Chapter II: Part 2

Few songs in the world’s history ever had the hold on men’s hearts that “Lorena” did during the war, and for more than a decade after.

Even now it has the power to make misty the eye and soften the heart—particularly if sung by “The Southern Girl” of the war time period. It is one of my earliest recollections, as sung by my mother to our little, three-cornered family—she, my father and myself. Father had sent it to her “enduring of the War.”

I suppose almost every soldier of the war, Confederate or Federal, who had any sentiment sent his sweetheart a copy of this famous song.

How full of pathos are the several verses:

“The years creep slowly by, Lorena;
The snow is on the grass again,
The sun’s low down the sky, Lorena,
The frost is where the flowers have been.
But the heart throbs on as warmly now
As when the summer days were nigh;
Oh, the sun can never dip so low
Adown affection’s cloudless sky.

A hundred months have passed, Lorena,
Since last I held thy hand in mine,
And felt the pulse beat fast, Lorena,
Though mine beat faster far than thine;
A hundred months—’twas flowery May,
When up that hilly slope we climbed
To watch the dying of the day,
And hear the distant church bells chimed.

We loved each other then, Lorena,
More than we ever cared to tell;
And what we might have been, Lorena,
Had our lovings prospered well.
But then ’tis passed; the years are gone;
I’ll not call up their shadowy forms;
I’ll say to them: Lost years, sleep on;
Sleep on, nor heed life’s pelting storms.

The story of the past, Lorena,
Alas! I care not to repeat;
The hopes that could not last, Lorena,
They lived, but only lived to cheat.
I would not cause e’en one regret
To rankle in your bosom now,
For “if we try, we may forget”
Were words of thine long years ago.

Yes, these were words of thine, Lorena,
They burn within my memory yet;
They touched some tender chord, Lorena,
That thrills and trembles with regret.
’Twas not thy woman’s heart that spoke—
Thy heart was always true to me;
A duty, stern and pressing, broke
The tie that linked my soul to thee.

It matters little now, Lorena,
The past is in the eternal past;
Our heads will soon lie low, Lorena,
Life’s tide is ebbing out so fast.
There is a future! Oh, thank God!
Of life this is so small a part!
’Tis dust to dust beneath the sod,
But there—up there, ’tis ‘heart to heart.’”

These words were written by Rev. H. D. L. Webster, born in Stamford, Conn., August 29, 1824; was educated in Columbus, Ohio, and preached at Zanesville, Ohio for some years, leaving there in 1848. The music was composed by J. P. Webster, but no relation.

Ohio claims the writer and the song, but it is known and regarded as a Southern song, having been so extensively sung below Mason and Dixon’s line.

“Lorena” was Miss Ella Blocksom, of Zanesville, Ohio. She was a member of Mr. Webster’s church—the Universalist—also a leading member of the choir, with a beautiful and highly cultivated voice. She was as lovely in face and person as her voice was sweet and touching; and it was but natural that the fine-looking, intelligent young divine should be attracted to that face that was each Sunday opposite him and listened so interestedly to his preaching.

One describes her as “nineteen,” short in stature and petite, with blue eyes and light brown hair and features that took hold upon “the poetry of heaven.”

She was the sister-in-law of one of the “pillars of the church,” a successful manufacturer, and of course the preacher found he often must consult this brother about ecclesiastical matters and see his pretty, charming sister-in-law.

What real love affair ever ran smoothly? This one did not, for Lorena’s sister had better “game” for her to bring down than a poor, though handsome, intellectual preacher; so, like many another worldly-wise elder sister, she, after repeated efforts, made “Lorena” see that she and “Paul Vane,” as Mr. Webster called himself in one of his songs, must part.

On a certain cloudless Sabbath in May these two lovers walked after the morning service, to Hamline Hill and lingered until twilight was closing her wind in the west, and “Lorena” told “Paul Vane” farewell.

The next day she wrote him a letter, in which she said, “if we try, we may forget,” and he knew “’twas not thy woman’s heart that spoke,” but her sister’s through her.

Finding that this world was a blank world to him without “Lorena’s” loving look and smile, he resigned his charge, where, as a minister, he had been so successful and, as a lover, such a failure, and left for parts unknown.

Time went by and he was heard of in the West. He developed the “poetic fire,” and, in 1860, his song “Lorena,” appeared—one hundred months after his farewell to Ella Blocksom.

The song was almost famous before she realized it was a tribute to her from her old and loyal lover. She is accused of having no sentiment, or of being a “namby-pamby,” as she never wrote him one line of thanks for the song, or for his constancy to her, as he had a right to expect. Three years later, he wrote “Paul Vane”—the answer one would think a “Lorena” would have made:

“The years are creeping slowly by, dear Paul,
The winters come and go;
The wind sweeps past with mournful cry, dear Paul,
And pelt my face with snow.
But there’s no snow upon the heart, dear Paul.
’Tis summer always there;
Those early loves throw sunshine over all,
And sweeten memories dear.
I’ve kept you ever in my heart, dear Paul.
Through years of good and ill;
Our souls could not be torn apart, dear Paul,
They’re bound together still.
I never knew how dear you were to me
’Til’ I was left alone;
I thought my poor, poor heart would break the day
They told me you were gone.”

“Lorena” married a young lawyer of Ironton, Ohio, who later on became a Supreme Judge. He died, full of honors, March 2, 1887.

