XXXI REMINISCENCES
A BARBECUE AT THE BLUE SPRING, KY.—NOTABLE NATIVES OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD —THE SCHOOLHOUSE CHURCH—SOME OF THE PREACHERS—THE TEACHER OF SINGING—HOW THE SCHOOLMASTER WAS PAID—MANNERS AND DISCIPLINE—THE DEBATING SOCIETY—THE WRITER'S SPEECH TO HIS OLD NEIGHBORS—SOME BOYHOOD FRIENDS.
Soon after my nomination for the Vice-Presidency, in 1892, I attended a barbecue at the Blue Spring, a stone's throw from my father's old home in Kentucky. This was in the county of Christian, in the southwestern part of the State. It is a large and wealthy county, its tobacco product probably exceeding that of any other county in the United States.
Christian County was the early home of men distinguished in the field, at the bar, and in the State and National councils. Hopkinsville, the county-seat, had been the home of Stites, the learned Chief Justice of the Court of Appeals; of Jackson, who fell while gallantly leading his command at the battle of Perryville; of Morehead, an early and distinguished Governor of the Commonwealth; of Sharp, whose legal acumen would have secured him distinction at any bar; of McKenzie, whose wit and eloquence made him the long-time idol and the Representative in Congress, of the famed "Pennyrile" district; of Bristow, the accomplished Secretary of the Treasury during the administration of President Grant; of the Henry brothers, three of whom, from different States, were at a later day Representatives in Congress, and one the Whig candidate against Andrew Johnson for Governor of Tennessee.
Hon. Gustavus A. Henry, well known as the "Eagle Orator of Tennessee," was the Whig candidate for Governor of the State in opposition to Andrew Johnson, at a later day President of the United States. The latter was at the time an old-fashioned, steady-going mountain orator with none of the brilliancy of his gifted antagonist. At the close of a series of joint debates Johnson said: "This speech terminates our joint debates. I have now encountered the 'Eagle Orator' upon every stump in the State, and come out of the contest with no flesh of mine in his claws—no blood of mine upon his beak." To which Henry instantly replied: "The eagle—the proud bird of freedom—never wars upon a corpse!"
A few miles from the Blue Spring, in the same county, were the early homes of Senator Roger Q. Mills of Texas, Governor John M. Palmer of Illinois, and Jefferson Davis of the Southern Confederacy. Less than a score of miles to the southward, upon the banks of the Cumberland in Tennessee, stood historic Fort Donelson; while a few hours' journey to the northward stands the monument which marks the birthplace of Abraham Lincoln.
Following the earliest westward trail from Iredell County, North Carolina, across the Blue Ridge Mountains, for a great distance along the banks of the romantic French Broad my grandfathers, "Scotch-Irish Presbyterians," James Stevenson and Adlai Ewing, with their immediate families and others of their kindred, had in the early days of the century, after a long and perilous journey, finally reached the famous Spring already mentioned. Near by, their tents were pitched, and in time permanent homes established in the then wilderness of southwestern Kentucky.
The first public building constructed was of logs, with puncheon floor, and set apart to the double purpose of school-house and church for the use of all denominations. Its site was near the spot where the speaker's stand was now erected for the barbecue which I have mentioned.
From the pulpit of this rude building, the early settlers had more
than once listened spell-bound to the eloquence of Peter Cartwright,
Henry B. Bascom, Nathan L. Rice, Finis Ewing, and Alexander
Campbell.
In this old church the time-honored custom was for some one of its officers to line out the hymn, two lines at a time, and then lead the singing, in which the congregation joined. Among my earliest recollections is that of my uncle, Squire McKenzie, one of the best of men, standing immediately in front of the pulpit, and faithfully discharging this important duty after the hymn had been read in full by the minister. I distinctly recall the solemn tones in which, upon communion occasions, he lined out, in measured and mellow cadence, the good old hymn beginning:
"'T was on that dark, that doleful night,
When powers of earth and hell arose."
Mr. Sawyer, too, the old-time singing-school teacher, has honored place in my memory. Once a month, in the old church, the singing-school class of which we were all members regularly assembled. The school was in four divisions, Bass, Tenor, Counter, and Treble; each member was provided with a copy of the "Missouri Harmony," with "fa," "sol," "la," "mi," appearing in mysterious characters upon every page; the master, magnifying his office, as with tuning-fork in hand he stood proudly in the midst, raised the tune, and as it progressed smiled or deeply frowned upon each of the divisions as occasion seemed to require. His voice has long been hushed, but I seem again to hear his cheery command, "Attention, class! Utopia, page one hundred!"
