looked like two gamecocks made of whalebone and steel. Every muscle and sinew stood out as if carved by an artist’s chisel, while their glossy coats, bright eyes and light, springy step indicated that both were on edge and ready to run for a king’s ransom or a woman’s love. Boston was a red sorrel, about fifteen hands three inches high, both hind ankles white and a white strip on his face that broadened out over the nose; hence the nickname of “Old White Nose” afterward given to him by his friends. He was a horse of immense driving power, but so very symmetrical in his proportions and so evenly balanced that it was only noticeable in the eyes of a critic. As he moved about under Cornelius quietly, but with a supple, catlike step, bearing lightly on the snaffle, with his red coat gleaming in the sunshine like burnished gold, he was as beautiful and grand-looking a specimen of race horse as ever gladdened the eyes of a turfman. Duane, the son of imported Hedgford, was the counterpart of Boston in every respect, except in color and markings. He was a dark brown, almost black, with tan muzzle and flanks. While Boston’s coat shone like gold, Duane looked like polished bronze. He had no marks, except a small spot of white in his forehead that shone like a diamond, and as he was led out on the course by his old negro trainer, Lazarus, with yellow Steve in the saddle, followed by their manager, Billy McCargo, they presented a picture that will live forever in the memory of every turfman who saw them. Gilpatrick, the most distinguished jockey of his day, afterwards the rider of Boston in all of his races, and who rode Lexington in his memorable race against time, and I, both young riders then and fast friends, pooled our hard-earned wages, amounting to $13, and bet it all on Boston, and with beating hearts we worked our way through the crowd and took position under the wire directly opposite the judges. Hon. John C. Stevens, one of New York’s most prominent citizens, an accomplished gentleman and the most competent starter of his day, was in the stand and ordered out the horses.

First Heat.

At the tap of the drum the battle began. Duane was first on his stride and showed the way around the turn. Here Boston made a run and shortly after entering the stretch was on even terms with him. Head and head they passed the stand. A mighty shout went up from the vast crowd and as they started on the second mile you could hear, “$500 on Duane!” “A $1,000 on Boston!” “Watch him run him out!” “Stay with him, old white nose!” and a thousand other such exclamations from the friends of each. Rounding the lower turn, Duane having the track, Cornelius took a slight pull on Boston, but on entering the back stretch he made a run and at the half they were nearly lapped. Rounding the upper turn, however, Duane shook him off. Another shout from the backers of Duane and more money goes up. Entering the stretch the game son of Timoleon makes another run at his flying antagonist, and, although he closes up the space, he can only get on Duane’s hip, and in this order, head and hip, they pass the stand and swing around the turn. Cornelius is content to hold this position until he enters the back stretch, when he again calls on Boston; slowly but surely the red coat of Boston inches up and at the half is hid behind Duane. So even are they running that it looks like one horse and one rider; in this position they ran around the upper turn, down the home stretch and enter the fourth mile as even as a carriage team with the deafening shouts of the multitude following them. Rounding the lower turn Steve for the first time takes a pull on Duane, evidently with a view of saving him for the finish; Cornelius on Boston moves to the front, intending to take the track, but Steve has no idea of giving up this advantage, and he keeps Duane moving just close enough to keep Boston on the outside. In this position they race to the head of the stretch. Here Steve begins to make a run; down the stretch they come, hip and head, but in spite of all Cornelius’ efforts and in spite of the long, tireless strides of Boston, the brown son of Hedgford overhauls him when half-way down the stretch, but it has taken the last remnant of his reserve power to do this, and head to head, leap for leap, they strain their hardened muscles. A child’s blanket would have covered them. Both riders were rolling in their saddles from exhaustion, but were lifting and urging all they could. Boston had been running purely on his courage. Cornelius had neither whip nor spur. Steve had on spurs that had more than once in the finish drawn the claret from Duane. “A dead heat!” “A dead heat!” shout the crowd. No. One more stride with a savage dig that sent the rowels home in the quivering flanks of his horse and at the same time lifting his head Steve sends Duane under the wire a winner by a scant head, in 7:52.

Remarkable time for a new track filled with roots and sprouts. Both horses showed distress when the boys returned to weigh out. It had been a battle between giants, and their heaving flanks gave evidence of the great physical strain they had undergone, but the same gamecock look flashed from their eyes, showing that while the flesh might be weak their courage could never die. The riders were scarcely less distressed. Steve, the rider of Duane, fainted when taken down, and Cornelius was in but little better condition. So popular was the victory of Duane that Mr. Wm. Friend, of Virginia, bought him before the next heat was called, paying his owner $12,000 for him.

