Etext of Bill Arp from the Uncivil War to Date
by Bill Arp
 
BILL ARP FROM THE UNCIVIL WAR TO DATE 1861-1903
MEMORIAL EDITION
ATLANTA, GA.:
THE HUDGINS PUBLISHING COMPANY
1903
COPYRIGHT 1902
BY C. P. BYRD AND C. H. SMITH
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

CONTENTS.
THE HOME LIFE OF BILL ARP--By His Daughter
CHAPTER I.--A Pretty Story
CHAPTER II.--My Birth, Youth and Manhood
CHAPTER III.--Behind the Scenes
CHAPTER IV.--The Aristocracy and the Common People
CHAPTER V.--The Original "Bill Arp"
CHAPTER VI.--"Big John"
CHAPTER VII.--The Roman Runagee
CHAPTER VIII.--His Late Trials and Adventures
CHAPTER IX.--Bill Arp Addresses Artemus Ward
CHAPTER X.--Smoking the Pipe of Peace
CHAPTER XI.--Trials and Tribulations
CHAPTER XII.--Love Affairs
CHAPTER XIII.--Tells of His Wife's Birthday
CHAPTER XIV.--Mrs. Arp Goes Off on a Visit
CHAPTER XV.--The Voice of Spring
CHAPTER XVI.--The Sounds on the Front Piazza
CHAPTER XVII.--Mr. Arp Feels His Inadequacy
CHAPTER XVIII.--Uncle Bart
CHAPTER XIX.--Cobe Talks a Little
CHAPTER XX.--The Ups and Downs of Farming
CHAPTER XXI.--The Family Preparing to Receive City Cousins
CHAPTER XXII.--Bad Luck in the Family
CHAPTER XXIII.--The Struggle for Money
CHAPTER XXIV.--New Year's Time
CHAPTER XXV.--Old Things are Passing Away, and All Things
Have Become New
CHAPTER XXVI.--But Once a Year
CHAPTER XXVII.--Grandfather's Day--The Little Urchins of the
Third Generation
CHAPTER XXVIII.--Making Sausage
CHAPTER XXIX.--The Old Trunk
CHAPTER XXX.--On the Old Times, Alexander Stephens, etc
CHAPTER XXXI.--Sticking to the Old
CHAPTER XXXII.--A Prose Poem on Spring
CHAPTER XXXIII.--Christmas on the Farm
CHAPTER XXXIV.--Democratic Principles
CHAPTER XXXV.--The Old School Days
CHAPTER XXXVI.--Roasting Ears and the Midnight Dance
CHAPTER XXXVII.--Open House
CHAPTER XXXVIII.--The Old Tavern
CHAPTER XXXIX.--The Old-Time Darkeys
CHAPTER XL.--Owls, Snakes and Whang-doodles
CHAPTER XLI.--Music
CHAPTER XLII.--The Autumn Leaves
CHAPTER XLIII.--Uncle Tom Barker
CHAPTER XLIV.--Bill Arp on Josh Billings
CHAPTER XLV.--The Code Duello
CHAPTER XLVI.--"Billy in the Low Grounds"
CHAPTER XLVII.--William Gets Left
CHAPTER XLVIII.--Pleasures of Hope and Memory
CHAPTER XLIX.--Arp's Reminiscences of Fifty Years
CHAPTER L.--"A Mother is a Mother Still, the Holiest Thing
Alive"
CHAPTER LI.--Good People, but They Don't Understand
CHAPTER LII.--American Slavery - Its Origin
CHAPTER LIII.--Children's Heritage from the Lord
CHAPTER LIV.--William and His Wife Visit the City
CHAPTER LV.--The Buzzard Lope
CHAPTER LVI.--Up Among the Stars

THE HOME LIFE OF BILL ARP
BY HIS DAUGHTER.

The events of my father's life may be chronicled in a few lines, but
it would take many pages to tell of the mental and spiritual gifts
that made that life notable, and of its influence over a wide circle
of known and unknown friends. Still more potent was the impress
of his character upon those nearest to him, whose privilege it was
to see him day by day and partake of the wit, wisdom, kindliness
and humor that made him the most fascinating of companions to
his children. He has himself told in this book the main incidents of
his career; how his father, Asahel Reid Smith, a sturdy young son
of Massachusetts, came South to teach school and married his
fourteen-year-old pupil, pretty little Caroline Maguire, whose story
as her son has written it, is most interesting and romantic. They
were married near Savannah but later moved to Lawrenceville,
Gwinnett County, where my father was born on June 15th, 1826,
the eldest of ten children. My grandfather became a thriving
merchant of Lawrenceville, postmaster as well, and my father has
told us many entertaining stories of the days when he used to "ride
the mail" and sell ribbons and things to the girls.

