There are many grand places to see in America. One of these wonders is Pilot Mountain in North Carolina. In a book called "Mountain Scenery" ©1859 we find the general description of Pilot Mountain and location. I love the second to last paragraph in this excerpt because of the language used by the writer.
The Pilot Mountain is situated in the eastern end of Surry, near the line of that county and Stokes. It rises, an isolated pile, in the midst of a plain. No other mountain, or even considerable hills, being within many miles of it. It would seem as if the mountains, having concentrated all their strength, make in it a last desperate effort and die away. There is a hotel kept at the foot of the mountain, where many travellers resort in the hot season.
"The ascent of the mountain to the spring, an agreeable spot of refreshment, more than half way to the top, is so gradual that the visitor may proceed on horseback. From this spot the acclivity becomes steeper, until you reach the pinnacle, which presents an elevation of some two hundred feet The only pass to the summit is on the north side, narrow, steep, and laborious of ascent; yet it is considered by no means a difficult achievement. And the visitor is rewarded for his toil by an'enchanting prospect of the surrounding country and mountain scenery in the distance. The dense and widestretching forest appears dotted with farms and hamlets. The Blue Ridge reposes in a long line of mountain heights on the northwest. Eastward, in Stokes County, the Saura Town Mountains rise to the view,—some of whose summits exceed the Pilot in height.^ And the Yadkin River, flowing down from the hills of Wilkes, and washing the western base of the mountain, 'rolls its silvery flood,' in a mazy line of light, through the wilderness. The Pilot Mountain is nearly or quite three thousand feet above the level of the sea. Its position and form, not height, make it an object of interest.
"At a point on the road, between the Little. Yadkin and Mount Airy, the traveller may obtain the most singular, and, perhaps, the finest view of the Pilot. One end of the mountain is there presented to the beholder in its most perfect pyramidal form. Its vast sides are seen sweeping up from the surrounding forest, gradually approaching and becoming steeper, until they terminate at the perpendicular and altar-like mass of rock which forms the summit. It here gives an idea of some gigantic work of art, so regular, and so surprisingly similar are the curves of its outlines, and so exactly over the centre, does the towering pinnacle appear to be placed.
"It satisfies the eye, and fills the soul with a calm and solemn delight to gaze upon the Pilot. Whether touched by the fleecy clouds of morning, or piercing the glittering skies of noon, or reposing in the mellow tints of evening; whether bathed in the pale light of the moon, or enveloped in the surges of the tempest, with the lightning flashing around its brow, it stands ever, ever the same; its foundations in the depths of the earth, and its summit rising in solitary grandeur to the heavens, just as it rose, under its Maker's hand, on the morning of creation, and just as it shall stand when the last generation shall gaze upon it for the last time."
The Pilot Mountain is reached from Greensborough, or High Point, to Salem, by Clemmens & Co.'s line of stages; from thence by hired conveyance. Salem is a very pretty and quiet town, and will well repay a visit. The cemetery is a favorite walk, and will, probably, compare with anything of the kind in the South. A gentleman, who had travelled over much of Europe, once said that Salem reminded him more of a German village than any place he had seen in this country. There is a Female Institute of much celebrity and age in the place. The town was originally settled by the Moravians, and still bears many marks of their taste and public spirit.
Showing posts with label North Carolina. Show all posts
Showing posts with label North Carolina. Show all posts
Friday, March 17, 2017
Tuesday, December 20, 2016
Warm Springs Toll Bridge North Carolina 1879
Below you'll find the actual writing of the portion of the act of the North Carolina General Assembly allowing the Warm Springs Toll Bridge Company to charge for tolls across the bridge. As an author I'm always looking for the actual costs of items or services during the time period I'm writing.
Sec. 5. That the company shall be entitled to receive Rates of ton. the following toll, to-wit: Six-horse wagons seventy-five cents, four-horse wagons fifty cents, three-horse wagons forty cents, two horse wagons twenty-five cents, one horse wagon fifteen cents, man and horse ten cents, loose horses and mules five cents each, cattle, sheep and hogs two and one-half cents each, pleasure carriages four horse one dollar, two horse fifty cents, horse and buggy twenty-five cents.
Ratified the 5th day of March, A. D. 1879.
Sec. 5. That the company shall be entitled to receive Rates of ton. the following toll, to-wit: Six-horse wagons seventy-five cents, four-horse wagons fifty cents, three-horse wagons forty cents, two horse wagons twenty-five cents, one horse wagon fifteen cents, man and horse ten cents, loose horses and mules five cents each, cattle, sheep and hogs two and one-half cents each, pleasure carriages four horse one dollar, two horse fifty cents, horse and buggy twenty-five cents.
Ratified the 5th day of March, A. D. 1879.
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
Cape Hatteras Civil War
Below is an excerpt that I thought some of you might find interesting. I was researching New Hampshire's 6th Regiment from the Civil War and stumbled across this passage about a storm rounding Cape Hatteras.
This comes from "History of the Sixth New Hampshire Regiment in the war for the Union." The excerpt picks up after telling the reader of the 6th boarding vessels to take them to an unknown location of the war. They are leaving Annapolis and heading south in Jan. 1862.
That part of the Sixth which came down on the Martha Green-wood was transferred to the steamer Louisiana, which became so crowded that it was almost impossible for one to move about. It seems strange that the commanding officers of the fleet should have allowed so many men to be crowded upon such a slim craft.
Towards evening, the flag-ships, with other vessels, got up steam, and started out to sea. Soon a dispatch boat came alongside, and gave orders for ours to follow. During the day we had a good chance to see General Burnside, as he steamed around the bay on his little propeller,1 giving orders to this boat and that, and we all liked his looks very much. We followed the other .boats, as ordered, and by 9 P. M. were well out from the bay, and, looking back, could just see the lights at Fortress Monroe. As the darkness came on, hundreds of lights shone out from the vessels, as far as the eye could reach, in front and rear, and on the left toward the sea. The writer sat upon the hurricane deck till a late hojur, thinking of home and speculating on our destination, while the soft south breezes swept over the water. It was late when the men lay down to sleepr though many did not sleep at all, the noise of the machinery and the novelty of the situation keeping them awake all night.