Although he had lost a heat Boston’s friends asked and received no odds, but still covered Duane money, even up.

Second Heat.

When the horses were called for the second heat they came up looking well. Both had cooled out admirably. Johnny Hartman, a white jockey, and one of the best riders on the turf, was upon Duane, Steve not being able to resume his mount. Up to this time Boston had never been marked by whip or spur, except in his first race, when he sulked when touched with a spur. He had won all of his races running purely on his courage. Col. Wm. R. Johnson, the “Napoleon of the Turf,” who was managing him in this race, procured a cowhide, and when he mounted Cornelius gave it to him with instructions to use it if necessary from start to finish. There was no delay at the post; the drum tapped, and they were off, followed by the continuous cheers of the crowd. I doubt if a more closely contested match for four miles was ever run over any course than was waged between these two great horses in this second heat. It was literally a fight to the death. With every muscle strained, every sinew drawn to its utmost tension, they raced head for head the entire distance. Duane was on the inside and held it to the finish, although Boston made repeated efforts in every mile to take it. It was drive, drive, drive; death or victory. First the head of gold striped with white would for a moment show in front, then the head of bronze with the white spot gleaming like a star of hope would take the lead, but never more than a scant head would at any time divide them. As the head of either horse would show in front their respective friends would give a ringing cheer, but as mile after mile of the mighty contest was measured off by the long, low, powerful strides of these great racers and the desperate character of the race became more and more apparent, the excitement became too intense for shouting, and as the horses turned into the stretch on the fourth mile for the run home nose to nose, bit to bit and stride for stride a stillness as of death came over the crowd. Not a shout, not a word, not a whisper was heard. The stable boys and rubbers with bated breath and bulging eyes stared with almost agonized expression on their faces up the stretch where the desperate battle was being fought. The lemonade vender gave up all thoughts of trade, and even the wily pickpocket forgot his calling for the moment, and his hand, still clutching his ill-gotten gains, trembled with excitement as he watched the flying stallions and heard the ceaseless patter of their hoof strokes.

I was a young light-weight jockey then who had won his spurs in more than one hotly-contested field, and to-day am perhaps the only living turfman who witnessed this great match, for nearly sixty years have passed since then; yet in memory’s mirror, I can see that fearful finish as distinctly as my young eyes saw it that day. I can see two horses half-way down the stretch coming as true and even as two arrows from one bow. I can see two outstretched necks and heads, a sorrel and a brown, a blaze and a star. I can see their powerful haunches gathered under them and drive them forward as if they were shot from the mouth of a cannon. I can see the hard-trained muscles playing beneath their thin skins like oiled machinery, and as they come nearer and nearer I see their ears lying back and their bloodshot eyes gleaming with the light of the battle and undying courage. I hear their labored breathing and can see the red flush up their widely-distended nostrils glowing like heated furnaces. I can see Johnny Hartman, pale as death, riding as if for his life, drive the merciless steel again and again in the panting sides of Duane, and at each time the blood spurting from the wounds. I can see the black face of Cornelius, drawn as if in mortal agony, his lips parted, his white teeth shining and his eyes fixed on the finishing point only a few yards away. I can see him swing the cowhide, already crimsoned with the royal blood of Boston, high over his head and bring it down on the quivering flank of his horse, then, quick as lightning, lift him with the bit. I can see the great son of Timoleon crouch lower to the ground, gather his powerful quarters further under him and make the final rush just as Cornelius lifts him, and I can see the golden head and white nose cross the wire in front of the bronze and the star. Boston wins, but only by a head. Then the pent-up excitement broke forth. “Boston wins!” “Boston wins!” was the shout. Yes, he had won, but could he do so again? This was only a heat apiece. Another heat was necessary to decide the race, and in the peerless brown stallion he had found a foeman well worthy of his steel, and one that had shown him he could take his measure in any part of the four miles. Both horses had been fearfully punished and were dreadfully distressed, and so were the riders. Of the two latter Hartman was much the freshest, for after weighing out Cornelius had to be rubbed out, drenched with brandy and altogether requiring almost as much attention as his horse. But he would have died in the saddle rather than have relinquished his mount, and when they were called for the last heat he came out with his bloody whip, looking as determined as ever.

Third Heat.

