Long stretches of white turnpike, with fields of ripening grain on either side, and in the distance hills that fade into the blue horizon.
This is Middle Tennessee at the present time. Even so far back as 1790 there were a few good roads and houses built by workmen from the “Mother State,” built in Colonial style, with white Corinthian pillars and polished oaken floors.
Before the door of one of these houses, built of stone in the year 1793, a carriage stopped. This carriage, lately built in a Boston workshop, was the first seen in Tennessee, and had been followed, on the latter part of its journey, by a large and motley company, constantly reinforced by recruits, all anxious to see this wonderful structure on wheels, with postillions, and drawn by four horses, reach its destination.
When the carriage stopped there was a general halt. A black footman, descending from a seat on the box, solemnly opened the door, and Sir Peyton Skipwith, the owner of the “Rock House,” and the thousand acres surrounding it, descended from the carriage and assisted a young and elegant woman to alight. This was unexpected, and a slight cheer went up from the curious onlookers. To this the new land proprietor and his fair companion gravely responded with a bow, and with a lingering glance at the setting sun and the broad acres of their new domain, they entered the house, and the happiness of Sir Peyton Skipwith and his bride was only to be surmised by the outside world.
This outside world, a new settlement with the newspaper from the “Mother State” a month old, and languishing to hear the latest fashion in kerchief and stomacher, and the news of Mr. Washington’s re-election, naturally took an absorbing interest in the latest acquisition to their society; but with the exception of an occasional courteous word from Sir Peyton, and a smile and bow from Lady Cornelia’s carriage, their curiosity concerning the newcomers received no encouragement. The young couple were probably too much absorbed in each other to be properly benevolent, and public interest was beginning to wane when a rumor was circulated that excited a thrill in all.
Built on Sir Peyton’s ground was a small church where the early settlers met to unite in divine worship. As they passed to and fro on these pious pilgrimages—the rumors were conflicting, but one fact was unanimously declared—each evening, when the darkness came on, wonderful and mysterious sounds were heard to issue from the brilliantly illumined windows of the “Rock House.” The music (for such it seemed to be) was said to have a most disquieting effect upon those who heard it; even the reverend pastor, Dr. McGinty himself, was seen to stop on his way and take most unseemly steps for one of his age and godly calling.
Such a state of affairs would never do! All concurred in one opinion, that the matter should be investigated, and a committee of church members appointed to make known to the public the nature of these profane sounds that were so disquieting to the God-fearing flock of Zion Church. It seemed most proper that an explanation should be demanded of “Mr. Peyton Skipwith and Mistress Cornelia, his wife (titles were abolished as savoring of earthly pride and not consistent with republican teaching).” This course having been adopted and not found satisfactory, it was agreed that on a certain evening the secret committee, composed of grave and reverend Presbyters, should conceal themselves beneath Sir Peyton Skipwith’s open windows, and I will try and describe what they saw.
Seated at an instrument somewhat like our modern piano, with small spindle legs and white, shining ivory keys, sat Sir Peyton’s bride. The light from innumerable silver candelabra fell upon the coils of her fair hair and the silk of her gown and delicate laces, while Sir Peyton, his tall form attired in full evening costume, with silk hose, knee buckles of brilliants and low dancing shoes, turned pages from which she seemed to play. Her white, jeweled fingers ran over the keys of the instrument, and brought forth sounds so delicious, so entrancing that the world seemed to be floating off in melody, and the church committee, secreted beneath the open window, held their breath in rapt wonder, but this was not all; for next, looking up into Sir Peyton’s eyes, she sang in a voice like a flute:
“My ain laddie is a sodger boy;