After some time spent in a manual labor school, he went to college
at Athens, where he was the classmate and friend of many of the
notable men of later days. He held his friends in the greatest
esteem and affection, and it was one of the sorrows of his long life
to see them pass away one by one.

After his graduation at Franklin College, now the University of
Georgia, my father studied law in the office of Judge Nathan
Lewis Hutchins of Lawrenceville, and was admitted to the bar.
Here also he had the privilege of association with the noted
politicians, lawyers and judges that made of Georgia history of that
day a series of brilliant chapters.

In 1849 he married Mary Octavia Hutchins, the daughter of his
preceptor, then only seventeen years old. The following poem was
written in her album while they were sweethearts:

TO OCTAVIA.

've not the Bard's rich gift or Poet's soul
 pen my feelings in a tuneful rhyme;
 have no power that can at will control
 thoughts and breathings of my humble mind.
 heart to feel, and knowledge to discern
 ties of friendship, and of love, are mine;
 May these, Octavia gain the kind return
 real friendship from that heart of thine.
 album's pages tell of many a friend
 to sight and to the memory dear;
 loves to wish thee well, and to blend
 destiny with joys and hope sincere.
 be the lot that gives to others joy,
 thus you'll reap a harvest of your own;
 no misfortune, pain, or cares annoy
 garlands in thy path of life be strewn.
 incense on the sacred altar burned
 odours seemed in prayerful clouds to rise;
 so may our wishes all to Heaven turned
 rich blessings for thee from the skies.
Charles. 

Fifty-four years they lived together, and all the days of those years
were a continuation of that youthful devotion.

Shortly after their marriage my father and mother moved to Rome,
where he began the practice of law, associated with Judge J. W. H.
Underwood. When the war began he became a staff officer with
General Francis Bartow, later was assigned by President Davis to
special judiciary duty in Macon. It was on his return to Rome in
1865 that he began to write regularly over the nom de plume of
Bill Arp, but his first letter appeared in 1861, and is as follows:

"Rome, Ga., April, 1861.--Mr. Linkhorn: Sur: These are to inform
you that we are all well, and hope these lines may find you in
statue ko. We received your proklamation, and as you have put us
on very short notis, a few of us have conkluded to write you, and
ax for a little more time. The fact is, we are most obleeged to have
a few more days, for the way things are happening, it is utterly
onpossible for us to disperse in twenty days. Old Virginny,
Tennessee, and North Callina, are continually aggravatin us into
tumults and carousements, and a body can't disperse until you put a
stop to sich onruly condukt on their part. I tried my darndest
yisterday to disperse and retire, but it was no go; and besides, your
marshal here ain't doing a darned thing - he don't read the riot act,
nor remonstrate, nor nothing, and ought to be turned out. If you
conklude to do so, I am orthorized to rekummend to you Colonel
Gibbons or Mr. McLung, who would attend to the bizness as well
as most anybody.

"The fact is, the boys round here want watchin, or they'll take
sumthin. A few days ago I heard they surrounded two of our best
citizens, because  they was named Fort and Sumter. Most of em
are so hot that they fairly siz when you pour water on em, and
that's the way they amke up their military companies here now--
when a man applies to jine the volunteers, they sprinkle him, and if
he sizzes they take him, and if he don't they don't.

"Mr. Linkhorn, sur, privately speakin, I'm afeerd I'll git in a tite
place here among these bloods, and .have to slope out of it, and I
would like to have your Skotch cap and kloak that you traveled in
to Washington. I suppose you wouldn't be likely to use the same
disgize agin, when you left, and therefore I would propose to swap.
I am five feet five, and could git my plow breeches and coat to you
in eight or ten days if you can wait that long. I want you to write
me immegitly about things generally, and let us know wherebouts
you intend to do your fitin. Your proklamation says something
about takin possession of all the private property at 'All Harzards.'
We can't find no such place on the map. I thot it must be about
Charleston, or Savannah, or Harper's Ferry, but they say it aint
anywhere down south. One man said it was a little Faktory on an
iland in Lake Champlain, where they make sandbags. My opinion
is that sandbag bisness won't pay, and it is a great waste of money.
Our boys here carry there sand in there gizzards, where it keeps
better, and is always handy. I'm afeered your government is givin
you and your kangaroo a great deal of onnecessary trubbul, and my
humble advice is, if things don't work better soon, you'd better
grease it, or trade the darned old thing off. If you don't trade or do
sumthin else with it soon, it will spile or die on your hands, sertain.