Gilpatrick and I took our old position under the wire, with many misgivings as to the fate of our combined fortunes, the $13 that hung upon the result of this heat. For the first time Boston began to show the ugly side of his disposition by sulking. As they were led up to start he repeatedly refused to go, and when the drum was finally tapped, having the inside, he bolted toward the fence. Cornelius pulled him out, and then he ran diagonally across the track towards the outside. In the meantime Hartman was sending the dead game son of Hedgford, along, and by the time Cornelius got Boston straight and on his stride the magnificent brown had taken the track and was running smoothly more than fifty yards in front. These positions were maintained until they reached the head of the stretch. Here Boston showed another peculiar trait in his disposition, and one for which he afterwards became noted, the shouting of a crowd seemed to inspire him and make him run faster. As they turned into the stretch with Duane so far in advance his friends began to cheer. The sound no sooner reached Boston’s ears than he began of his own accord to make a run at Duane, and so rapidly did he run down the stretch that when they passed under the wire he was only two open lengths away. Going around the lower turn both riders eased up their horses, but on entering the back stretch Cornelius made a run with Boston at Duane and at the half mile had closed out all the daylight between them.

But rounding the upper turn Duane shook him off and entered the stretch an open length and a half in front. Again a great shout went up from the backers of the peerless brown stallion as they saw his move, and again as the sound reached Boston it seemed to lend him wings. Running true and straight as a bullet flies, without touch of whip, the whitefaced son of Timoleon began to devour the space that separated him from his antagonist, and as they passed the stand at the end of the second mile his white nose was at Duane’s hip. Going around the lower turn the boys again took easy pulls on their horses, and in this position they go up the stretch and around the upper turn, Boston holding his place with the tenacity of a bull dog. But the white star of Duane is still in front as they swing into the stretch, and again his backers greet him with a cheer and again “old white nose” takes the compliment to himself and promptly, in response, he quickens his stride and again reaches Duane. Half-way down the stretch he collars him, and as they pass the stand his white nose is in front for the first time since starting on this last heat. It was now the time for Boston’s friends to cheer, and if pandemonium had broken loose more noise could not have been made. Men were simply wild with excitement. They danced about like children; hats, coats and canes were thrown into the air. Gilpatrick and I hugged each other and shouted ourselves hoarse, and, as the horses rounded the lower turn, the shouting increased, as it was seen that Boston, inspired by the shouting, no doubt, had kept up his killing stride and had taken the track from Duane. But to experienced riders like Gil and I this sudden change in position was rather a source of uneasiness. We both knew Hartman well. He was every inch a rider and a cool and skillful horseman, and we could see that he had taken a strong pull on his horse, saving him for the terrific finish he knew was yet to come. Knowing from our own experience in the saddle what was coming we paid no attention to the over-sanguine friends of Boston shouting: “Duane has quit!” “Duane has quit!” We knew the horse and we knew the rider, and we also knew that a race for life was coming and our fortunes were on the issue. So we anxiously watched them as they raced nose and tail, with Boston leading up the back side and around the upper turn.

Just before entering the stretch for home Hartman began to move on Duane. “He’s coming!” “He’s coming!” Gil whispered, for he was too excited to speak, and we both stood speechless watching the fierce battle that was opening a quarter of a mile away. Cornelius rides Boston a little wide on turning in the stretch in order that his whip hand might be free to drive. Hartman sees the opening thus made next the rail and rushes Duane in it. It was skillful riding on both sides. Hartman had no whip, but rode with spurs, while Cornelius had no spurs, for Boston would not stand them, but rode with a whip, and if Hartman in a tight finish could get so close to Cornelius on his whip side as to prevent him from using the lash he would have a big advantage. This Cornelius prevented by riding a little out on the turn. The spurt of Duane was greeted with the old-time cheer of his backers. “He comes! he comes!” “See him come!” went up from the throats of thousands, but it ceased almost as suddenly as it began, for the red horse is coming with him, and at that moment not a hand’s breadth divides them. But Hartman’s judgment in saving his horse now begins to tell, and inch by inch the brown stud begins to slowly but surely draw away. First a nose, then a head, then a neck and shoulders he pushes to the front. Hartman’s knee is at Boston’s head. Duane is a half length in front and only an eighth of a mile to run. Can he hold? Cornelius shifts both reins to his left hand, the cat-gut whirls above his head and falls upon the flank of Boston, cutting the thin skin of the thoroughbred like a knife. Maddened with pain and his own desire to win Boston bites savagely at Duane, but catches Hartman’s trousers at the knee and nearly tears them off of the jockey. Cornelius pulls him loose, lifts his head, straightens him and again the cruel rawhide tastes his blood. Responding to the lash with unfaltering courage, with the shouts of “Duane,” “Duane,” “Duane wins!” ringing in his ears, the great horse with almost human instinct seems to know that the supreme moment has come, as he puts forth the last vital ounce of strength that yet lingers in his powerful muscles and begins to draw up on Duane. Each weary leap brings him nearer and nearer the head of the gallant brown, whose last rush at the head of the stretch is now beginning to tell upon him. Only fifty feet from the wire and they are nose and nose. Horses and riders were rolling from side to side, all utterly exhausted. Still, with outstretched necks, distended nostrils and eyes yet flaming with passion, the fierce contest goes on as they literally stagger towards the finish, for the pace is now nothing more than a hard gallop. Cornelius is reeling from exhaustion in his saddle, but with a last effort he partially lifts the drooping head of Boston, cuts him with the whip and—the race is over! Boston wins! But so dead tired are both horses that Boston, although the winner, actually stopped directly under the wire, and Duane walked under it.