Looking back through the long vista of years, it is my honest belief that such singing as his, at home or abroad, I have never heard. Upon his tablet might appropriately have been inscribed:
"Sleep undisturbed within this sacred shrine,
Till angels wake thee with notes like thine."
To this old field school came in the early time the "scholars" for many miles around. It was in very truth the only Alma Mater, for that generation, of almost the entire southern portion of the county. My father in his boyhood attended this school, as did his kinsmen, John W. and Fielding N. Ewing; the last named of whom was, at a much later period, the pastor of the First Presbyterian Church of Bloomington, Illinois, and his elder brother was the Mayor of that city.
At that early day, and later when I attended the same school, there were no salaries provided for the teachers, The schoolmaster visited the families within reasonable distance of the schoolhouse with his subscription paper, and the school was duly opened when a sufficient number of pupils had subscribed.
The ways of the old field school and the methods of the old-time teachers belong now to the past. Once experienced, however, they have an abiding place in the memory. The master, upon his accustomed perch near the spacious fire-place, with his ever-present symbol of authority, the rod—which even Solomon would have considered fully up to the orthodox standard—in alarming proximity; the boys "making their manners" by scraping the right foot upon the floor and bowing low as they entered the school-room; the girls upon like occasions equally faithful in the practice of a bewitching little "curtsey" which only added to their charms; the "studying aloud," the hum of the school-room being thereby easily heard a mile or two away; the timid approach to the dreaded master with the humble request that he would "mend a pen," "parse a verb," or "do a sum."
An hour, called recess, was given for the dinner from the baskets brought from home, and then the glorious old games, marbles, town-ball, and "bull pen," to the heart's content! At the sound of the ominous command, "Books!" each scholar promptly resumed his seat, the merry shout of the playground at once giving way to the serious business of "saying lessons." In those good old days, the slightest act of omission or commission upon the part of the pupil was confronted with a terrible condition instead of a harmless theory. In very truth the uncomfortable effect of the punishment unfailingly administered—"doing his duty to your parents," as the petty school-room tyrant was wont to observe—was in small degree lessened by the comforting assurance that the victim "would thank him for it the longest day he lived!"
Then, to crown all, came the debating society, with the schoolmaster presiding, and the entire neighborhood, sweethearts and all, in attendance, and the boys for the first time testing their oratorical powers. Vigilant preparations having been made for the discussion of such momentous questions as: "Which deserves the most credit, Columbus for discovering America, or Washington for defending it?" or "Which brings the greatest happiness to mankind, pursuit or possession?"
In "Georgia Scenes" is an amusing account of a debate in a backwoods "Academy" nearly a century ago. The two brightest boys, after anxious preparation, succeeded in formulating for debate a question utterly meaningless, but which appeared upon hurried reading to touch the very bed-rock of human government. The "conspirators" mentioned were the respective leaders in the debate which closed the public exercises of the annual "Exhibition" of the Academy. The leaders had made careful preparation for the contest, and appeared fully to understand the question, and each in turn highly complimented the able argument of his rival. Much amusement was caused by the remaining speakers, when called in order, who candidly admitted that they didn't understand the question, and patiently submitted to the fine imposed by the rules of the Society. That a boy of but mediocre talents should have failed to participate in the debate, will not be considered remarkable when the question is stated: "Whether, in public elections, the vote of faction should prevail by internal suggestions, or the bias of jurisprudence?"
The late General Gordon related to me the above incident, and added that the leaders mentioned were at a later day well known to the country, one the learned Bishop Longstreet of Georgia, the other the eloquent Senator McDuffie of South Carolina.
Events almost forgotten, forms long since vanished, were vividly recalled as, after long absence, I revisited the spot inseparably blended with the joyous associations of childhood. The platform from which I was to speak had been erected near the ruins of the old church above mentioned, of which my grandfather had been a ruling elder, my father, mother, and other kindred the earliest members.
Upon my introduction to the vast assemblage—the good things suggested by "barbecue" having meanwhile given to all an abundant feeling of contentment—I began by brief reference to the pleasure I experienced in again visiting, after the passing of the years which separated childhood from middle age, scenes once so familiar, and meeting face to face so many of my early associates and friends, and remarked, that in the early days in Illinois the not unusual reply of the Kentucky emigrant, when asked what part of the Old Commonwealth he came from was, "From the Blue Grass," or "From near Lexington," but that my invariable answer to that inquiry had even been, "From the Pennyrile!"