"Give my respekts to Bill Seward and the other  members of the
kangaroo. What's Hannibal doin? I don't hear anything from him
nowadays. Yours, with care,
BILL ARP."

My father has already told how he came to use the name which he
has made famous throughout the South. The original Bill Arp, an
illiterate countryman, moved to Texas, and for some years after
newspaper paragraphs confusing his identity and my father's were
both annoying and amusing. We have long since lost trace of him.

In October, 1877, we moved to Bartow County, my father having
purchased a farm which he subsequently sold to Sam Jones, the
evangelist. The new home was called Fontainebleau, from Mr.
Francis Fontaine, the previous owner. As the boys grew up and left
the farm for more congenial occupations and my father's duties as
writer and lecturer took him much from home, it was decided to
leave the country and settle in Cartersville, where we have since
lived at "The Shadows," and where my father died on August the
24th, aged seventy-seven years.

The family tree is one which has now many branches. There were
ten children in the original family; there were thirteen of us, ten
are now living. The children and grandchildren may be thus de-
scribed:

1. Hines M. Smith, civil engineer, Rome, Ga., married Miss
Sparks, of Athens, Ga., five children.
2. Royal Randolph Smith, civil engineer, Cartersville, Ga., married
to Miss Ayer of Rome, Ga., three children.
3. Harriet Hutchins Smith, married to George H. Aubrey,
Cartersville, Ga., five children. Mr. Aubrey, is a grandson of Hon.
John Forsyth, former Governor of Georgia.
4. Frank Clifton Smith, civil engineer, San Antonio, Texas,
married to daughter of Colonel Stanwood of Ohio, two children.
5. Victor Smith, with New York Press, unmarried.
6. Marian Smith, living at home.
7. Stella Smith, widow of the late R. H. Brumby; living at home;
one child.
8. Ralph Smith, physician, Marietta, Ga., married to Miss Sara
Keely, of Philadelphia; one child.
9. Carl Smith, in Mexico; unmarried.
10. Jessie Smith, married to William Young, of Cartersville, Ga.;
three children.

Besides these there were two nieces of my mother, brought up as
members of the family.
11. Mrs. Julia Iverson Patton, of Atlanta, Ga.
12. Mrs. Minnie Iverson Randolph, Atlanta, Ga.

My father's weekly letters to the Atlanta "Constitution" and the
Louisville "Home and Farm" were widely read and copied and
brought him in close touch with people North, South, East and
West. In addition to this work he published the following books:

"Bill Arp's Letters," 1870.
"Bill Arp's Scrap Book," Humor and Philosophy, 1884.
"The Farm and Fireside," 1891.
"History of Georgia," 1895.
"From the Uncivil War to Date," 1903.

Always an early riser, it was his habit to walk up and down the
halls of the home playing the flute to waken us in the morning, or
playing the piano in his own unique fashion, all on the black keys,
but peculiarly sweet and effective as he did it. One of my earliest
recollections is of being aroused by the strains of the flute, when
climbing out of bed, nightgowned,  barefooted, I toddled to his
side and with the other children marched up and down the hall
clinging to his dressing gown while he played "Way Down in
Shinbone Alley," "Run, Nigger, Run," and other old-time tunes,
until nurse came to get us ready for breakfast.

His loving care of us as little ones continued in after years, when
he unselfishly shared our larger griefs, or rejoiced with us in our
pleasures and pastimes. How often as I have told him of some
sorrow or disappointment would he gently stroke my hand and say
earnestly: "Even this shall pass away." His example led us to love
the church; by his side we managed to live through many a long
and tiresome discourse, comforted by smuggled candies or
peppermint drops.

The following story illustrates his interest even in children not his
own:

During one of his lecture trips he was travelling in the car with a
tired mother and several restless little children. One little one
begged, "Mama, may I suck my thumb?" The mother refused,
evidently feeling that discipline must be maintained. My father's
child-loving heart could stand it no longer, so he said in his
courteous way, "Madam, I think, under the circumstances, I would
let her suck her thumb."

We never realized what a rare privilege was ours in having such a
companion until we moved to the country. Here a certain degree of
privation followed closely on our footsteps. We had to practice
hitherto unknown economies and to shoulder household cares that
were new to us, but he was the lever that made things easy. His
very cheerfulness was a  godsend, and his philosophy lightened
many difficult and uncongenial tasks.