At the first streak of dawn the writer was again on deck, to get the earliest glimpse of the sun as it came up out of the briny deep. That sunrise was a grand sight, as was also the ocean, dotted as far as the eye could reach with all kinds of sailing craft. The waves, however, began to show their white caps, and some of the boys who had been reared on the coast said it looked as if we were going to have a stiff breeze before night. A few of "Mother Carey's chickens," together with seagulls, passed us, giving indication of a storm. The signs did not fail, for by noon the storm was stiffening, and we could see that many of the smaller boats—some of which were only pilot-boats from New York harbor, —were laboring hard through the big waves. About 2 P. M. (January 12), while we were off Hatteras Light, the storm struck us in all its fury, and the landlubbers began to look white. In a few minutes one half of the men seemed vying with one another to see who would empty his stomach the quickest of the pies and things he had taken in from Annapolis down. They were sick fellows indeed ! The boat was pitching and ploughing through the waves as fast as she could. The captain and pilot were alarmed, and said that if we did not reach Hatteras Inlet before dark, they feared we should never get in ; so they put on all the steam they could, and made for the inlet.
1 The propeller Picket, the smallest vessel in the fleet.—Editor.
As we went down into those awful troughs and our bow struck the incoming wave, the boat was flooded even to the hurricane deck. Lieutenant-Colonel Griffin was in the wheel-house with the captain and pilot, who had all they could do to keep the boat on her course and prevent the waves from striking her on the broadside, and thus swamping her in a moment. The strain on the big braces that passed from stem to stern of the boat, up past the wheel-house, was fearful. The braces, with joints open half an inch or more, creaked and groaned as the boat rode the huge waves, and it was the opinion of the officers that if we had been out half an hour longer we should all have gone to the bottom together in the old river craft not intended for use out of smooth water. The boys were so sick that they kept quiet, and the captain said it was a fortunate thing, for if, being so many, they had been up and running around, it would have been hard to manage the boat at all.
We entered Hatteras Inlet, and dropped anchor at 5 p. M. It was quite dark, and if any men ever felt thankful to get into harbor, it was those on the old Louisiana that night. The vessels kept coming in until a late hour, that is, those that were not outside, or did not run upon the bar. We could hear guns and see signal lights thrown up outside, in the direction whence we had come, and knew that some had not been so fortunate as we. Several vessels were wrecked, four in sight of us. One of these was the fine large store-ship City of New Tbrk, which, laden with ammunition and other stores, ran upon the bar; another was the steamer Pocahontas, carrying horses, hay, and grain, which went ashore at Cape Hatteras, becoming a total wreck within twenty-four hours, with lading all lost save a few horses that swam to land.
The next morning was clear, and the inlet was full of all kinds of floating de'bris, showing how fearful the storm had been. The sea was yet so rough that it was not practicable to land, and the wind began to blow again. As the tide went out, we found our boat tipping over as it rested on the sandy bottom. One of the boys remarked that he " felt safe so long as the old boat rested on the sand." When the tide came in, the boat would float again, bumping on sand fortunately, not rocks, since in the latter case we should soon have been compelled to swim ashore.
The night after our arrival the storm was still so severe that there was great danger of collision with other vessels, and of the wrecking of the weaker ones by the violence of the waves. It was feared that the Louisiana, in particular, being only a river boat, would not be able to outride the storm. Accordingly Colonel Converse sent Lieutenant-Colonel Griffin to General Burnside's head-quarters to ask that some strong vessel might be ordered to lie near the Louisiana during the night, to render aid, if possible, in case of disaster. LieutenantColonel Griffin, having been given a boat with two sailors and a coxswain, made the trip, delivered the message, and returned safely ; but it was a hazardous undertaking. Two officers of the Ninth New Jersey Regiment, in attempting to perform a similar duty, lost their lives by the swamping of the boat.1
1 These two men were the only ones lost from the whole military force during the " entire voyage and entrance into the inlet," though the storm was one of the worst ever known on that perilous coast.—En.
This comes from "History of the Sixth New Hampshire Regiment in the war for the Union." The excerpt picks up after telling the reader of the 6th boarding vessels to take them to an unknown location of the war. They are leaving Annapolis and heading south in Jan. 1862.
That part of the Sixth which came down on the Martha Green-wood was transferred to the steamer Louisiana, which became so crowded that it was almost impossible for one to move about. It seems strange that the commanding officers of the fleet should have allowed so many men to be crowded upon such a slim craft.
Towards evening, the flag-ships, with other vessels, got up steam, and started out to sea. Soon a dispatch boat came alongside, and gave orders for ours to follow. During the day we had a good chance to see General Burnside, as he steamed around the bay on his little propeller,1 giving orders to this boat and that, and we all liked his looks very much. We followed the other .boats, as ordered, and by 9 P. M. were well out from the bay, and, looking back, could just see the lights at Fortress Monroe. As the darkness came on, hundreds of lights shone out from the vessels, as far as the eye could reach, in front and rear, and on the left toward the sea. The writer sat upon the hurricane deck till a late hojur, thinking of home and speculating on our destination, while the soft south breezes swept over the water. It was late when the men lay down to sleepr though many did not sleep at all, the noise of the machinery and the novelty of the situation keeping them awake all night.
At the first streak of dawn the writer was again on deck, to get the earliest glimpse of the sun as it came up out of the briny deep. That sunrise was a grand sight, as was also the ocean, dotted as far as the eye could reach with all kinds of sailing craft. The waves, however, began to show their white caps, and some of the boys who had been reared on the coast said it looked as if we were going to have a stiff breeze before night. A few of "Mother Carey's chickens," together with seagulls, passed us, giving indication of a storm. The signs did not fail, for by noon the storm was stiffening, and we could see that many of the smaller boats—some of which were only pilot-boats from New York harbor, —were laboring hard through the big waves. About 2 P. M. (January 12), while we were off Hatteras Light, the storm struck us in all its fury, and the landlubbers began to look white. In a few minutes one half of the men seemed vying with one another to see who would empty his stomach the quickest of the pies and things he had taken in from Annapolis down. They were sick fellows indeed ! The boat was pitching and ploughing through the waves as fast as she could. The captain and pilot were alarmed, and said that if we did not reach Hatteras Inlet before dark, they feared we should never get in ; so they put on all the steam they could, and made for the inlet.
1 The propeller Picket, the smallest vessel in the fleet.—Editor.
As we went down into those awful troughs and our bow struck the incoming wave, the boat was flooded even to the hurricane deck. Lieutenant-Colonel Griffin was in the wheel-house with the captain and pilot, who had all they could do to keep the boat on her course and prevent the waves from striking her on the broadside, and thus swamping her in a moment. The strain on the big braces that passed from stem to stern of the boat, up past the wheel-house, was fearful. The braces, with joints open half an inch or more, creaked and groaned as the boat rode the huge waves, and it was the opinion of the officers that if we had been out half an hour longer we should all have gone to the bottom together in the old river craft not intended for use out of smooth water. The boys were so sick that they kept quiet, and the captain said it was a fortunate thing, for if, being so many, they had been up and running around, it would have been hard to manage the boat at all.