Fortune has been kind to me since then and given me many of her most choice blessings, but never in her most liberal moods has she given me anything that I appreciated more than the smile she gave me that hot day on Beacon Heights nearly sixty years ago, when, watching this greatest of all the great races I have ever seen, she doubled my humble fortune.

The reason so little has ever been said or written about this race is owing to the fact that it was not a match or stake or section race, but simply a purse race of four mile heats, in which two of the most noted horses in America met. I helped to carry Boston home after the race. We went through by land, and so completely exhausted was the horse that he would frequently fall and we would have to assist him to his feet.

With Our Writers

“A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”

As a rule, traveling salesmen manage to extract and radiate as much joy and mirth as any class of citizens that I know of. But even these genial spirits have their own sorrows.

A drummer was sent by his house, shortly after his marriage, on a long trip to the Pacific coast. Some time after his departure the young wife was seized with appendicitis, was hurried off to a hospital, operated on, and recovered all right. The strain, both mental and financial, had been great, but she was well again. Joe had remitted by check for surgeon’s fee, special nurse, hospital charges, and a few other items amounting to a hundred or so, and his spirits were just beginning to rise again as he worked towards Los Angeles, where mail from home would await him.

The “gang” from the 9:10 train hurried up to the office of the “Link-Schmidt.” The night clerk handed each his quota of these ever-welcome missives.

In the reading room Joe was seen to turn deathly pale. Several at once approached. “What’s matter, old boy?” “Bad news from home?” “Anything out of whack?” and kindred interrogatories were fired at him from all directions.

Some griefs are too poignant for expression. Carefully folding back the first and last parts of a page, Joe exhibited, without comment, only this paragraph of its perfumed surface: “I am not feeling as well, dearest, as when I wrote you at Pasadena. Sallie is coming over to-morrow and we are going to have our kimonos cut out.”

Reader number one passed it down the line. Silence, that was stifling, settled over the group. Then, moved by a common impulse, a solemn procession filed out and lined up before a rosewood counter, in front of which ran a massive gilt rail. “Martini,” “Black and White High Ball,” “Wilson,” “Same.” In the land of the high ball a poet once sang:

“Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou can make us scorn!
Wi’ tu’penny we fear nae evil;
Wi’ whiskey straight we’d face the divil.”

It was so in this instance. Joe came to first. “Ain’t that ——” (from the youngest in the bunch). “Say, Joe, the repair bills of you married men must be something fierce.”

“Oh, come on, boys, let’s go to supper.”

H. K. A.

Mr. Wallace Mistaken.

Editor Trotwood’s:

I have read with much interest your history of that remarkable family of pacers. If the Hal family of pacers can’t produce world’s record-breaking trotters, the theory that extreme trotting speed comes from the pacer, or originated from the pacing gait, must go to the wall.

Mr. Wallace was certainly misinformed when he was told that the dam of Vermont Black Hawk was a pacer. I hunted up the man who had charge of her for upwards of eight years, and he assured me that the dam of Vermont Black Hawk was as square gaited a trotter as he ever saw, and that she never paced a step during all the time she was owned in the Twombly family. This man was Mr. Shadrak Seavey, a grandson of Ezekiel Twombly, and men who knew him personally assured me that no man’s reputation for strict veracity was superior to that of Mr. Seavey. Horsemen who knew this mare agreed unanimously with Mr. Seavey in describing her color, size, conformation and gait.