“In the city of Zanesville, surrounded by the scenes of her girlhood days, still lives Lorena in her widowed age. The hill she climbed in that flowery May of long ago is now hidden from sight by the intrusive growth of the flourishing city. She alone remains of her little family.” Her sun is slowly declining toward the horizon and she will soon meet her two lovers, “Paul Vane” and her husband.

The Muskingum, turbid and historic, flows on as in the days when “Lorena” and her lover “when up that hilly slope.” Through the changing panorama of its banks a steamer comes and goes, often filled with merry-makers, laughter and song, and this vessel wears proudly a name ever linked with the River—“Lorena.”

Rev. H. D. L. Webster married February 14, 1850, Sarah L. Wilmot. They had two children, both of whom are living. After the death of his first wife, he married at Racine, Wis., December 31, 1867, Mary M. Skinner. The two children of this union are still living.

Mr. Webster commenced preaching when twenty-two years of age and was greatly beloved, as he was devoted to his work. He organized the first Universalist society, at Tarpon Springs, Fla., and preached there without pay until his health began to fail. He died in Chicago, November 4, 1896.

I am indebted to my friend, Capt. Nelson W. Evans, of Portsmouth, Ohio, for the data of this story, he being a personal friend of “Lorena” and her husband—was a pall-bearer at the Judge’s funeral.

Franklin, Tenn.

A Poem That Will Live

There are poems not written in verse, and this one, the dying request of Ex-Governor Hogg, of Texas, is the greatest poem that has been written this century:

“I want no monument of stone, but let my children plant at the head of my grave a pecan tree and at the foot of my grave a walnut tree, and when these trees shall bear, let the pecans and walnuts be given out among the plain people of Texas, so that they may plant them and make Texas a land of trees.”

Agriculture the Basis of All Wealth

BY WILLIAM DENNISON, FARGO, N. D.

Agriculture is the basis of all wealth. It is the foundation upon which rests all the vast wealth which has been acquired in this country to-day. It is also the buttress which protects, supports and defends all this acquired wealth. Without agriculture all this wealth would crumble away. Yet, is it not sad to contemplate that, while the tillers of the soil have been building such a gigantic structure that they have not received a fair share of the spoils? They have been sowing while others reaped the reward. Presumably the farmers were to blame themselves for the unequal division of the profits. It is a well-known fact, that cannot be controverted, that ever since the Pilgrim Fathers and the Scotch-Irish landed on these shores they have been exploiting the land, taking all they could get out of it and putting nothing back in return. They surely could not expect that such conditions could last forever, but that there would come a reckoning day sooner or later. That period of an accounting is long past due with the original settlers and is past due with more recent ones. That is, if we take into consideration the great amount of knowledge which has been acquired agriculturally during the last half of the nineteenth century, and with all the aids of fifty or more agricultural colleges scattered all over this great country. Yet nine-tenths of the tillers of the soil are still going on exploiting their land, and when failure comes they wonder why their land does not yield like it used to when they first broke it up and started to cultivate it. These agricultural colleges are grand institutions, and their object and aim is a noble one, that of helping the farmer, and cannot be too highly praised for their efforts. However, I am afraid that a great majority of our farmers have received little or no benefit from them. They are too scientific and technical for the average farmer to understand and derive any benefit therefrom. The average farmer wants it in simple language, in primary lessons, so that he can grasp it and then put it to the test. They know nothing about the chemical nomenclature which they use in expounding things. It is all Latin to them. What the tillers of the soil want is information on these subjects, in plain Anglo-Saxon, and as plain as possible even then.

It would be well for them to know what constitutes fertility, generally speaking. There are three constituent elements of fertility, namely: nitrogen, phosphate and potash. The first element, nitrogen, is what may be termed the motive power in the growing of the crops. There are inexhaustible supplies of this element in the atmosphere, and it only needs to be brought down. It costs you nothing. Help yourself. But it is a very costly element if you have to purchase it as a commercial commodity. Nitrogen, like the air we breathe, we can only use as we need it. It is a substance that cannot be cornered or there would have been trusts formed in the country, making every farmer in the land pay tribute to them. The second member is a mineral element, phosphate. The first condition necessary for the activity of a living organism is food. The food of plants and animals, in some respects, is different, but both are alike in requiring a supply of certain mineral substances for their nourishment. One of the most essential constituents of this mineral food is phosphoric acid. Without phosphates there can be neither growth nor life. This is why phosphates are so essential to worn-out land, especially where wheat has been grown continuously.