We entered Hatteras Inlet, and dropped anchor at 5 p. M. It was quite dark, and if any men ever felt thankful to get into harbor, it was those on the old Louisiana that night. The vessels kept coming in until a late hour, that is, those that were not outside, or did not run upon the bar. We could hear guns and see signal lights thrown up outside, in the direction whence we had come, and knew that some had not been so fortunate as we. Several vessels were wrecked, four in sight of us. One of these was the fine large store-ship City of New Tbrk, which, laden with ammunition and other stores, ran upon the bar; another was the steamer Pocahontas, carrying horses, hay, and grain, which went ashore at Cape Hatteras, becoming a total wreck within twenty-four hours, with lading all lost save a few horses that swam to land.
The next morning was clear, and the inlet was full of all kinds of floating de'bris, showing how fearful the storm had been. The sea was yet so rough that it was not practicable to land, and the wind began to blow again. As the tide went out, we found our boat tipping over as it rested on the sandy bottom. One of the boys remarked that he " felt safe so long as the old boat rested on the sand." When the tide came in, the boat would float again, bumping on sand fortunately, not rocks, since in the latter case we should soon have been compelled to swim ashore.
The night after our arrival the storm was still so severe that there was great danger of collision with other vessels, and of the wrecking of the weaker ones by the violence of the waves. It was feared that the Louisiana, in particular, being only a river boat, would not be able to outride the storm. Accordingly Colonel Converse sent Lieutenant-Colonel Griffin to General Burnside's head-quarters to ask that some strong vessel might be ordered to lie near the Louisiana during the night, to render aid, if possible, in case of disaster. LieutenantColonel Griffin, having been given a boat with two sailors and a coxswain, made the trip, delivered the message, and returned safely ; but it was a hazardous undertaking. Two officers of the Ninth New Jersey Regiment, in attempting to perform a similar duty, lost their lives by the swamping of the boat.1
1 These two men were the only ones lost from the whole military force during the " entire voyage and entrance into the inlet," though the storm was one of the worst ever known on that perilous coast.—En.
Monday, September 5, 2016
Bertram Born Part 2
Continuation.
Note the language and descriptions used in this article.
The question was addressed to an Herculean mountaineer who had sat without uttering a syllable hitherto. I had noticed this man at the table, consuming hills of biscuits and lakes of steaming coffee with the same rapt expression which he wore at present. The General straightened himself in his chair, threw back his shaggy head, and began to speak in trumpet tone.
"I shall expound a text from the book of Esther. You shall listen to the Haman proclamation. As a judge I shall hold court in open air and judge all comers. I shall show that everything done in the fear of the Lord prospers, while the devil's work miscarries. My banner shall be unfurled,' Peace on Earth, good will towards Men.' " Then, as though remembering that his audience was not in court, he relapsed into his former slouching posture and continued half to himself : " About once in so often I am driven from my home. The warlike spirit is upon me and I am called to preach to the great men of the earth. One season I rode through seven States. In every town my banner was unfurled, ' Peace on Earth, good will towards Men.' But when they would not hear me and scoffed, I furled my banner and charged through the crowd and through the town crying, Woe! Woe!"
" You might go over to the ' Cove' and convert the Dunkards," said a man in black coat and waistcoat of ecclesiastical cut and not very fresh white cravat. " I had some talk with them the other day. I said, " You believe in baptism three times face foremost. Well, that's a good way too. The Saviour says water, and water's a good thing. I'll duck you, or sprinkle yon, any way you like,—five times backward or seven times heels upward. But meanwhile I'll just say a word about drinking bad whiskey and going hunting when the ground's dry enough to plow."
A spruce, alert little man who had been introduced to the party with somewhat of a flourish as a criminal lawyer from Raleigh, explained to me in an undertone that the last speaker was a missionary of the Episcopal Church, very zealous, not over-fastidious about the means employed to reach and improve the " barbarians." Then, himself not above the desire to produce an impression, my informant gave me incidents from his own experience. For example, when I had asked if he did not find the climate of Raleigh rather bad in summer, he ran on, " Yes, it would be, but we go down the river every now and then to a watering place. Last summer we had quite the scheme. We telegraphed to our young lady friends staying at this watering place to expect a boatful of the boys at a certain hour. When we got near the shore and hotel, we discharged our guns and pistols by way of salute. That brought everybody out. Then one of the boys stood up to hurrah, and intentionally tipped the boat over. We were all provided with life-preservers, and floated about in the water, pretending to be in distress. One of the boys made believe he was drowning. Weeping on shore; men running into the water regardless of their white duck trousers. At this juncture, the corpse produced his flask and took a drink. Everybody felt better."
While listening to this chatter of the law-man, I also noticed that Bertram Born had withdrawn somewhat from the group of loafers, and reclining in his chair, his feet on the railing of the piazza, was tuning his guitar. Now, without preface or prelude, he half recited, half sung with accompaniment of minor chords, a story so simple, so suggestive of true human feeling, so incomplete, that it haunts me. Light from a few handfuls of blazing pine-knots a rod distant from the piazza showed the group of quiet listeners; while from the outer darkness came sounds of the river and night.
" In the wide southern plain, yonder where the rivers are broad and slow and it is warm at Christmas-time, lived a planter owning many slaves.
Mary was a slave, but her hair was straight and brown; her skin was fair as a lily. She had not a drop of nigger blood in her veins. But the old woman she called mother was an African, black as this night. Her, Mary called mother, and claimed to be no better than the blackest.
Mary was a meek and willing servant; but once she ran away to Charleston, her birthplace,—at least where the old black mother had been bought from the Govan family. At first she was sought where her beauty would have found a ready market, in a freedom more sad than slavery; but there she was not. After many months, she was traced to a garret where, more pale and quiet than ever, she was working with her needle; and she was brought back. She did not complain, but always staid quietly with her master afterwards.
When the planter's daughters were sent to Charleston for the winter, she accompanied them as their maid. Visiting, shopping, at church, she always attended them; and so white and decent was Mary, that gentlemen assisting the young ladies to alight from their carriage, would offer her the same courtesy, supposing her to be a companion. Then she would shrink back, saying quietly, 'Excuse me, Sir; I am only a servant.'