The man who misled Mr. Wallace got on the track of the wrong mare. He was the same man (Allen W. Thompson, of Woodstock, Vt.) who strenuously contended that Vermont Black Hawk was by Paddy, and Ethan Allen 2:25½ was by Adams’ Flying Morgan, in spite of the fact that the stud book of Sherman Morgan showed that the dam of Vermont Black Hawk was mated with him May 14, 1832, and I learned from Mr. Seavey that Black Hawk was foaled about the middle of April, 1833.

The stud service book of Vermont Black Hawk shows that the Holcomb mare, dam of Ethan Allen, was mated with Black Hawk July 9, 1848. It is a matter of history that Ethan Allen was foaled June 18, 1849. These facts were known to Thompson, but because Ethan Allen was bay in color, Thompson was sure there must have been some mistake. He did not succeed in winning Mr. Wallace on that point, but touched a responsive chord when he hit upon the pacing mare as the dam of Vermont Black Hawk.

I read your Monthly Sundays, when, I suppose, I should be at church. If your publication is as great a success financially as in all other respects, you will have a bank account when you reach my age that will enable you to live comfortably the remainder of your days. That such may be the case is my sincere wish.

Pardon me for the length of this epistle. I won’t do it again. Very truly yours,

S. W. PARLIN.

Boston, Mass.

As to Football.

Editor Trotwood’s:

In college and university circles, during the year 1905, one of the vital questions receiving its share of attention was, as some one has aptly phrased it, “Is football to be mended or ended?” This and similar questions open the subject for discussion, in the progress of which a number of very caustic criticisms have been leveled at the game by the presidents of some of our great universities and colleges and members of their respective faculties. The president of Columbia University, the first to abolish the game, recently declared that football as now played is no longer a sport, but a profession, and, like other professions, demands prolonged training, complete absorption of time and thought, and is inconsistent, in practice, at least, with the devotion to work which is the first duty of college and university students. He also calls attention to the “figure” “gate receipts” cuts in the conduct of the game, which, says he, “marks the game as in no small degree a commercial enterprise.” President Wheeler of the University of California, brings his indictment against the promoters of the modern game for “having changed the gridiron into a multiplication table,” and otherwise tampering with it, until to-day “American intercollegiate football has become a spectacle, and not a sport.” The president of the College of the City of New York reviews the evolution of football, and makes a strong plea for a return to the game of earlier times, “when football was rather primitive; few practice hours, few out-of-town games; no training table; no excuse from regular university work, and the boys led a normal student life.” However, whatever may be the opinion of certain scholastic dignitaries, and however incompetent the “rank outsider” may be to judge the game, a reasonable survey of the situation reveals the fact that public opinion, the most powerful factor with which we have to deal, is now concentrating its forces preparatory to “bucking the centre” of the game as played, or, with the “flying wedge” of reform, dash through its lines and destroy the dangerous features of the “mass play.”