The third is also a mineral element, which completes the trine in fertility. Such crops as the cereals draw mostly on the phosphates within the soil; but a crop of potatoes draws mostly on the potash contained in the soil. You cannot go on indefinitely raising potatoes on the same land without furnishing potash. If you do, the tubers produced will be entirely lacking in starchy matter and altogether too much gluten. When these three constituent elements of fertility are in the land and rightly balanced, then your land is in the highest condition of fertility. But if one of these elements is taken out by poor methods of farming, then your land, to use a horseman’s phrase, is said to be out of fettle. But in the next twenty-five years, when the farmers of this country get down to hardpan, when the yield of their crops has deteriorated to such a degree not only in the quantity of the product, but also in the quality of the product, which is more important than quantity, in other words, when necessity compels them, then I look for the fruits of the labors of the agricultural experiment colleges. Renewing the soil is analogous to the redemption of the soul of man. We have the Word for it, and the promises are sure and steadfast; yet we may have all the knowledge on the subject, but that will not obtain eternal life. The Lord cannot save us unless we co-operate with him and do our part. While I am, and always have been, an earnest advocate of the greater use of legumes in restoring the fertility of our land, I am fully alive to the importance of putting back all the manure from the farmyard onto the land. I was raised on an extensive truck garden, and there is no reason to doubt the capacity of the soil to yield a product to which no one can yet forecast the limit. As an instance of the possibilities of the land under intensive culture, the Long Island market gardeners apply from seventy to eighty tons of stable manure to their early cabbages per acre, and as the plants are much closer and are much more sure to head universally, a yield of fifty tons to the acre is not an excessive estimate. The above will show what can be done with a liberal supply of stable manure.

But why waste our time on what can be done with manure? Why, nine-tenths of the farmers in the United States don’t make any manure. Their stock, what they have, are all out on the run all, or nearly, the whole of the year. I have come to the conclusion that to advocate intensive farming under existing circumstances is not practical at the present time, when we take into consideration the vastness of this country and likewise the remoteness of the great majority of the farmers from a home market. A good home market is a great desideratum for our American farmer. Andrew Carnegie saw the paramount importance of a good home market when he was making his millions. But this idea alone does not show fully the sagacity of Andrew. It was when he discovered how he could perpetuate this good home market when he overproduced his product, which was the case all of the time. He shipped his surplus product to foreign markets and sold it for about half what he was charging us at home. By this clever stroke he was enabled to make of non-effect the great law of supply and demand. But in order to accomplish this Andrew had a high tariff on his product, and presumably he was smart enough to get rebates from the railroad companies. But the farmers haven’t any tariff on the product they raise and when they ship their products by railroads they have to pay schedule rates and pay the entire freight to destination, no matter where the destination may be. But in the near future, when the population is largely increased and more evenly distributed, when the exodus will be from the cities to the country, and not, as it is now, from the farm to the cities; when the smaller towns in every State have become towns and cities teeming with thousands of inhabitants, making a home market for the farmers where they can sell, not only the cereals they raise, but also milk, cattle, sheep, hogs, horses, hides, eggs and vegetables, then will be the time to begin intensive farming and also the proper observance of the rotation of their crops.

But it is the intervening time between now and then that we want to bridge over; but this period is going to be the crucial time for our farmers. However, it is not going to be a situation without hope if the tillers of the soil do their part, but they have got to do that if their environment compels them to still keep on raising cereals. Now that the United States has taken the lead as a wheat raising country, I regret to state that I can see no better way out of it than for them to still keep on raising this cereal. But what we want to consider is how that can be done and maintain the fertility of the land for some years to come.

This, I believe, is possible to every one who is willing to avail himself of the means at hand. The experiments carried on at Rothamsteed show conclusively that “continuous wheat-growing is, from a natural point of view, an extravagant mode of farming, only justifiable, like other extravagances, under the pressure of a more or less artificial environment, for the wheat crop has completed its growth and is harvested long before nitrification has ceased in the soil, and there is no crop to take up the balance formed after the active growth of the wheat is over, and these nitrates pass away in sub-soil drainage in mild, genial climates, during the winter.” Under these circumstances, as soon as the wheat is harvested, then should we put in a catch crop, a legume suitable to the latitude, which would not only take up the balance of nitrates unused by the wheat crop, but would put a new supply of nitrogen into the soil for the succeeding crop. The above applies to the latitudes where they have long seasons and a moist, mild climate. This would not apply to those latitudes where the seasons are short and exposed to long winter frosts. To the wheat growers of the Northwest, where their seasons are short, there is no time for a catch crop for them. I would advise to fallow their land as soon as the wheat crop is harvested. This would stop the loss of nitrates and exterminate the great crop of weeds which takes possession after the wheat crop is harvested.

Finally, to all, in whatever latitude you are situated, I would suggest that you start in and treat your wheat land to an application of one thousand pounds of raw ground phosphate rock per acre. (It is cheap—it only costs about four dollars per ton f. o. b. cars at the mine.) After spreading the phosphate on the land, plow and prepare your seed bed. In the North sow your wheat and your red clover. The application of phosphates will give the legume a good start, and the following year a luxuriant growth of the legume may be expected, which will exterminate all weeds. Then, in the following spring break up your legume land, the soil of which will be full of fiber, and receive the reward of three continuous crops of wheat, greatly enhanced, both in quantity and quality. Then, on the fourth year another application of raw ground rock phosphate and a legume crop with it, followed by three years of continuous wheat again. During this time if you will add all the manure you can, either a stable manure or ammonium salts, then I think you can go on indefinitely raising wheat.

For confirmation of the merits of ground phosphate rock for worn-out wheat lands, consult Prof. Cyril G. Hopkins, director of the Illinois Experimental Station, Urbana, Ill.

The Wooing of Bessy

BY L. M. MONTGOMERY

When Lawrence Eastman began going to see Bessy Houghton the Lynnfield people shrugged their shoulders and said he might have picked out somebody a little younger and prettier—and then, of course, Bessy was well off. A two hundred acre farm and a substantial bank account were worth going in for. Trust an Eastman for knowing upon which side his bread was buttered.