One Sunday the planter's daughters drove up to St. Mark's Church, Mary attending them as usual. One of Charleston's beaux went forward to assist the ladies, and took no pains to conceal his mortification when Mary declined his offer with a murmured ' Only a servant, Sir.' But, by God!"—(Here the guitar was laid aside and Bertram finished his story in a conversational tone.) "What any bystander might have noticed, was the striking resemblance between White Mary and this young fellow,—Tom Govan was his name. His mother had been a famous beauty in her day. Mary was apparently a few years older, but if features amount to anything in evidence, she and young Govan were sister and brother.
When old Senator Govan married the young belle, it was whispered that there had been a secret marriage between her and Colonel Simms, shortly before the colonel had been called by some business affairs to the Bermudas, where he took the fever and died. The report was denied by the lady's friends. It would have been a dangerous thing for any one to have repeated the scandal aloud then. Colonel Sitnms was well known to have been at heart an abolitionist, and Senator Govan was a leader in the southern cause.
Tom Govan escorted the planter's daughters to their seat, and white Mary took her place among the servants. Brother and sister were together before the Lord, while the parson droned his sermon with the text, ' Blessed are the Meek.' "
As it was the custom in the mountains to allow Bertram to speak the last word, now that he had ended, the little company broke up. I went to my bed-room, and after blinking awhile at the light wood fire on the broad hearth (for even in summer the nights are often cool at this altitude), and resolving to find out more of the past life of Bertram Born, I fell asleep. But in the morning when I awoke, he had gone.
Note the language and descriptions used in this article.
The question was addressed to an Herculean mountaineer who had sat without uttering a syllable hitherto. I had noticed this man at the table, consuming hills of biscuits and lakes of steaming coffee with the same rapt expression which he wore at present. The General straightened himself in his chair, threw back his shaggy head, and began to speak in trumpet tone.
"I shall expound a text from the book of Esther. You shall listen to the Haman proclamation. As a judge I shall hold court in open air and judge all comers. I shall show that everything done in the fear of the Lord prospers, while the devil's work miscarries. My banner shall be unfurled,' Peace on Earth, good will towards Men.' " Then, as though remembering that his audience was not in court, he relapsed into his former slouching posture and continued half to himself : " About once in so often I am driven from my home. The warlike spirit is upon me and I am called to preach to the great men of the earth. One season I rode through seven States. In every town my banner was unfurled, ' Peace on Earth, good will towards Men.' But when they would not hear me and scoffed, I furled my banner and charged through the crowd and through the town crying, Woe! Woe!"
" You might go over to the ' Cove' and convert the Dunkards," said a man in black coat and waistcoat of ecclesiastical cut and not very fresh white cravat. " I had some talk with them the other day. I said, " You believe in baptism three times face foremost. Well, that's a good way too. The Saviour says water, and water's a good thing. I'll duck you, or sprinkle yon, any way you like,—five times backward or seven times heels upward. But meanwhile I'll just say a word about drinking bad whiskey and going hunting when the ground's dry enough to plow."
A spruce, alert little man who had been introduced to the party with somewhat of a flourish as a criminal lawyer from Raleigh, explained to me in an undertone that the last speaker was a missionary of the Episcopal Church, very zealous, not over-fastidious about the means employed to reach and improve the " barbarians." Then, himself not above the desire to produce an impression, my informant gave me incidents from his own experience. For example, when I had asked if he did not find the climate of Raleigh rather bad in summer, he ran on, " Yes, it would be, but we go down the river every now and then to a watering place. Last summer we had quite the scheme. We telegraphed to our young lady friends staying at this watering place to expect a boatful of the boys at a certain hour. When we got near the shore and hotel, we discharged our guns and pistols by way of salute. That brought everybody out. Then one of the boys stood up to hurrah, and intentionally tipped the boat over. We were all provided with life-preservers, and floated about in the water, pretending to be in distress. One of the boys made believe he was drowning. Weeping on shore; men running into the water regardless of their white duck trousers. At this juncture, the corpse produced his flask and took a drink. Everybody felt better."
While listening to this chatter of the law-man, I also noticed that Bertram Born had withdrawn somewhat from the group of loafers, and reclining in his chair, his feet on the railing of the piazza, was tuning his guitar. Now, without preface or prelude, he half recited, half sung with accompaniment of minor chords, a story so simple, so suggestive of true human feeling, so incomplete, that it haunts me. Light from a few handfuls of blazing pine-knots a rod distant from the piazza showed the group of quiet listeners; while from the outer darkness came sounds of the river and night.
" In the wide southern plain, yonder where the rivers are broad and slow and it is warm at Christmas-time, lived a planter owning many slaves.
Mary was a slave, but her hair was straight and brown; her skin was fair as a lily. She had not a drop of nigger blood in her veins. But the old woman she called mother was an African, black as this night. Her, Mary called mother, and claimed to be no better than the blackest.
Mary was a meek and willing servant; but once she ran away to Charleston, her birthplace,—at least where the old black mother had been bought from the Govan family. At first she was sought where her beauty would have found a ready market, in a freedom more sad than slavery; but there she was not. After many months, she was traced to a garret where, more pale and quiet than ever, she was working with her needle; and she was brought back. She did not complain, but always staid quietly with her master afterwards.
When the planter's daughters were sent to Charleston for the winter, she accompanied them as their maid. Visiting, shopping, at church, she always attended them; and so white and decent was Mary, that gentlemen assisting the young ladies to alight from their carriage, would offer her the same courtesy, supposing her to be a companion. Then she would shrink back, saying quietly, 'Excuse me, Sir; I am only a servant.'
One Sunday the planter's daughters drove up to St. Mark's Church, Mary attending them as usual. One of Charleston's beaux went forward to assist the ladies, and took no pains to conceal his mortification when Mary declined his offer with a murmured ' Only a servant, Sir.' But, by God!"—(Here the guitar was laid aside and Bertram finished his story in a conversational tone.) "What any bystander might have noticed, was the striking resemblance between White Mary and this young fellow,—Tom Govan was his name. His mother had been a famous beauty in her day. Mary was apparently a few years older, but if features amount to anything in evidence, she and young Govan were sister and brother.
When old Senator Govan married the young belle, it was whispered that there had been a secret marriage between her and Colonel Simms, shortly before the colonel had been called by some business affairs to the Bermudas, where he took the fever and died. The report was denied by the lady's friends. It would have been a dangerous thing for any one to have repeated the scandal aloud then. Colonel Sitnms was well known to have been at heart an abolitionist, and Senator Govan was a leader in the southern cause.