After work hours or on Sundays he would call us all for a walk,
"go to Nature's Church," as he said. Such lessons in natural history
and botany! We were taught to respect the very worm that crawls;
to know when and where to find the first wild flowers and
fruits--taught in his broad-minded, reverent way the wonders of
mother earth. He never ceased to study these great mysteries
himself, and it was this nearness to nature that made him the
noble, clean-hearted man he was to the day he died.

On long winter evenings he would gather us around a huge wood
fire and tell us wonderful tales of his boyhood, of his mother's life,
of the war, and stories of the great and good people he had known
in both real life and books.

He did not care for the ephemeral literature of the time, but was
rarely versed in standard works of both poetry and prose. The
Bible and Josephus were his daily companions, and his library
contained reference books of every kind, through which he
constantly added to his store of knowledge, giving it out in
conversation and letters with generous heart to those less wise or
learned.

I have heard him chuckle over a good joke in his own
whole-hearted fashion, or have seen the tears in his eyes as he read
some touching story of human interest. He encouraged every
member of the family to love music and good books; he would
allow nothing but good-natured gossip of our friends and
neighbors. His last years at the "Shadows" were devoted to his
garden; flowers and fruits grew for him to perfection. Roses and
old-fashioned pinks were his favorites. Every morning the rarest
blossom  was culled and laid, a morning greeting, at my mother's
breakfast plate. Later in the day we were all expected to gather in
the garden and enjoy its delights with him. He shared his flowers
with all the friends who came to see us, presenting a
short-stemmed, old-fashioned bouquet to each one, with a courtly,
old-time grace peculiar to himself.

The Confederacy was a passion with my father. He loved to honor
the old South and her veterans. It was something worth living for
to hear him tell an appreciative audience of the old days, and
defend the rights of his people. He was peculiarly gifted as a
story-teller, he never forgot an incident or a name. During his last
illness the question arose concerning the name of a New York
physician who figured in an incident some twenty years ago. No
one could recall it. The question was put to my father, who was
tossing and muttering, semi-delirious. A moment of quiet, a look
of intelligence, and the name was uttered clearly--then an
immediate lapse into unconsciousness. As a college girl I always
declared I "never needed a dictionary or an encyclopedia - papa
knew everything."

The day came when he grew too feeble to walk in his garden, or to
read or write as he had always done. Then he would totter out to
his chair on the porch and with his "far-glasses" on wait patiently
for the coming of his little grandchildren. His mind, grown
childlike, craved their companionship. The love of children for
him was only equalled by his love for them. Half the little ones in
the town called him "grandpa." Hardly a day passed that he did not
get letters from boys and girls of all ages, and never did he fail to
answer them.

His daily mail was one of his greatest pleasures.  Letters came
from all over the United States, with questions and requests of all
kinds. Hundreds wrote just to tell of the sunshine he had brought
into their lives. Since he has gone from us the letters continue to
come from known and unknown friends, written as if with one
pen: "The loss is not yours alone; our loss is great; the whole South
mourns with you." All this sympathy and appreciation is a
priceless treasure to us who mourn our truest friend and dearest
companion.

We laid him away under a pall of beautiful flowers sent by those
who loved him, in the little cemetery at Cartersville, for he said he
wanted to be near us still in both body and spirit. In the same grave
with him is the body of his youngest grandchild, little Sara, eight
months old, the daughter of my brother Ralph, who died within a
week after he passed away.

If one might write my father's epitaph in the language of a great
poet, it would be this: 

"He was a man take him for all in all,
 shall not look upon his like again." 

Marian Smith.  

CHAPTER I. A PRETTY STORY.

My dear young friends: Let me tell you a pretty story. Just a
hundred years ago there was a young man hanged in Dublin,
Ireland, for committing treason against the English government.
His name was Robert Emmet, and his crime was that of organizing
a rebellion which was intended to set Ireland free from the
dominion of England and to place his native land among the
nations as free and independent. The rebellion failed, and its
leaders had to escape for their lives. Emmet was one of the most
eloquent and gifted men in all the land. He graduated with high
honors at Trinity College, and at this time was engaged to be
married to Miss Curran, the beautiful daughter of the great Irish
lawyer, John Philpot Curran. After the rebellion was crushed he
fled to France, where he remained for two years, and then, in
disguise, went back to Ireland to marry the lady he loved and bring
her to the United States. But English detectives were on his track
and arrested him. He was tried, convicted and hanged, and his
affianced died of a broken heart. His speech made in his own
defense was the most eloquent, pathetic and patriotic ever
delivered in any court room. I used to speak part of it when I was a
schoolboy, and still recall the last sentence, "When I am dead let
no man write my epitaph--until Ireland is free let not my epitaph
be written."