Lawrence was only twenty, and looked even younger, owing to his smooth, boyish face, curly hair, and half-girlish bloom. Bessy Houghton was in reality no more than twenty-five, but Lynnfield people had the impression that she was past thirty. She had always been older than her years—a quiet, reserved girl who dressed plainly and never went about with other young people. Her mother had died when Bessy was very young, and she had always kept house for her father. The responsibility made her grave and mature. When she was twenty her father died and Bessy was his sole heir. She kept the farm and took the reins of government in her own capable hands. She made a success of it, too, which was more than many a man in Lynnfield had done.

Bessy had never had a lover. She had never seemed like other girls, and passed for an old maid when her contemporaries were in the flush of social success and bloom.

Mrs. Eastman, Lawrence’s mother, was a widow with two sons. George, the older, was the mother’s favorite, and the property had been willed to him by his father. To Lawrence had been left the few hundreds in the bank. He stayed at home and hired himself to George, thereby adding slowly to his small hoard. He had his eye on a farm in Lynnfield, but he was as yet a mere boy, and his plans for the future were very vague until he fell in love with Bessy Houghton.

In reality nobody was more surprised over this than Lawrence himself. It had certainly been the last thing in his thoughts on the dark, damp night when he had overtaken Bessy walking home alone from prayer meeting and had offered to drive her the rest of the way.

Bessy assented and got into his buggy. At first she was very silent, and Lawrence, who was a bashful lad at the best of times, felt tongue-tied and uncomfortable. But presently Bessy, pitying his evident embarrassment, began to talk to him. She could talk well, and Lawrence found himself entering easily into the spirit of her piquant speeches. He had an odd feeling that he had never known Bessy Houghton before; he had certainly never guessed that she could be such good company. She was very different from the other girls he knew, but he decided that he liked the difference.

“Are you going to the party at Bailey’s to-morrow night?” he asked, as he helped her to alight at her door.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “I’m invited—but I’m all alone—and parties have never been very much in my line.”

There was a wistful note in her voice, and Lawrence, detecting it, said, hurriedly, not giving himself time to get frightened: “Oh, you’d better go to this one. And if you like I’ll call around and take you.”

He wondered if she would think him very presumptuous. He thought her voice sounded colder as she said: “I am afraid that it would be too much trouble for you.”

“It wouldn’t be any trouble at all,” he stammered. “I’ll be very pleased to take you.”

In the end Bessy had consented to go, and the next evening Lawrence called for her in the rose-red autumn dusk.

Bessy was ready and waiting. She was dressed in what was for her unusual elegance, and Lawrence wondered why people called Bessy Houghton so plain. Her figure was strikingly symmetrical and softly curved. Her abundant, dark-brown hair, instead of being parted plainly and drawn back into a prim coil, as usual, was dressed high on her head, and a creamy rose nestled amid the becoming puffs and waves. She wore black, as she always did, but it was a lustrous black silk, simply and fashionably made, with frost-like frills of lace at her firm round throat and dainty wrists. Her cheeks were delicately flushed, and her wood-brown eyes were sparkling under her long lashes.

She offered him a half-opened bud for his coat and pinned it on for him. As he looked down at her he noticed what a sweet mouth she had—full and red, with a half child-like curve.

The fact that Lawrence Eastman took Bessy Houghton to the Bailey’s party made quite a sensation at that festal scene. People nodded and winked and wondered. “An old maid and her money,” said Milly Fiske spitefully. Milly, as was well known, had a liking for Lawrence herself.

Lawrence began to “go with” Bessy Houghton regularly after that. In his single-mindedness he never feared that Bessy would misjudge his motives or imagine him to be prompted by mercenary designs. He never thought of her riches himself, and it never occurred to him that she would suppose he did.

He soon realized that he loved her, and he ventured to hope timidly that she loved him in return. She was always rather reserved, but the few favors that meant nothing from other girls meant a great deal from Bessy. The evenings he spent with her in her pretty sitting room, their moonlight drives over long, satin-smooth stretches of snowy roads, and their walks home from church and prayer meeting under the winter stars, were all so many moments of supreme happiness to Lawrence.

Matters had gone thus far before Mrs. Eastman got her eyes opened. At Mrs. Tom Bailey’s quilting party an officious gossip took care to inform her that Lawrence was supposed to be crazy over Bessy Houghton, who was, of course, encouraging him simply for the sake of having some one to beau her round, and who would certainly throw him over in the end, since she knew perfectly well that it was her money he was after.

Mrs. Eastman was a proud woman and a determined one. She had always disliked Bessy Houghton, and she went home from the quilting resolved to put an instant stop to “all such nonsense” on her son’s part.

“Where is Lawrie?” she asked abruptly, as she entered the small kitchen where George Eastman was lounging by the fire.

“Out in the stable grooming up Lady Gray,” responded her older son, sulkily. “I suppose he’s gadding off to see Bessy Houghton again, the young fool that he is! Why don’t you put a stop to it?”

“I am going to put a stop to it,” said Mrs. Eastman grimly. “I’d have done it before if I’d known. You should have told me of it if you knew. I’m going out to see Lawrence right now.”