Tom Govan escorted the planter's daughters to their seat, and white Mary took her place among the servants. Brother and sister were together before the Lord, while the parson droned his sermon with the text, ' Blessed are the Meek.' "
As it was the custom in the mountains to allow Bertram to speak the last word, now that he had ended, the little company broke up. I went to my bed-room, and after blinking awhile at the light wood fire on the broad hearth (for even in summer the nights are often cool at this altitude), and resolving to find out more of the past life of Bertram Born, I fell asleep. But in the morning when I awoke, he had gone.
Bertram Born Part One
Bertram Born was a colorful character in the Mountains of North Carolina. I haven't found anything more about him than this one article written in "The New Englander" Published in 1885
Here's the first part of the article:
Chapter I.—A North Carolina Incident.
While riding along by the French Broad river, I allowed myself a small soliloquy:—This section is un-American. These people do not hurry and worry. Americans are satisfied with America as a whole, but seldom with their own portion of the vast country. New England boys want to go West to work; western men want to come East to live and enjoy the fruits of their self-sacrifice. But the North Carolinian can hardly better his chances of success or the conditions of comfortable living by going away from home. The other day I met a young drover. He told me that he would be off for Colorado soon.
“You would like to see the world," I conjectured.
" Yes. I reckon I'll come back directly. The boys I have known who've gone West are all back here again and they do say this is the only place to live."
It is delightful to find people believing not only in their own country, but in their own township. And yet how closely allied with ignorance is this bliss. For instance: After parting company with the drover, my way lay through one of those extensive pine forests which cover the southern slopes of the Blue Ridge. An hour sufficed to confuse me thoroughly. I had not an idea which one of the glistening tracks of white sand to follow at the next crossway, when with joy I discovered a log hut, chinked with red clay, a spiral of blue smoke ascending from its chimney. Its occupant appeared in answer to my shout, slouched amicably towards me, and "lowed" he would show me the way—so politely! He used the Sir in every sentence, yet not in servility. With him it was a courteous form, like the French Monsieur. This is the "tie ornament of a slovenly mountain idiom. I should have enjoyed a longer conversation, for he showed the excellent quality of thoughtfulness, asking among other things, " Whar is New England, Sir ? I reckon it aint far from old England, Sir." Then at a turning, where a choice of ways came in sight, he stopped, pointed down the road to a small stream and said:
" See that'ar branch, thar, Sir ? Waal, when you cross that bra-anch, you turn—you turn (reflecting)—Which side your mare's mane lie, Sir ?"
" Left."
" Waal, when you get across that bra-anch yonder, you just turn to the left, Sir."
At this point in the soliloquy, my attention was attracted by the near sound of falling water. Remember that here, between Asheville and Warm Springs, the French Broad, although a considerable stream, is still three thousand feet above the sea-mirror, and hurries along at a tremendous pace, —dashes foaming and chafing against the rugged, darkly wooded mountains, in spite of which it accomplishes a hasty descent. Here a narrow side valley, through which a brook makes the best of its way to join the main current, tumbling over successive terraces of granite, seething in the deep pool at the base of each cascade and elsewhere sheeting itself prettily over the smooth dark rock. I was ready to dismount and try my poor skill at sketching so lovely a spot, when—the Troubadour appeared.
Certainly a striking figure ! A man like the other features of the scene which had laid its spell upon me. A man who had matured and grown strong under natural influences— grown rugged but not coarse through forty years (it seemed) of storm and sunshine. Something fine and commanding, whether in his thoughtful face or the ease with which he rode, as though unconscious of a separate existence in his thoroughbred, made me question instantly his being a " native." But if not a mountaineer, what could be the meaning of such a costume ( He wore a dark green velvet jacket and gray corduroy knickerbockers, both very rusty, strings supplying the place of buttons at the knees. On his head was a straw sombrero, so wide- brimmed as actually to shade his shoulders. He carried a light single barrel bird gun across the saddle and was followed by a fine Gordon setter. It would be difficult to say wherein it consisted, but there was a slight touch of dandyism withal Possibly the suggestion came from his red neckcloth. His face was so weather-worn and hardened that, smiling, he must smile in seams. In addition to his fowling-piece, this practiced horseman here a small guitar in a baize cover slung across his shoulders.
"There is a legend," said he with grave deliberateness, "that these pools are bottomless and that two young lovers took the fatal leap together into their unknown depths. If that is true, the lovers must have been visitors from New York. I never heard of a genuine North Carolinian who did not care more for life than for love."
" And yet," I doubted, " these mountaineers are said to be courageous."
This most unconventional person rejoined: " Courage is familiarity with danger. I have seen a man who dared not cross the ocean on a Cunard steamer, boldly attack a dish of raw tripe at an hotel."
He had not introduced himself, neither had his horse, nor yet his dog. All three appeared to accept my presence as naturally as if we had been members of the same household happening to meet in the hallway. In the same matter-of- course fashion, we cantered over the level stretches and walked up hill and down towards Squire Justice's " hotel," keeping together and chatting. I can no more undertake to follow the course of our conversation than to describe from memory all the varied scenes of that panorama of river, forest, and sky as each turn in the road revealed a new prospect. But I wish to convey in a few words my impression of his strange mode of existence, gathered from his unreserved communications.
Evidently a gentleman by birth and education, who had read much and traveled widely, my companion employed in conversation a superior, rather bookish, vocabulary and style. Occasional sentences were evidently studied; so much so indeed that I at first supposed him to be quoting from some book which I had not read. When describing a tornado which had devastated portions of northern Georgia the previous year, he dwelt with much appreciation upon its freaks and the curious incidents which attended its progress, observing finally, " Always some trifles of humor come to the surface of a great disaster like bubbles where the water is torn below a cataract; and the spirits which laugh in storm are not all devils—laughing in bitterness—but some are Ariels : these laugh in the very gladness of a light nature."
I. " Bravo ! who wrote that ?
He. " I will tell you—Anon."
He kept his punning promise fully; for he did presently make himself known to me as an author, while he remained and remains anonymous. In the mountains he was called Bertram Born,—evidently an assumed name.