That there should be provision for physical culture in the course of every educational institution is, of course, universally conceded, but the question now up for solution is, what character of exercise, or what system of physical development will come nearer meeting the demand for such training. The champions of the great American game answer, “football.” And yet, when we consider the question in the light of all its pros and cons—and, like all other questions, it has its pros and cons—its three sides—i. e., your side, the other side, and the inside—we are led to believe that it specializes athletic sports to such a degree as to exclude the student body from participation in them. The systematic development of the physique was first given a pre-eminent place in the training and discipline of young men by the ancient Greeks, who sought in this way to perpetuate a hardy and vigorous manhood among their people. The origin of the Greek games is mythical, yet we know that they were revived in 776 by the king of Elia and Lycurgus, the Spartan lawgiver, as a means by which intestine commotions might be pacified and a pestilence which at that time plagued the people, stayed. Foot racing, wrestling, leaping, quoit and javelin throwing, and, in time, chariot racing were the chief sports with which they developed the physical manhood of the nation. And in this connection, but a moment’s reflection is required to suggest the benefits derived from such a variety of sports and diversity of exercise. Contrast the sports of the Greek game with the exclusive feature of football as played in the colleges to-day. A college president writes of his institution: “In the ten years from 1892 to 1902, only seventy-five different men made the team as players and substitutes out of four thousand or more different male students during that time in attendance.” But this is an age of “specialists,” therefore we will let that pass, and there yet remains the gravest possible objections to the “mass” game. It cannot be denied with any show of fairness, that its present tendency is to discredit scholarship and put brains at a discount, while it inflates and exaggerates the intrinsic value of beef and bone. The primary object of education is to discipline and develop all the faculties and endowments of heart and head, while the maxim, “a sound mind in a sound body,” is by no means to be despised, and yet the hero of the gridiron, the idol of the college or university, might be a young man of mediocre ability, or with no brains at all, and with less character than brains. Then, again, the exaggerated importance which the average student attaches to the more brutal features of the game creates a false standard of courage and manhood, and demands ferocious tests that are unfair as the price of its vindication. False standards of anything in life are, especially to the young, always perilous, and of nothing is this more than of false conceptions of what constitutes real courage. For instance, it is a notorious fact that in the hour of actual battle soldiers who, in “the piping times of peace,” were renowned fist-fighters and bullies, and generally looked upon as “bold, bad men,” have, when the thunder of cannon and the rattle of musketry broke upon their ears, failed to stand the test of courage, and disgracefully and ignominiously fled, seeking safety in precipitate flight, while other men, supposed to be physical cowards, walked calmly and dutifully, and with unwavering step, on through the storm of grape and shell into the very jaws of death. We are reminded, in this connection, that the “dunghill” fights splendidly with his “natural heels,” but it takes a game cock to stand the test of “steel.” Ought our young men to be educated in an atmosphere in which such base estimates of true courage and manliness must become the very breath of their nostrils? Should a young man of culture, courage, refinement and a high sense of honor be subjected to the humiliation of being accounted a “cad” by his fellow students because he does not happen to aspire to “make good” on the team or approve the game? Such a young man may be a swift runner, a good rider, and a well trained gymnast, but there is no field for his physical development if he does not “make good,” and though he be manly, straightforward and proficient in his work, he has no show with the students with the commonest, vulgarest and most ill-bred youth imaginable, provided that “darling of the gods” happens to weigh enough and have enough of the bulldog and tiger in him. Is it any wonder that the brutality of the game, with all its barbarisms and degrading tendencies, has at last awakened the sleeping giant of public opinion, who now threatens to destroy it? And what complicates the situation more are the revelations that from time to time have been made, fixing the crime of dishonesty and insincerity upon some of the faculties of schools and colleges, who have taken devious and questionable ways and methods to violate their sworn agreements with rival institutions, and persistently play professionals as students. But the foxy methods of such schools and colleges have most naturally tended to disintegrate the student conscience and re-acted upon their faculties so as to do either one of two things—i. e., cause the faculty to forfeit the confidence of the better class of students, or train the student to feel that there is no wrong in dissembling, cheating or lying where the success of the team is at stake, as well as the reputation of their college as a leader in athletic sports.

Such a state of affairs most naturally has aroused the interest of those who are jealous and zealous for the welfare of the colleges and universities and individual students, and the tide of public opinion has gradually been swelling until now it threatens the utter destruction of the game. But will the students themselves come to the rescue and save the game while there is yet time, by agreeing to an honest, clean abolition of the objectionable features of the game? For, in the last analysis of the situation, it is “up to them.”

WALTER B. CAPERS.

Columbia, Tenn.

Southern Lien Laws.

Editor Trotwood’s:

The lien laws of most of the Southern states should be repealed. They have served their purpose, and are no longer needed. They are millstones around the neck of twentieth century progress. To the uninitiated it may be necessary to explain that these laws make it possible to use as collateral for a loan things not yet in existence. It is a mortgage on air, sunshine, rain and prospects. The renter of a small farm goes, say in January, to a village merchant, states how much land he will plant, what he expects the total yield will be and the merchant then agrees to advance him, from time to time, supplies of all kinds—food, clothing, implements, and so on, up to an agreed upon amount. For this amount the merchant takes a lien or mortgage upon the prospective crop.

The cotton crop is not planted until April or May, so that a goodly part of the supplies are consumed before a seed is in the ground.

The wreck and ruin of a four years’ war left little besides the land of the South, and the enactment of these laws was an expedient adopted to meet an emergency. The necessity for them has long since passed, leaving the laws on the statute books. They have not been repealed because politicians are afraid of the poor man’s vote. They lack that independence that would do what is best for him over his protest. That such laws encourage idleness, dependence, thriftlessness and improvidence among those who most need to practice their opposites is well illustrated by the following actual occurrence.

One afternoon last August a friend of mine came upon a white renter sitting on the bank of Saluda river fishing. During the conversation my friend expressed the hope that the long drought might be broken by a shower, whereupon the fisherman replied: “Yes, my melon patch needs hit powerful bad, but I’ve drawed about all I kin git on my cotton patch anyway, and I don’t care whether a drap falls on hit or not.”

H. K. A.

Laurens, S. C.

=TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY= Devoted to Farm, Horse and Home.
TROTWOOD PUBLISHING CO., Nashville, Tenn. Office 150 Fourth Ave.,
North.
───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
=JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE,=
=Editor-in-Chief.=

=E. E. SWEETLAND= =Business Manager=

GEO. E. McKENNON President JOHN W. FRY Vice-President EUGENE ANDERSON Treas. WOOTEN MOORE Sec’y. ─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── =TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION=: One Year, $1.00; Single Copy, 10 cents. Advertising Rates on application. ─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── NASHVILLE, TENN., MARCH, 1906. ═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════

With Trotwood

The great new South—does it not make one proud to read the record on a preceding page.

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Trotwood begs to thank personally the hundreds of friends who write him weekly kind things about the Monthly—not only for encouraging letters, but the more substantial evidence of their appreciation. No one but he who is making a life fight for what is best in literature knows how much come-again such letters put into the man who lives in his den at home thinking out what he hopes will please and instruct. So do not imagine you will weary him by writing. He needs them all.

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Trotwood’s is indebted to Miss Julia A. Royster, of Raleigh, N. C., for the realistic picture of mammy in this issue. The picture of Jake, in the January number, was also Miss Royster’s, and we have obtained many more typical Southern pictures by this artist—the truest and most sympathetic we have yet seen. Miss Royster will supply these and other Southern pictures, most artistically executed, to those who care for them.

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I wish to compliment Mr. Brownlow on his able article on “Monetary Relief,” writes Mr. Denison, of Fargo, N. D. “The plan is a perfect panacea if we could get a guarantee that bank presidents would keep their fingers out of speculation.” Mr. Brownlow’s plan seems to meet the approval of all thinking men. By limiting the amount which each bank may be permitted to use, restricting the large banks to half a million, and permitting all the small ones to issue to the extent of their capital stock, Mr. Brownlow’s plan most effectually keeps it out of the hands of speculators. We believe when Mr. Brownlow’s plan is thoroughly known it will be the one adopted.

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“I think you have struck the right ‘lead’ in your Monthly,” writes Prof. Sterling C. Bremer, of the Link School, Thomasville, Tenn. “Unless a Southern magazine is distinctively Southern, it has no right to exist in the South. If it is going to give us a lot of syndicate, ready-made goods, it had better go to New York, where the facilities for that kind of publication are the best. So continue to give us a Trotwood’s Monthly, and not a feeble imitation of some Northern magazine, and I think you will be supported.”

Trotwood appreciates the criticism above, from a scholar in one of the best schools in the South. The more so because we do not claim any particular credit for making Trotwood’s different. We are picturing naturally the life around us—its songs, traditions and ideals. We could make our Monthly twice as large by using syndicate matter. But it will add nothing to the thought of the Monthly nor to its quality.

Here are some good ones from a little book called “Philosophy of the Street,” by E. R. Petherick, of Merrill, Wisconsin. There are hundreds more in the book as good, and that is saying much:

Two people may differ and both be wrong.

Ridicule is a cross-eyed cousin of wit.

Many of us devote too much energy to increasing our wants.

It is always easy to get a front place by facing the other way.

The man who has no secrets from his wife is a widower.

Cunning is the selfish side of wisdom.

It is a good idea to remember that the present is constantly becoming the past.

There is about as much sense in judging a man by his talk as there would be in buying a dog by his bark.

Few people know how to be good to themselves.

After a man has received two favors in succession, he begins to consider them part of his constitutional right.

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“It may interest you to know,” writes Prof. Henry C. Cox, of The Froebel Public School, Chicago, “that on Christmas Eve sixteen hundred and sixty-seven children of this school sang one of your Christmas poems set to music.”

It not only interests us, but it makes us exceedingly vain. To live in the hearts of children! Who would swap them for the sages? And that reminds us of several bright things of children—neighbors of Trotwood—so bright that we thought once of sending them to the Ladies’ Home Journal, an awfully nice female paper published in Philadelphia, but we have decided they are good enough for Trotwood’s:

Little Octavine had lived upstairs at grandmother’s all her short life of four summers, and objected often to walking up the steps. Recently her parents moved to Nashville. Everybody knows what a beautiful Union Station Nashville has, but what an abominably long flight of steps leads from the tracks up to the street. Little Octavine slowly and painfully climbed them, and when she reached the top sighed and said, woefully: “Mamma, if you had told me Nashville was upstairs I never would have moved here.”

Little Ethel, aged two, who can barely talk, saw for the first time the Jersey cow chewing her cud the other day. Ethel watched her long and eagerly, but the more she yearned the more indifferent the cow chewed on. Finally she began to cry: “Mamma, make her let me—chew it—awhile!”