George Eastman muttered something inaudible as the door closed behind her. He was a short, thick-set man, not in the least like Lawrence, who was ten years his junior. Two years previously he had made a furtive attempt to pay court to Bessy Houghton for the sake of her wealth, and her decided repulse of his advances was a remembrance that made him grit his teeth yet. He had hated her bitterly ever since.

Lawrence was brushing his pet mare’s coat until it shone like satin, and whistling “Annie Laurie” until the rafters rang. Bessy had sung it for him the night before. He could see her plainly still as she had looked then, in her gown of vivid red—a color peculiarly becoming to her—with her favorite laces at wrist and throat and a white rose in her hair, which was dressed in the high, becoming knot she had always worn since the night he had shyly told her he liked it so.

She had played and sung many of the sweet old Scotch ballads for him, and when she had gone to the door with him he had taken both her hands in his and, emboldened by the look in her brown eyes, he had stooped and kissed her. Then he had stepped back, filled with dismay at his own audacity. But Bessy had said no word of rebuke, and only blushed hotly crimson. She must care for him, he thought happily, or else she would have been angry.

When his mother came in at the stable door her face was hard and uncompromising.

“Lawrie,” she said sharply, “where are you going again to-night? You were out last night.”

“Well, mother, I promise you I wasn’t in any bad company. Come now, don’t quiz a fellow too close.”

“You are going to dangle after Bessy Houghton again. It’s time you were told what a fool you were making of yourself. She’s old enough to be your mother. The whole settlement is laughing at you.”

Lawrence looked as if his mother had struck him a blow in the face. A dull, purplish flush crept over his brow.

“This is some of George’s work,” he broke out fiercely. “He’s been setting you on me, has he? Yes, he’s jealous—he wanted Bessy himself, but she would not look at him. He thinks nobody knows it, but I do. Bessy marry him? It’s very likely!”

“Lawrie Eastman, you are daft. George hasn’t said anything to me. You surely don’t imagine Bessy Houghton would marry you. And if she would, she is too old for you. Now, don’t you hang around her any longer.”

“I will,” said Lawrence flatly. “I don’t care what anybody says. You needn’t worry over me. I can take care of myself.”

Mrs. Eastman looked blankly at her son. He had never defied or disobeyed her in his life before. She had supposed her word would be law. Rebellion was something she had not dreamed of. Her lips tightened ominously and her eyes narrowed.

“You’re a bigger fool than I took you for,” she said in a voice that trembled with anger. “Bessy Houghton laughs at you everywhere. She knows you’re just after her money, and she makes fun”—

“Prove it,” interrupted Lawrence undauntedly. “I’m not going to put any faith in Lynnfield gossip. Prove it if you can.”

“I can prove it. Maggie Hatfield told me what Bessy Houghton said to her about you. She said you were a lovesick fool, and she only went with you for a little amusement; and that if you thought you had nothing to do but marry her and hang up your hat there you’d find yourself vastly mistaken.”

Possibly in her calmer moments Mrs. Eastman might have shrunk from such a deliberate falsehood, although it was said of her in Lynnfield that she was not one to stick at a lie when the truth would not serve her purpose. Moreover, she felt quite sure that Lawrence would never ask Maggie Hatfield anything about it.

Lawrence turned white to the lips. “Is that true, mother?” he asked, huskily.

“I’ve warned you,” replied his mother, not choosing to repeat her statement. “If you go after Bessy any more you can take the consequences.”

She drew her shawl About her pale, malicious face and left him with a parting glance of contempt.

“I guess that’ll settle him,” she thought grimly. “Bessy Houghton turned up her nose at George, but she shan’t make a fool of Lawrence, too.”

Alone in the stable Lawrence stood staring out at the dull red ball of the winter sun with unseeing eyes. He had implicit faith in his mother, and the stab had gone straight to his heart. Bessy Houghton listened in vain that night for his well-known footfall on the veranda.

The next night Lawrence went home with Milly Fiske from prayer meeting, taking her out from a crowd of other girls under Bessy Houghton’s very eyes as she came down the steps of the little church.

Bessy walked home alone. The light burned low in her sitting room, and in the mirror over the mantel she saw her own pale face, with its tragic, pain-stricken eyes. Annie Hillis, her “help,” was out. She was alone in the big house with her misery and despair.

She went dizzily upstairs to her own room and flung herself on the bed in the chill moonlight.

“It is all over,” she said, dully. All night she lay there, fighting with her pain. In the wan, gray morning she looked at her mirrored self with pitying scorn—at the pallid face, the lifeless features, the dispirited eyes with their bluish circles.

“What a fool I have been to imagine he could care for me!” she said, bitterly. “He has only been amusing himself with my folly. And to think that I let him kiss me the other night!”

She thought of that kiss with a pitiful shame. She hated herself for the weakness that could not check her tears. Her lonely life had been brightened by the companionship of her young lover. The youth and girlhood of which fate had cheated her had come to her with love; the future had looked rosy with promise; now it had darkened with dourness and grayness.

Maggie Hatfield came that day to sew. Bessy had intended to have a dark-blue silk made up and an evening waist of pale pink cashmere. She had expected to wear the latter at a party which was to come off a fortnight later, and she had got it to please Lawrence, because he had told her that pink was his favorite color. She would have neither it nor the silk made up now. She put them both away and instead brought out an ugly pattern of snuff-brown stuff, bought years before and never used.