Bertram Born avoided the larger towns, passing from one outlying farmstead to another. He would carry about little presents of tobacco, seed-corn, or powder and shot, which insured a cordial welcome wherever he appeared. He was welcomed also as historian of the mountain folk, for his personal recollections extended over a period of twenty years, while traditions of the earliest settlers and the expulsion of the Indians were stored in his retentive memory. As for his wanderings, they were commonly within the limits of North Carolina, although sometimes he would follow the course of small rivers such as the Pacolet from their source through the narrow, fertile valleys of northern South Carolina, and more frequently find himself in the picturesque Habersham county of northern Georgia. Indeed this latter must be a tempting field for such a wandering story-teller and adventurer. Instead of sharp peaks, the mountains of Habersham have fruitful craters—or let us say, dimples of fertile valley—at their very summits where Nature has laid her hand in blessing, and at her touch springs have burst forth and barren rock has been transformed into the deepest and richest black earth of all that region. There are cabins of farmers,—each household in undisputed possession of its mountain. Fruit trees there and cattle, separated by miles of forest from the nearest orchards and herds A tall, gaunt race living there, speaking vaguely and mildly. Think of the isolation of these places and then imagine how joyfully a lively acquaintance would be received. And besides, Bertram established closer relations with many of these uncritical people. Many a slouching, mild-eyed mountaineer hailed him as best friend, and (it may as well be confessed) more than one maiden giantess secretly owned his overlordship. These people are natural. Why should not a piece of bright ribbon and a few kind words win a way to maiden's heart and favor? Rules of the moral code, accepted as such by all good citizens of the nearest large town, are here crowded aside by the pressure of natural forces. So amiable, so truly amiable is this mountain folk, that it will readily accept almost any form of religious doctrine; but it will recognize only such restraints as accord with local tastes and usages. Crime of the gravest kind is called "meanness." Swearing and working on Sunday are the two offenses which excite general disapproval.
"In this land,'' said my companion, "every root produces flowers; while everything which moves either stings or kicks or chews tobacco."
Bertram had never cared to acquire a permanent home, although nothing would have been easier. One has only to choose a sheltered spot near a crystal spring, build a cabin (it will take but two weeks), and then clear away right and left with his axe far as he like, and plant shallow in loam a yard deep. A few dollars will be enough for the establishment of a marrying man. Why, with a hundred dollars one might get a giantess. But our Bertram was an incorrigible errant.
An hour before dark, we arrived at Squire Justice's hotel,— store, post office, and tavern, all in one. The situation of the house on rising ground, an eighth of a mile from the river and road, in a little park of its own, sheep grazing on the lawn, does not suggest an inn; but my companion feels at home here as everywhere and points out the merits of the location with a sense of partial ownership. When we had passed through the gate and were approaching the house, he spoke to an old negro nurse who stood beside the roadway with her charge, a little girl holding in her arms a doll almost as large as herself. Pointing to the doll: "Aunty, is that a sure enough baby, or is it an artificial baby?"
The negress grinned. " Lordy, Lordy, Mass' Born, is that vousself here again?"
A moment later our horses were standing before the wide whitewashed piazza. "See there, my friend," I said, " can you tell me what's going on in that room?" Through an open window I saw a curious kind of needle work. A light, flat frame, over which was stretched a white' sheet, was suspended from the ceiling by cords attached to its four corners. An enormous flat hammock? No; for it is being covered with a flowery pattern. A hanging garden, then? No; only quilting.
"Just come with me," replied Bertram Born, leading the way into the house and opening a side door without ceremony.
A jolly girl, that, bending over the quilt. A giantess from the Black Mountain, I should think, visiting her cousins, the Justices. She was quite handsome, with merry bright eyes and red cheeks. Her eyes became brighter and her cheeks flushed when we entered. I could not flatter myself; it was for the Troubadour. Confound the old Lothario! He has no right to a better name, for he seeks no higher honors.
However, I forget my mortification, envy, or whatever it may be called, in listening to their conversation. She is speaking the thought uppermost in her mind, with the simplicity of a child of nature. Her thought is an aspiration to see the great world. He, having deliberately turned his back upon the world, is easy and contented in the rudeness of these mountains. Hence his superiority and attractiveness to her. He is to her the nearest approach of the desired. He has been in Washington, in London, even in Paris, perhaps. Heavens! He has lived. He has seen the originals of those elegant ladies in long trains who inarch across the paper covers of the half- dozen of novels in the nearest village library. She is only a poor mountain girl, and people must buy friendship, she has read. Well, he may have the rose from her hair. But wait; here is a turn which shows the very heart of simple maiden of the Black Mountain. He asked, '' How long would it take for you to know me ?"
She repeats: " How long to love?"
Her woman's nature is right on the surface. One reads in her lively expression such thoughts as these: " Is he really in earnest?—Is he out of reach?—I am attractive.—Is he making fun of me?—Shall I see him soon again?" It is high time for me to withdraw.
After a supper of hot corn bread and light biscuits, fried ham, buttermilk, and coffee (the invariable supper of the South!), half-a-dozen men were seated on the wide piazza in arm chairs, smoking red-clay pipes with long cane stems or using tobacco in another less picturesque fashion,—more subjectively. Central in the group was the venerable figure of Squire Justice. He was telling his stock anecdotes about the healthfulness of the region: " Why, ole Miss Bridgman was confirmed by the Bishop this summer and her two gals at the same time. Well, gentlemen, she is one hundred and four years old and the two babies are sixty-five and sixty-eight years." The speaker had himself been one of twelve friends, young men together in the township. Of the twelve, six went away and they had all died ; while those who had remained at home were all hale and hearty to this day.
How many similar instances his garrulity might have offered and the good nature of his nicotinated audience would have sluggishly accepted, it is impossible to say, for at that moment came dashing up the driveway a willing horse,—a muscular, lean, corn-fed animal,—and an unwilling horseman, unpracticed, plump with a succession of hotel dinners, the tails of his long gray coat flying out wildly and his hat crushed over his eyes. At the door the horse stopped of his own accord suddenly,—so suddenly that the rider was thrown forward upon his neck. A moment later appeared a fat old darkey running along the road and leading a pack-horse with well-filled saddle bags. The African was shouting, " Wha ! Wha ! I never did see a man ride so fas as dat man !"
While settling his hat and cravat, the new comer explained volubly, " My nag wanted to run. I had no objection. Here come my things." Then addressing me, who happened to be nearest, he offered his card, " Thomas R. Bagman, Richmond," and in the corner, " Representing Messrs. Stuff, Rubbish & Shoddy."
I explained briefly that I was not a competitor, but making a horseback tour of the mountains.
"That is something I never could understand," commented the drummer. " That must be no end lonesome. Now, if I want a sight, I just go to church and take my seat in the gallery, front row, forward. It isn't for the sermon—O, no. But I just watch the effect the parson's words have upon the audience,—how different people take the same thing differently."