Some mention I made of Mr. Caskie, the dreaded school-master of the long ago, caused a momentary commotion in the audience, and immediately a man of white hairs and bowed by the weight of more than fourscore years, was lifted to the front of the platform. With arm about my neck, he earnestly inquired: "Adlai, I came twenty miles to hear you speak; don't you remember me?" The audience apparently appreciated the instant reply: "Yes, Mr. Caskie, I still have a few marks left to remember you by!"
The venerable and long ago forgiven schoolmaster was fearfully deaf, and to prevent the possibility of a single word escaping him, he stood close beside me, and with his hand behind his ear and the other resting tenderly on my shoulder, faithfully followed me in my journeyings to and fro across the stage during the two-hours' speech which followed.
My speech at length concluded, I was warmly greeted by scores of old neighbors and friends. Just forty years had passed since my father had removed his family to Illinois, and it may well be believed that it was difficult to recall promptly all the names and faces of those I had known in childhood. Even a candidate has, at such times, "some rights under the Constitution"; one of which, I honestly believe, is total exemption from the tormenting inquiries: "Do you know me? Well, what is my name?" The laurels, even of Job, had he ever been a candidate, would probably have turned to willows.
I am here reminded of an experience of one of my early competitors for Congress. It was his happy forte to remember instantly all his old acquaintances; not only that, but to know their full names. To call out in friendly and familiar tone, in and out of season, "Bill," "Dick," "Sam," "Bob," a hundred times a day, was as natural to him as to breathe.
Upon one occasion, however, the fates seemed slightly untoward. At the close of one of our joint debates, in the southern part of the district, he was greeted by a demure-looking individual with the salutation, "How are you, Judge?"
"My dear sir," exclaimed the regular candidate, grasping the interrogator warmly by the hand, "how are you, and how is the old lady?"
"I am not married, Judge," was the deliberate response, as of one assuming the entire responsibility.
"Certainly not, certainly not, my dear sir; I meant you mother.
How is that excellent old lady?"
"My mother has been dead twenty years, Judge," was the mournful reply.
A trifle embarrassed, but not entirely off his base, the judge looked earnestly into the face of the bereaved, and said:
"My friend, excuse me, your countenance is perfectly familiar to me, but I do not at this moment remember exactly who you are."
The response was, "Judge, I am an evangelist."
To which the candidate for Congress, now upon a firm footing, tapped the man of the sacred office familiarly upon the shoulder and cheerfully exclaimed, "Why, damn it, Van, I thought I ought to know you!"
Returning now for brief sojourn to the afore-mentioned barbecue, with a faithful kinsman as monitor, aided by a slight moiety of tact to be credited to personal account, I managed passably well to get through the trying ordeal. "The old gentleman with the long white beard, coming toward us," observed my monitor, "is Uncle Jake Anderson. He has a hat bet that you will know him." Thus advised, I was ready for trial, and warmly grasping the hand extended me, I earnestly inquired, "Uncle Jake, how are you?" "Do you know me, boy?" was the immediate response. "Know you?" I replied. "You and my father were near neighbors for years; how could I help knowing you?" "Yes, of course," he said, "but you being gone so long, and now running for President, I didn't know but what you had forgotten all about the old neighbors down on the Lick." Assuring him that I had forgotten none of them, and congratulating him upon the hat he had won, I passed on to the next.
The interview described was repeated with slight variations, many times, when my attendant remarked:
"That man leaning against the tree is John Dunloe; do you remember him?"
"Certainly," I replied, "I went to school with him."
Immediately approaching my early classmate I took him by the hand and said, "How are you, John?"
"Why, Adlai, do you know me?" was the prompt response.
"Know you," said I, "didn't we go to school together to Mr. Caskie right here at Blue Water, when we were boys?"
"Yas, of course we did," slowly answered by sometime school-fellow, "but you been 'sociatin' with them big fellows down about Washington so long, that I didn't know but what you had forgot us poor fellows down in the Pennyrile."
Assuring him that I never forgot my old friends, I inquired, "John, where is your brother Bill?"
"He's here," was the instant reply. "Me and Bill started before daylight to get to this barbecue in time. Bill 'lowed he'd ruther go forty miles on foot to hear you make a speech, than go to a hangin'."