“But where is your lovely pink, Bessy?” asked the dressmaker. “Aren’t you going to have it for the party?”

“No, I’m not going to have it made up at all,” said Bessy, listlessly. “It’s too gay for me. I was foolish to think it would ever suit me. This brown will do for a spring suit. It doesn’t make much difference what I wear.”

Maggie Hatfield, who had not been at prayer meeting the night before, and knew nothing of what had occurred, looked at her curiously, wondering what Lawrence Eastman could see in her to be as crazy about her as some people said he was. Bessy was looking her oldest and plainest just then, with her hair combed severely back from her pale, dispirited face.

“It must be her money he is after,” thought the dressmaker. “She looks over thirty, and she can’t pretend to be pretty. I believe she thinks a lot of him, though.”

For the most part, Lynnfield people believed that Bessy had thrown Lawrence over. This opinion was borne out by his woe-begone appearance. He was thin and pale; his face had lost its youthful curves and looked hard and mature. He was moody and taciturn and his speech and manner were marked by a new cynicism.

In April a well-to-do storekeeper from an adjacent village began to court Bessy Houghton. He was over fifty, and had never been a handsome man in his best days, but Lynnfield oracles opined that Bessy would take him. She couldn’t expect to do any better, they said, and she was looking terribly old and dowdy all at once.

In June Maggie Hatfield went to the Eastman’s to sew. The first bit of news she imparted to Mrs. Eastman was that Bessy Houghton had refused Jabez Lea—at least, he didn’t come to see her any more.

Mrs. Eastman twitched her thread viciously. “Bessy Houghton was born an old maid,” she said sharply. “She thinks nobody is good enough for her, that is what’s the matter. Lawrence got some silly boy-notion into his head last winter, but I soon put a stop to that.”

“I always had an idea that Bessy thought a good deal of Lawrence,” said Maggie. “She has never been the same since he left off going with her. I was up there the morning after that prayer meeting night people talked so much of, and she looked positively dreadful, as if she hadn’t slept a wink the whole night.”

“Nonsense!!” said Mrs. Eastman decisively. “She would never think of taking a boy like him when she’d turned up her nose at better men. And I didn’t want her for a daughter-in-law, anyhow. I can’t bear her. So I put my foot down in time. Lawrence sulked for a spell, of course—boy fashion—and he’s been as fractious as a spoiled baby ever since.”

“Well, I dare say you’re right,” assented the dressmaker. “But I must say I had always imagined that Bessy had a great notion of Lawrence. Of course, she’s so quiet it is hard to tell. She never says a word about herself.”

There was an unsuspected listener to this conversation. Lawrence had come in from the field for a drink, and was standing in the open kitchen doorway, within easy earshot of the women’s shrill tones.

He had never doubted his mother’s word at any time in his life, but now he knew beyond doubt that there had been crooked work somewhere. He shrank from believing his mother untrue, yet where else could the crookedness come in?

When Mrs. Eastman had gone to the kitchen to prepare dinner Maggie Hatfield was startled by the appearance of Lawrence at the low, open window of the sitting room.

“Mercy me, how you scared me!” she exclaimed nervously.

“Maggie,” said Lawrence seriously, “I want to ask you a question. Did Bessy Houghton ever say anything to you about me or did you ever say that she did? Give me a straight answer.”

The dressmaker peered at him curiously.

“No. Bessy never so much as mentioned your name to me,” she said, “and I never heard that she did to any one else. Why?”

“Thank you. That was all I wanted to know,” said Lawrence, ignoring her question, and disappearing as suddenly as he had come.

That evening at moonrise he passed through the kitchen dressed in his Sunday best. His mother met him at the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked querulously.

Lawrence looked her squarely in the face with accusing eyes, before which her own quailed.

“I’m going to see Bessy Houghton, mother,” he said sternly, “and to ask her pardon for believing the lie that has kept us apart so long.”

Mrs. Eastman flushed crimson and opened her lips to speak. But something in Lawrence’s grave, white face silenced her. She turned away without a word, knowing in her secret soul that her youngest born was lost to her forever.

Lawrence found Bessy in the orchard under apple trees that were pyramids of pearly bloom. She looked at him through the twilight with reproach and aloofness in her eyes. But he put out his hands and caught her reluctant ones in a masterful grasp.

“Listen to me, Bessy. Don’t condemn me before you’ve heard me. I’ve been to blame for believing falsehoods about you, but I believe them no longer, and I’ve come to ask you to forgive me.”

He told his story simply and straightforwardly. In strict justice he could not keep his mother’s name out of it, but he merely said she had been mistaken. Perhaps Bessy understood none the less. She knew what Mrs. Eastman’s reputation in Lynnfield was.

“You might have had a little more faith in me,” she cried reproachfully.

“I know—I know. But I was beside myself with pain and wretchedness. Oh, Bessy, won’t you forgive me? I love you so! If you send me away I’ll go to the dogs. Forgive me, Bessy.”

And she, being a woman, did forgive him.

“I’ve loved you from the first, Lawrence,” she said, yielding to his kiss.

I.