To my great surprise, Bertram Born answered him: " Then you will allow us to put mountains and watercourses in place of parson and to watch the effects which their speech produces upon an audience,—upon the people we meet,—with more satisfaction, young man, in that these tones are true, while your parson may be telling lies."
Like an old book! Silence ensued. Evidently Bertram was used to being allowed the last word. This silence was broken by Squire Justice, asking, " What you goin' to tell us about to-morrow, General?"
Here's the first part of the article:
Chapter I.—A North Carolina Incident.
While riding along by the French Broad river, I allowed myself a small soliloquy:—This section is un-American. These people do not hurry and worry. Americans are satisfied with America as a whole, but seldom with their own portion of the vast country. New England boys want to go West to work; western men want to come East to live and enjoy the fruits of their self-sacrifice. But the North Carolinian can hardly better his chances of success or the conditions of comfortable living by going away from home. The other day I met a young drover. He told me that he would be off for Colorado soon.
“You would like to see the world," I conjectured.
" Yes. I reckon I'll come back directly. The boys I have known who've gone West are all back here again and they do say this is the only place to live."
It is delightful to find people believing not only in their own country, but in their own township. And yet how closely allied with ignorance is this bliss. For instance: After parting company with the drover, my way lay through one of those extensive pine forests which cover the southern slopes of the Blue Ridge. An hour sufficed to confuse me thoroughly. I had not an idea which one of the glistening tracks of white sand to follow at the next crossway, when with joy I discovered a log hut, chinked with red clay, a spiral of blue smoke ascending from its chimney. Its occupant appeared in answer to my shout, slouched amicably towards me, and "lowed" he would show me the way—so politely! He used the Sir in every sentence, yet not in servility. With him it was a courteous form, like the French Monsieur. This is the "tie ornament of a slovenly mountain idiom. I should have enjoyed a longer conversation, for he showed the excellent quality of thoughtfulness, asking among other things, " Whar is New England, Sir ? I reckon it aint far from old England, Sir." Then at a turning, where a choice of ways came in sight, he stopped, pointed down the road to a small stream and said:
" See that'ar branch, thar, Sir ? Waal, when you cross that bra-anch, you turn—you turn (reflecting)—Which side your mare's mane lie, Sir ?"
" Left."
" Waal, when you get across that bra-anch yonder, you just turn to the left, Sir."
At this point in the soliloquy, my attention was attracted by the near sound of falling water. Remember that here, between Asheville and Warm Springs, the French Broad, although a considerable stream, is still three thousand feet above the sea-mirror, and hurries along at a tremendous pace, —dashes foaming and chafing against the rugged, darkly wooded mountains, in spite of which it accomplishes a hasty descent. Here a narrow side valley, through which a brook makes the best of its way to join the main current, tumbling over successive terraces of granite, seething in the deep pool at the base of each cascade and elsewhere sheeting itself prettily over the smooth dark rock. I was ready to dismount and try my poor skill at sketching so lovely a spot, when—the Troubadour appeared.
Certainly a striking figure ! A man like the other features of the scene which had laid its spell upon me. A man who had matured and grown strong under natural influences— grown rugged but not coarse through forty years (it seemed) of storm and sunshine. Something fine and commanding, whether in his thoughtful face or the ease with which he rode, as though unconscious of a separate existence in his thoroughbred, made me question instantly his being a " native." But if not a mountaineer, what could be the meaning of such a costume ( He wore a dark green velvet jacket and gray corduroy knickerbockers, both very rusty, strings supplying the place of buttons at the knees. On his head was a straw sombrero, so wide- brimmed as actually to shade his shoulders. He carried a light single barrel bird gun across the saddle and was followed by a fine Gordon setter. It would be difficult to say wherein it consisted, but there was a slight touch of dandyism withal Possibly the suggestion came from his red neckcloth. His face was so weather-worn and hardened that, smiling, he must smile in seams. In addition to his fowling-piece, this practiced horseman here a small guitar in a baize cover slung across his shoulders.
"There is a legend," said he with grave deliberateness, "that these pools are bottomless and that two young lovers took the fatal leap together into their unknown depths. If that is true, the lovers must have been visitors from New York. I never heard of a genuine North Carolinian who did not care more for life than for love."
" And yet," I doubted, " these mountaineers are said to be courageous."
This most unconventional person rejoined: " Courage is familiarity with danger. I have seen a man who dared not cross the ocean on a Cunard steamer, boldly attack a dish of raw tripe at an hotel."
He had not introduced himself, neither had his horse, nor yet his dog. All three appeared to accept my presence as naturally as if we had been members of the same household happening to meet in the hallway. In the same matter-of- course fashion, we cantered over the level stretches and walked up hill and down towards Squire Justice's " hotel," keeping together and chatting. I can no more undertake to follow the course of our conversation than to describe from memory all the varied scenes of that panorama of river, forest, and sky as each turn in the road revealed a new prospect. But I wish to convey in a few words my impression of his strange mode of existence, gathered from his unreserved communications.
Evidently a gentleman by birth and education, who had read much and traveled widely, my companion employed in conversation a superior, rather bookish, vocabulary and style. Occasional sentences were evidently studied; so much so indeed that I at first supposed him to be quoting from some book which I had not read. When describing a tornado which had devastated portions of northern Georgia the previous year, he dwelt with much appreciation upon its freaks and the curious incidents which attended its progress, observing finally, " Always some trifles of humor come to the surface of a great disaster like bubbles where the water is torn below a cataract; and the spirits which laugh in storm are not all devils—laughing in bitterness—but some are Ariels : these laugh in the very gladness of a light nature."
I. " Bravo ! who wrote that ?
He. " I will tell you—Anon."
He kept his punning promise fully; for he did presently make himself known to me as an author, while he remained and remains anonymous. In the mountains he was called Bertram Born,—evidently an assumed name.