This is enough of Robert Emmet, but it is only a  pointer to my
story. Among Emmet's college companions and his comrades in
the rebellion were two brothers whose names were James and
Patrick Maguire. They were the younger sons of Sir Francis
Maguire, a member of Parliament and a very wealthy gentleman.
He did not favor the rebellion, but could not control his younger
boys. They, too, had to flee the country, and did so in a vessel that
their father bought and equipped for that purpose. They came to
Charleston, S. C., in 1803 and began business as linen merchants.
In the course of a year or two Patrick sold his interest and changed
his abode, but James continued the business and married Emily
Barret. Two children were born to them, James and Caroline.
When these children were nine and seven years of age the yellow
fever visited Charleston, and in a brief time swept half of the
population into their graves. Maguire and his wife died almost
simultaneously, and were buried by night in the same grave--for all
night long the hearses and dead carts were rumbling over the
cobble stones, their tires bound in bagging to smother the noise.

Now, my children, this brings me to the saddest and sweetest part
of my story. The pestilence was awful. All who could fly from it
did so, but there were thousands who had nowhere to go or who
could not leave the dead and dying in their own households. A
good man came and took James, the boy, to his home, and a good
woman took Caroline. Next morning an order was issued that all
children who had no homes should be put on board the vessels that
were anchored near the city and sent to some other port. In the
confusion there was no effort made to keep brothers and sisters
together, and James was placed on board a brig bound for Boston,
and Caroline on a  schooner under sail for Savannah, but neither
knew what had become of the other. Just imagine their grief and
desolation. Alone in the wide world - no father or mother, no
kindred, no loving friends! After a stormy voyage the brig reached
Boston, where the boy was placed in an orphan asylum. Caroline
was landed in Savannah and found a home in an asylum there. The
matrons in charge of each were good and kind, but the children's
eyes were red and their pillows wet with weeping. They were just
old enough to realize what they had lost.

Now, let us skip over two or three years. When James was ten
years old, a wealthy gentleman, a manufacturer of boots and shoes
who lived at Randolph, fifteen miles east of Boston, came to the
asylum to choose a boy, to wait on him in his counting room.
James was a bright and handsome lad, and the gentleman, whose
name was Burwell, chose him and took him home with him. He
proved to be the very boy he wanted, and grew into favor. Part of
the time he was sent to school and learned rapidly, and in a few
years was taken into partnership, and the old gentleman gave him
his only daughter for a wife. Young Maguire was a good man,
loved and respected by all who knew him, but at times he was sad,
very sad, because of his lost sister. Twice he had visited
Charleston and made diligent search, but found no clue. He found
the very house he was born in and where his parents died, but new
people lived in it and the neighbors were all new. An old negro
woman remembered the Maguires, and said she washed for them,
but that was all. She thought that the fever "got 'em all," she said.

I said that young Maguire was popular with the  people. So much
so that when he was only twenty-six years old he was elected State
Senator, and became well acquainted with Daniel Webster and
Rufus Choate and Judge Story.

Now you know, my young friends, in a small village like Randolph
everybody knew all about everybody, and could tell where they
came from. And so it was very generally known that Maguire had
lost his sister and had not a relative in the wide world that he knew
of, and how he had sought for her, but in vain, and why it was that
at times he seemed so sad and distressed. Well, he lived in a
beautiful home in Randolph, and right across the street lived his
most intimate friend and neighbor, whose name was Wales. Wales
knew all his sorrows and could weep over them too.

But what of little Caroline, "The Flower of Dumblane," as they
used to call her in her childhood--for she was as lovely in
disposition as she was beautiful. She had to tell her sad story in
tears to the good matron--and the good woman cried too, and the
orphans cried, for it was a sadder case, if possible, than any of
theirs.