_I am the product of the centuries. I am the child of the aeons which were. I have always been and I shall always be. To make me it has taken fire, water, star-dust, the Spirit of God, the lives of a million people and the lights of a million suns. I have grown from heat and star-dust to the Thing Which Thinks. What has happened to me has been good: what shall happen will be better, for I am Evolution, and Evolution goes ever upward. Life has been good, Death will be better, for I am the Cause of all the Past, making toward one great Effect. My debt to the Past is great. Let me in part repay it by doing the best I can, following the light within me. And the clearest light is Kindness._

JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE.

The History of the Hals

THE FATHER OF THE TURF IN TENNESSEE.

CHAPTER VII.

By JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE

The other day I inquired of Uncle Berry how he thought Maria would compare with the best horses of the present day. In reply he said: “If I were forty and Maria four years of age, I would not want a greater fortune than I could win with her at Fordham and Saratago.”

He thinks the improvement in training and the condition of race tracks accounts for the difference in time of this and former days. He thinks if the horses of the present day were galloped, in sweats, sixteen or twenty miles under eight or ten Mackinaw blankets, and every morning and evening galloped four miles and repeat under two or three blankets and ran their races on deep, heavy tracks, as formerly, they would make slow time, and very few of them would be seen on the turf at the age of nine years, and I agree with him.

In old times, in cases of severe fevers, doctors excluded the fresh air and wrapped their patients in blankets, and gave them warm water to drink. The first cargo of Yankee ice brought to New Orleans was thrown into the Mississippi by an order of the Mayor, under advice from the medical board.

I believe that it is conceded that Flying Childers and O’Kelly’s Eclipse were the fastest horses the world has ever produced, or, in the expressive language of John Randolph, “they were the swiftest quadrupeds that ever appeared upon the earth.” Childers was the son of Darley’s Arabian, and Eclipse was his great-great-grandson, and the dam of Eclipse was by Regulus, the best son of Godolphin’s Arabian. These two Arabians were the “diamonds of the desert”—the pure fountains with which we are delighted to connect our thoroughbreds by the unbroken links of an extended chain. The third dam of her sire, imported Diomed, was by Flying Childers and he by Darley’s Arabian (1). The seventh dam of Diomed was by Spanker, he by Young Marsque, he by Marsque (sire of O’Kelly’s Eclipse), he by Squint, he by Bartlett’s Childers (own brother to Flying Childers) and he by Darley’s Arabian. (2) Diomed was by Florizel, whose third dam was by Flying Childers. (3) Florizel was by King Herod, whose fourth dam was by Darley’s Arabian. (4) The dam of Herod was by Blaze, and he by Flying Childers. (5) The dam of Diomed was by Spectator, whose third dam was by Darley’s Arabian. (6) The second dam of Diomed was by Blank, whose dam was by Bartlett’s Childers, own brother to Flying Childers (7), making seven courses of Darley’s Arabian through Diomed, three of which are through Flying Childers and two through his own brother, Bartlett’s Childers.

The dam of Maria was by Taylor’s Bel-Air (the best son of Imported Medley). Medley’s fourth dam was by Bartlett’s Childers (1). Medley was by Gimcrack and he by Cripple, whose second dam was by Flying Childers (2). Medley’s second dam was by Snap, he by Snip, and he by Flying Childers (3), making three courses of Darley’s Arabian through her dam, two of which are by Flying Childers and one through Bartlett’s Childers, making in all ten crosses of Darley’s Arabian in Maria’s pedigree, five of which are through Flying Childers and three through Bartlett’s Childers. Maria has the following crosses of the Godolphin Arabian: The second dam of Diomed was by Blank and he by the Godolphin (1). Bel-Air was by imported Medley, he by Gim Crack, he by Cripple and he by the Godolphin (2). The second dam of Bel-Air was by Black Selima, by imported Fearnought and he by Regulus, the best son of Godolphin (3). The third dam of Bel-Air was imported Selima by the Godolphin (4). If the imported mare to which Maria traces could be identified she would probably add several additional crosses of these famous Arabs.

For the performances of Maria I have relied mainly upon her memoir published in the sixth volume of the American Turf Register, which was written by Judge Thos. Barry, of Gallatin, who obtained the facts from Captain Haney in his lifetime, which are corroborated substantially by Uncle Berry.

In my last communication, in referring to the race of Blucher and Walk-in-the-Water at Natchez, I made a mistake as the time when the Jockey Club changed the rule taking twenty-one pounds off of Blucher. It was not done the night before the race, as stated, but it occurred some time before. It was the evening before the race that Col. A. L. Bingaman, a member of the Club, moved to have the rule rescinded so as to make their weight equal, but his motion was voted down, and Blucher carried one hundred pounds and Walk-in-the-Water one hundred and twenty-one pounds.

B. C. Oscar, foaled in spring of 1814, bred by the Rev. Hubbard Saunders, of Sumner County, Tennessee, stood without a rival on the Tennessee turf in his day. He never paid a forfeit or lost a heat, nor did he ever meet a competitor able to put him to his top speed. His pedigree is not only pure, but rich and choice. He was got by Wilkes’ Wonder (he by Imported Diomed out of Mary Gray by Tippoo Saib, the dam of Pacolet).

First dam—Rosey Clack, by Imp. Saltram.

Second dam—Camilla, by Symmes’ Wildair, the best son of Imp. Fearnought.

Third dam—Minerva, by Imp. Obscurity.

Fourth dam—Diana, by Clodius.

Fifth dam—Sally Painter, by Imp. Sterling.