Henry’s mother had been operated on for appendicitis. He didn’t know exactly, but supposed there was an awful rent somewhere. One day he came in in time to see the nurse giving his mother a glass of water. “Don’t do that,” he shouted; “don’t do that! Don’t you know it will just run out of her?”

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In reading some of the business letters on file in Trotwood’s the other day I came across a letter and its answer that made me catch my breath. When I reached the P. S. I had the same laugh that you will have—and as a laugh is always worth money, I am passing it on to Trotwood’s readers. The letter is from our friend, F. D. Hoogstraat, Ravenna, Mich., who, after saying many kind things about us and enclosing check for five subscribers to Trotwood’s, ends with the following friendly bit of fun: “I was out your way forty-odd years ago, and I killed as many of you as you did of me, and I feel now that every thing is square and even between us.”

I turned over the carbon copy containing the business manager’s reply, and this is what I read toward the latter part of the letter: “We will be glad to have you come this way again, and we’ll promise to give you a ‘warm reception,’ but not the kind we gave you before. The same Johnnies who tried to kill you forty years ago with bullets will try it again with kindness and moonshine whisky. They will charge you with a handshake instead of a bayonet and will put you in the best bed instead of a prison. The people of the South look forward and not backward, and have long ago forgotten and forgiven.

“Yours truly,
E. E. SWEETLAND,

“Bus. Man. Trotwood’s Monthly.

“P. S.—The niggers you were fighting us for about forty years ago are still here. You may have them now without a fight.”

Business Department

Here is a sample letter received; and we get them every day, and above all we are glad to get them and very grateful for them: “I have been taking TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY for the past five months and I want to say to you that I never invested a dollar in my life that I thought I got as much enjoyment out of as I have the one I sent you for TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY. I hope all who take it are as well pleased as myself. Frank Harrington, Eau Claire, Wis.”

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Here is another from Mr. F. L. Wacholz, cashier of the First National Bank, Forest City, Iowa: “I find TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY to be one of the most interesting magazines that I have read in recent years. The contents are suitable for any man, woman or child to read with pleasure and profit.”

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If you are “from Missouri” read this one: “Tell your agent in Prattville that I will refund the money to any one subscribing to TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY if they are not satisfied with it. McQueen Smith, Prattville, Ala.”

Mr. Smith can refund if called on, for he had 1,200 acres of cotton in one field last year.

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If you feel inclined to help us along—if you think we deserve help—you can do us a great favor by asking your friends to send for a sample copy, or send us their names and we will send the sample copy.

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We have received several letters within the past month from northern subscribers asking for information in regard to the South. We are always glad to give any information within our power, and will endeavor to stick just as close to facts as information in our possession will enable us.

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Advertisers when spending money for advertising space want to know where their inquiries come from. If you will always mention that you saw the advertisement in TROTWOOD’S MONTHLY we will appreciate it. We protect you by running nothing but clean and reliable advertising.

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“Strictly sound and guaranteed” sounds good in an ad., and the Bay Colt advertised by P. O. Box 786, Columbus, O., is to be sold with that understanding.

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D. D. Streeter, of Kalamazoo, still offers Thespian for sale, but the price has been raised. It sometimes pays to buy quick.

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The Horse Exchange Co., of Vevay, Ind., can fill the bill if you will tell them what you want.

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Dr. Hopkins, of Fort Branch, Ind., offers something worth the money. In fact The Home of Bert Onward has some very attractive bargains—not the marked-down kind, but horses worth the money.

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If you know of anybody looking for a thorough and practical man to manage their farm, you might call their attention to the ad. of J. H. G. in this issue. We happen to have a personal acquaintance with this gentleman, and if you are from Missouri, he can “show you.”

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If you have a stallion to trade for a splendid pacing mare, read the ad. from Mr. Dunlap, Clarksville, Ark.

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C. R. Kilbury, Plain City, Ohio, offers a stallion that seems to have plenty of backing in his pedigree, and it will pay you to read his ad.

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Ideal Stock Farm, at East Aurora, N. Y., have two offers in this issue, and Mr. Bradburn, the Superintendent, makes it a point to stick to FACTS in his ads.

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Fleetwood 6280 is offered for sale. Here is the sire of a number of first-class race horses, including JACK 2:14, that can be bought for cash or on a trade basis.

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Duff Green, of Lonoke, Ark., offers a model stock farm well stocked and equipped that ought to please somebody looking for a mild climate.

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