But Time is a good doctor, and after a few days Caroline became
interested in her new home, and her broken heart began to heal and
went out in love to the matrons and the many children who were
her companions. She had been there about two years when one day
a fine lady came there in a fine carriage, and after introducing
herself to the matron, she said she came to see if she could get a
nice, pretty orphan girl to go and live with her and keep her
company. That she lived on a rice plantation in Liberty
county--that her children had grown up and married and moved too
far away, and that her  name was Goulding, the mother of Dr.
Goulding, the Presbyterian preacher, and the grandmother of
Frank, who wrote "The Young Marooners." It was not an unusual
thing for good people to come and choose a child and take her
away and adopt her, but it was always a sad time and made solemn
and serious impression upon them. They knew that one of their
number had to go, and that they would see her no more, perhaps
forever--which one--which one, they wondered, and each one said,
"maybe it will be me," and the thought alarmed them. They were
happy where they were, and a change to some one they did not
know, filled their hearts with fear. Well, the fine lady was shown
to the large reception room where the children had to gather on
such occasions. The children had of course to put on their best
garments, which were all uniform, and wash their faces and brush
their hair, and they marched in and were seated on the benches that
were next to the walls of the large room. Then the grand lady
walked around slowly and talked to every one she fancied, and
said kind, pleasant words and asked them many questions. It was
soon noticed that every time she went around she stopped longer
with little Caroline than any other, and after the third round she
turned to the matron and said, "I will take this one." The little girl
trembled like an aspen leaf. Her heart beat rapidly, and tears filled
her eyes. With the other girls the agony was over, but they grieved
that Caroline was chosen, for they loved her very dearly. The
matron, too, was sad as she kissed her a last goodbye--her heart
was too full to speak it. It was a tearful scene as the orphans, every
one of whom had her own sad experience, marched to Caroline
and kissed her farewell.  

But she was soon in the fine carriage with the fine lady, and a fine
team of horses were gaily trotting down the avenue. They reached
the lady's home that evening, and Caroline found everything so
strange and singular that for a time she forgot the change in her
condition. There was a grand old mansion in a grove of
evergreens. All along the way she had seen the beautiful magnolias
and caught the fragrance of the yellow jessamine, and now she
inhaled the sweet odor of the cape jessamine that came from a
long row that bordered the carriage way and adorned the walks
near the house. Not far away were the barns and rice mills, and
another for the sugar cane, and still further off were long lines of
negro houses - all just alike and whitewashed, and each with a
garden attached.

But alas! not a white child was to be seen nor a white person, save
Mrs. Goulding and herself. Scores of little negroes were playing
around the cabin yards, and they came near and looked curiously at
the little white girl that "Ole Mistis" had brought home with her.
After supper Caroline soon grew tired from her journey and was
put to bed, where she again wet the pillows with her tears, but
soon dropped to sleep. The morning was bright and the country air
was balmy, and she brightened with the day. About a mile away
there lived a family of Allstons, who had recently moved from
South Carolina. They were good people, and closely related to the
family of William Allston, the great painter, who married
Theodosia, the daughter of Aaron Burr, and who was drowned at
sea or murdered by pirates. Her sad fate is still unknown. With the
children of this Allston family Caroline soon got intimate, and Mr.
Allston, when on a visit to Charleston,  made diligent effort to find
some clew to her lost brother, but found none.

Mrs. Goulding was very desirous of sending Caroline to school,
but there was none near enough. And so Mr. Allston went to
Savannah to look around and if possible to secure a teacher.

Now, children, listen, for we have come to another branch of this
story. About the year 1817 a young man whose name was Reid, a
native of Vermont, was teaching school in a little town in
Massachusetts. He was smart and energetic and saved his money.
One of his young friends told him one day that they could charter a
sloop and make a big lot of money shipping brick to Savannah.
Brick were cheap in Newberryport and brought a high price in
Savannah. They put their money together, bought the cargo, hired
four sailors, and set sail. The voyage was prosperous until they
neared the port. Then a terrific storm came up, and for fear of
losing their vessels and their lives, they had to throw a good part of
the cargo into the sea. They had barely enough brick left to sell for
sufficient money to pay off the sailors and send the sloop back to
its owners. Young Reid's companion got discouraged and
homesick and went back with it; but Reid was too game a young
man to go back without a dollar in his pocket. So he hired to a
grocery merchant as a porter, and did his work so well and
faithfully that he soon grew into favor and was promoted to the
counting room. It was about this time that Mr. Allston visited the
city in search of a teacher, and it so happened that this merchant
was his friend and factor. He gave Reid a very high character, and
told him he was a good scholar and had taught school up North. He
hated to give him up, but Reid desired  to go, and he was soon on
his way to Liberty county. A good school was made up for him at
once, and Caroline became one of his scholars. In that day the
teachers boarded around among their patrons, staying a week or
more with each family; and so Reid soon learned all about
Caroline's sad history, and his tender heart went out in sympathy
for her. She was then thirteen years old, well grown for her age,
and was lovely in form and feature. She was modest in behavior
and at times seemed sad almost to tears. Reid took great interest in
her, and she soon became one of his brightest scholars.