Sixth dam—Imp Silver, by Belsize Arabian.

Seventh dam—By Croft’s Partner.

Eighth dam—Sister to Roxana, by Bald Galloway.

Ninth dam—By Akaster Turk.

Tenth dam—By Leeds’ Arabian.

Eleventh dam—By Spanker.

This pedigree, in the language of my late friend, the Rev. Hardy M. Cryer, “is pure as the icicle which hung at the north corner of Diana’s Temple.”

Oscar was a dark bay, of uniform color, with black points, full fifteen hands three inches high, owned and run by that high-toned gentleman, Dr. Roger B. Sappington, of Nashville. He was a horse of commanding presence, possessing great power, especially in the shoulders and chest, in which he resembled the lion, high, oblique withers, short back, prominent hips, hindquarters rather light, when contrasted with his shoulders and chest, stifles and hocks excellent and limbs superior, hind feet well under him, with a head, eye and windpipe which could not be surpassed. He reminded me of Uncle Berry’s answer to my questions about the head, limbs and action of Ball’s Florizel. He said: “His head was all mouth and nostrils, and he could stand with all his feet in a washtub.” Oscar won his first race, a sweepstake, in October, 1817, over the Nashville course, two mile heats, one hundred dollars entrance, which he won with the greatest ease, beating Mr. James Jackson’s McDhane (by imported Eagle, out of his imported mare, Virginia, by imported Daredevil) and Dr. Butler’s splendid filly, by Pacolet. The next day he walked over the course for the club purse.

In May, 1818, he won over the same course a jockey club purse, four mile heats, beating with ease General Jackson’s Gun Boat, by Pacolet. Gun Boat was withdrawn after the first heat. In October, 1818, over the same course, he won the jockey club purse, four-mile heats, beating with ease at two heats, Mr. Morton’s horse, by Potomac, and Colonel Elliott’s (Uncle Berry’s) horse, by imported Whip. This Whip colt belonged to Uncle Berry, whose history is as follows: Uncle Berry volunteered in Capt. John W. Byrns’ light-horse company early in the Creek War and served out his term under Gen. Jackson, for which he now is and has been for about twelve months in the receipt of a pension of ninety-six dollars per annum, payable quarterly. He commenced to receive this pension under the late Act of Congress, in the ninety-fifth year of his age. He said to me the other day: “I am sorry the government don’t pay it all at once, for twenty-four dollars won’t buy anything, and it is always gone before the next payment arrives.” When his term of service expired he was about to re-volunteer, but Colonel Elliott, who was then in command of a regiment in the army, persuaded him to return home and look after the women and children and blood stock, which he reluctantly consented to do. After spending some time in Tennessee, he visited a friend, Colonel Faulkner, of Garrard County, Ky., who invited him to examine a lot of two-year-old colts, some of which he contemplated entering in a sweepstake, to come off the ensuing fall. On returning to the house, Mrs. Faulkner inquired of Uncle Berry what he thought of her colt, to which he replied: “I consider him, Madam, the best of the lot,” at which she was very much gratified and begged that he would enter, train and run the colt in the stake, to which he consented, and won the race with ease. He purchased this colt of Mrs. Faulkner, brought him to Tennessee, where he won several races, and was entered by Colonel Elliott in the four-mile race against Oscar, as above stated.

It was about the time of Oscar’s appearance on the turf that the first Jockey Club was established at Nashville, by the most distinguished men of Tennessee, among them General Jackson, Colonel Ed. Ward, General Carroll, James Jackson, Dr. Sappington, Dr. Shelby, Dr. McNairy, Dr. Butler, William Williams, Colonel Elliott, Newton Cannon and other leading citizens of the State.

During the absence of Colonel Elliott and Uncle Berry, Dr. Sappington employed Monkey Simon to ride for him, and when the race last above mentioned came off, Simon rode Oscar against Whip, the latter owned and run by his old friends and favorites, Col. Elliott and Uncle Berry. Some uneasiness was manifested by the friends of Oscar, who was high-strung and difficult to control, lest Simon should suffer himself to exhaust himself early and thereby lose the race. This suspicion was altogether groundless, for Simon always rode to win, if possible, and if he had a weakness it was in being too eager for success in a close contest. At the tap of the drum Oscar went off under a tremendous head of steam, and, in spite of all Simon’s exertions to restrain him, was soon fifty or sixty yards ahead, which served to increase the doubts of Simon’s fidelity. Dr. Shelby dashed across the field and ordered Simon in a most peremptory tone to hold his horse, to which Simon replied, in his characteristic style: “You d—d fool, don’t you see his mouth is wide open?” And Simon would have made the same reply to General Jackson under the same circumstances.

The General said to Simon on one occasion, just before the horses started in a very important race: “Now, Simon, when my horse comes up and is about to pass you, don’t spit your tobacco juice in his eyes and the eyes of his rider, as you sometimes do;” to which Simon replied: “Well, Gineral, I’ve rode a good deal agin your horses, but (with an oath) none were ever near enough to catch my spit.” On another occasion, after Maria had beaten the General’s favorite, Pacolet, and when no friend dared to take a liberty with him, Simon, meeting him in a large crowd, said: “Gineral, you were always ugly, but now you’re a show. I could make a fortune by showing you as you now look if I had you in a cage where you could not hurt the people who come to look at you.”