Bertram Born avoided the larger towns, passing from one outlying farmstead to another. He would carry about little presents of tobacco, seed-corn, or powder and shot, which insured a cordial welcome wherever he appeared. He was welcomed also as historian of the mountain folk, for his personal recollections extended over a period of twenty years, while traditions of the earliest settlers and the expulsion of the Indians were stored in his retentive memory. As for his wanderings, they were commonly within the limits of North Carolina, although sometimes he would follow the course of small rivers such as the Pacolet from their source through the narrow, fertile valleys of northern South Carolina, and more frequently find himself in the picturesque Habersham county of northern Georgia. Indeed this latter must be a tempting field for such a wandering story-teller and adventurer. Instead of sharp peaks, the mountains of Habersham have fruitful craters—or let us say, dimples of fertile valley—at their very summits where Nature has laid her hand in blessing, and at her touch springs have burst forth and barren rock has been transformed into the deepest and richest black earth of all that region. There are cabins of farmers,—each household in undisputed possession of its mountain. Fruit trees there and cattle, separated by miles of forest from the nearest orchards and herds A tall, gaunt race living there, speaking vaguely and mildly. Think of the isolation of these places and then imagine how joyfully a lively acquaintance would be received. And besides, Bertram established closer relations with many of these uncritical people. Many a slouching, mild-eyed mountaineer hailed him as best friend, and (it may as well be confessed) more than one maiden giantess secretly owned his overlordship. These people are natural. Why should not a piece of bright ribbon and a few kind words win a way to maiden's heart and favor? Rules of the moral code, accepted as such by all good citizens of the nearest large town, are here crowded aside by the pressure of natural forces. So amiable, so truly amiable is this mountain folk, that it will readily accept almost any form of religious doctrine; but it will recognize only such restraints as accord with local tastes and usages. Crime of the gravest kind is called "meanness." Swearing and working on Sunday are the two offenses which excite general disapproval.
"In this land,'' said my companion, "every root produces flowers; while everything which moves either stings or kicks or chews tobacco."
Bertram had never cared to acquire a permanent home, although nothing would have been easier. One has only to choose a sheltered spot near a crystal spring, build a cabin (it will take but two weeks), and then clear away right and left with his axe far as he like, and plant shallow in loam a yard deep. A few dollars will be enough for the establishment of a marrying man. Why, with a hundred dollars one might get a giantess. But our Bertram was an incorrigible errant.
An hour before dark, we arrived at Squire Justice's hotel,— store, post office, and tavern, all in one. The situation of the house on rising ground, an eighth of a mile from the river and road, in a little park of its own, sheep grazing on the lawn, does not suggest an inn; but my companion feels at home here as everywhere and points out the merits of the location with a sense of partial ownership. When we had passed through the gate and were approaching the house, he spoke to an old negro nurse who stood beside the roadway with her charge, a little girl holding in her arms a doll almost as large as herself. Pointing to the doll: "Aunty, is that a sure enough baby, or is it an artificial baby?"
The negress grinned. " Lordy, Lordy, Mass' Born, is that vousself here again?"
A moment later our horses were standing before the wide whitewashed piazza. "See there, my friend," I said, " can you tell me what's going on in that room?" Through an open window I saw a curious kind of needle work. A light, flat frame, over which was stretched a white' sheet, was suspended from the ceiling by cords attached to its four corners. An enormous flat hammock? No; for it is being covered with a flowery pattern. A hanging garden, then? No; only quilting.
"Just come with me," replied Bertram Born, leading the way into the house and opening a side door without ceremony.
A jolly girl, that, bending over the quilt. A giantess from the Black Mountain, I should think, visiting her cousins, the Justices. She was quite handsome, with merry bright eyes and red cheeks. Her eyes became brighter and her cheeks flushed when we entered. I could not flatter myself; it was for the Troubadour. Confound the old Lothario! He has no right to a better name, for he seeks no higher honors.
However, I forget my mortification, envy, or whatever it may be called, in listening to their conversation. She is speaking the thought uppermost in her mind, with the simplicity of a child of nature. Her thought is an aspiration to see the great world. He, having deliberately turned his back upon the world, is easy and contented in the rudeness of these mountains. Hence his superiority and attractiveness to her. He is to her the nearest approach of the desired. He has been in Washington, in London, even in Paris, perhaps. Heavens! He has lived. He has seen the originals of those elegant ladies in long trains who inarch across the paper covers of the half- dozen of novels in the nearest village library. She is only a poor mountain girl, and people must buy friendship, she has read. Well, he may have the rose from her hair. But wait; here is a turn which shows the very heart of simple maiden of the Black Mountain. He asked, '' How long would it take for you to know me ?"
She repeats: " How long to love?"
Her woman's nature is right on the surface. One reads in her lively expression such thoughts as these: " Is he really in earnest?—Is he out of reach?—I am attractive.—Is he making fun of me?—Shall I see him soon again?" It is high time for me to withdraw.
After a supper of hot corn bread and light biscuits, fried ham, buttermilk, and coffee (the invariable supper of the South!), half-a-dozen men were seated on the wide piazza in arm chairs, smoking red-clay pipes with long cane stems or using tobacco in another less picturesque fashion,—more subjectively. Central in the group was the venerable figure of Squire Justice. He was telling his stock anecdotes about the healthfulness of the region: " Why, ole Miss Bridgman was confirmed by the Bishop this summer and her two gals at the same time. Well, gentlemen, she is one hundred and four years old and the two babies are sixty-five and sixty-eight years." The speaker had himself been one of twelve friends, young men together in the township. Of the twelve, six went away and they had all died ; while those who had remained at home were all hale and hearty to this day.
How many similar instances his garrulity might have offered and the good nature of his nicotinated audience would have sluggishly accepted, it is impossible to say, for at that moment came dashing up the driveway a willing horse,—a muscular, lean, corn-fed animal,—and an unwilling horseman, unpracticed, plump with a succession of hotel dinners, the tails of his long gray coat flying out wildly and his hat crushed over his eyes. At the door the horse stopped of his own accord suddenly,—so suddenly that the rider was thrown forward upon his neck. A moment later appeared a fat old darkey running along the road and leading a pack-horse with well-filled saddle bags. The African was shouting, " Wha ! Wha ! I never did see a man ride so fas as dat man !"
While settling his hat and cravat, the new comer explained volubly, " My nag wanted to run. I had no objection. Here come my things." Then addressing me, who happened to be nearest, he offered his card, " Thomas R. Bagman, Richmond," and in the corner, " Representing Messrs. Stuff, Rubbish & Shoddy."
I explained briefly that I was not a competitor, but making a horseback tour of the mountains.
"That is something I never could understand," commented the drummer. " That must be no end lonesome. Now, if I want a sight, I just go to church and take my seat in the gallery, front row, forward. It isn't for the sermon—O, no. But I just watch the effect the parson's words have upon the audience,—how different people take the same thing differently."
To my great surprise, Bertram Born answered him: " Then you will allow us to put mountains and watercourses in place of parson and to watch the effects which their speech produces upon an audience,—upon the people we meet,—with more satisfaction, young man, in that these tones are true, while your parson may be telling lies."
Like an old book! Silence ensued. Evidently Bertram was used to being allowed the last word. This silence was broken by Squire Justice, asking, " What you goin' to tell us about to-morrow, General?"
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