But change is written on everything in this world, and so it
happened that when Caroline became fourteen years old and had a
right under the law to choose her own guardian, she went into
court and choose Mr. Allston and became an inmate of his family.
She was so lonely with the old lady, and besides the old lady had
married again--a Mr. Williamson,--and they did not live
harmoniously together, and each contended for the guardianship of
Caroline. It was young Reid, however, who took Caroline into his
confidence and advised her to choose Mr. Allston. About this time
the State of Georgia bought from the Creek Indians all their land in
the up country and had them surveyed and opened up to settlers.
Then there began a great exodus of low country people up to the
new purchase, where mountains and valleys and fast flowing
streams abounded. Mr. Allston took the up-country fever and
prepared his household to move. He did move, and of course
Caroline had to go with the family. She bade her teacher goodbye
and wept upon his bosom. He never knew till then how much he
loved her. At the end of his school term he too took the up-country 
fever, but finding a good opening at Mt. Vernon, in Montgomery
county, he stopped there and taught for a year and laid up a little
more money. Mr. Allston had settled on a creek, a few miles east
from Decatur, and was engaged in building log houses and
clearing land. He had built a large double log cabin, with shed
rooms attached, and had moved into it. He concluded to christen
the new home with a frolic, so one bright moonshiny night he had
all of the neighbors invited to come over and have music and
perhaps a country dance. But Caroline did not seem to enjoy it.
Most of the time she sat in the piazza and seemed anxious and
melancholy. A spirit whispered to her that Reid was coming, she
always declared, and she could not get rid of the expectation. And
sure enough, about nine o'clock, she saw a man riding slowly up
the road-way, and when quite near he dismounted and hitched his
horse. She did not wait for him, but with a cry of joy, rushed out to
meet him and threw herself gladly into his arms. Once again she
had found her best friend.

Now, children, we must skip some, for this story is getting too
long. A young man by the name of Featherstone had married Mr.
Allston's eldest daughter. He was a merchant, and was living in
Lawrenceville, about twenty miles away. Reid was expecting to
make up a school in that little town, but Featherstone persuaded
him to join him in his mercantile business, for it had outgrown his
capital and Reid's money was just what was wanted. Sometimes
Mr. Allston or some of his family came to Lawrenceville, and
Caroline came with them. Sometimes Reid rode out there Saturday
evening and spent the Sabbath. And so the love affair progressed
smoothly, and when Caroline was sweet sixteen  they were
married at Mr. Featherstone's house in the good old town of
Lawrenceville. When Caroline was asked why she married so
young, she always said, "Why, I didn't dare to refuse. He was my
teacher, and I was taught to obey him."

Well, now, we will skip over some more. In course of time two
children were born to them, two fine, handsome boys, and
Caroline was happy, always happy, except at times when the
image of her lost brother came before her. Reid had already
advertised for him in all of the Southern papers and in New York
and Philadelphia. One day when he came home he found that she
had been weeping, and he resolved to make one more effort. So he
sent an advertisement to a Boston paper and one to St. Louis and
New Orleans.

Now, let us go back to the little town of Randolph and see what
Mr. Wales is doing. It was Sunday morning, and he was not feeling
well and did not go to church. He had on his gown and slippers
and cap and had laid down on the sofa to read his Boston paper.
That advertisement was almost the first thing that caught his eye.

"James F. Maguire, whose parents died of yellow fever in
Charleston in the summer of 1815, and who was separated from
his only sister, Caroline, during the panic, can hear from her by
addressing the undersigned at Lawrenceville, Georgia. She is well
and happy."

Wales read it and re-read it, and suddenly realizing what it meant
rose up, and, with the paper in his hand, rushed wildly across the
street to Maguire's house. Nobody was there. They had all gone to
church, which was only two blocks away. Wales did not stop, but
hurried up the street and into the side  door of the church, which
was near the Maguire pew. The minister had begun to read the
hymn but Wales never stopped nor considered his apparel, but
cried out in a delirium of joy, "Maguire, I've found your sister.
Thank God I have. Here she is sure, and is alive and well. Thank
the good Lord for his mercies," and being overcome with his own
emotions he sat down and wept. The minister stopped, of course,
and came down to hear the paper read. Half the congregation
gathered near while Maguire read the advertisement, and had
others read it aloud. He trembled like an aspen leaf and said, "That
is Caroline and no mistake. Bless the Lord for his goodness unto
me," and he knelt down in silent prayer and sobbed in tears of joy,
for tears are signs of joy as well as grief.

Enough of that. You young people, whose hearts are tender and
full of emotions, must imagine the rest, and you will be more
ready to believe that when the Lord said over and over again in the
scriptures, "I am the God of the fatherless and the widow," He
meant it.

Now, this is about all of my story except that I have failed to
mention that Reid's name was Asahel Reid Smith. He was my
father, and Caroline was my own dear mother. I was seven years
old then, and cannot forget the delirious joy of that meeting after a
separation of eighteen years. My brother James was nine years old,
and our uncle had two boys of a like age with us. For years the
brother and sister and their children visited and re-visited each
other. Their eldest son, in course of time, established a branch of
his father's shoe business at Melbourne, Australia. The last letter
from him said that he had married a sweet English lady and  thirty
thousand sheep. He was our American consul over there under
Pierce and Buchanan. He is dead. Almost everybody is dead but
me.

CHAPTER II. MY BIRTH, YOUTH AND MANHOOD.

And now a brief mention of my wife and myself--my birth and
youth and manhood. On the 15th day of June, 1826, half a million
children were born into the world and I was one of them. In the
pleasant village of Lawrenceville, Gwinnett county, Georgia, I first
saw the light. My infancy was not unlike that of other children,
except that sometimes I had little fits of passion and threw myself
upon the floor or bumped my head against the wall, at which my
mother smiled and sometimes said I couldn't help it, for it was
South Carolina fighting Massachusetts. My childhood was happy,
and so were my school days. I still have fond recollections of my
teachers. Miss Cooley, an aunt of Mrs. George Hillyer's, was the
first one. She was good and kind to us all. Then came Dr. Wilson
and Mr. Sayre, John Norton and Dr. Patterson and Mr. McAlpin in
succession. I was a mischievous lad, and Mr. Norton whipped me
occasionally--not hard but lightly--once he whipped me on my boil
and bursted it, and nearly broke my mother's heart, but it was good
for the boil. My teachers are all dead. A few years ago old Father
Sayre called to see me in Chester, S. C., and as he grasped my
hand said, "Yes, you went to school to me, and I never whipped
you but once. Perhaps if I had whipped you more you would have
made a better man--but I am proud of you, my boy. Yes, I am
proud of you."  

In course of time I was sent to the manual labor institute, two
miles away, where I mingled with the boys of the best families of
the State. The Gouldings, Holts, Hoyles, Allans, Alexanders,
Lintons and Crawfords and others. They are all dead but two that I
know of. My father was a merchant, and when I was nearly grown
he gave me a clerk's place in his store, and I sold goods for two or
three years. About this time of course I fell in love, and dressed
better and brushed my hair with a cowlick touch and wore boots
and smiled sweetly on my sweethearts as they passed. When I was
nineteen I was sent to college at Athens, and found a new
sweetheart there. She played and toyed with me while she was
secretly engaged to another fellow. When I was senior my father
was taken seriously ill, and called me home to take charge of his
business. So I went to selling goods again. In the meantime a
pretty, hazel-eyed lassie I had only known as a child had grown out
of her pantalets and into long dresses, and was casting sly glances
at the boys about town. I imagined she cast some at me, for she
liked to trade at my store and was in no hurry to go, and was
pleased to buy what I advised her and never asked the price. She
was a bashful brunette, with hair as black as that of Pocahontas,
and it is yet, and her name was Mary Octavia, the eldest daughter
of Judge Hutchins. Of course it didn't take me long to fall
desperately in love, - nor did it take a long siege for me to take that
fort, for I was a right handsome youth myself, and was smart and
doing well. What better does a pretty girl want? Yes, I found that
pearl, and did not throw it away like Othello. I've got it yet. From
the beginning I knew that she loved me, and I never had to plead
or get on my knees--  nor did I ever ask her to have me, but one
moonlight night as we were walking I said, "Octavia, when shall
we get married?" and, as she pressed my hand, she whispered,
"Whenever you think best." It was like the murmur of a dream, but
I heard it. Now she will deny all this, but nevertheless it is the
truth, and so within three months we were wedded. I knew very
well that with her parents I was an acceptable lover, for my mother
had found it out from her mother, and everything was calm and
serene. She was sweet sixteen and I was twenty-one. I took her
young, thinking I could train her to suit my notion, but she soon
trained me to suit her's.

Now, my young friends, that was nearly fifty-four years ago. I was
one of ten children; my wife was one of ten. We have ten all
living, and they have just twenty, and just keep on multiplying and
replenishing according to scripture. My brothers are dead. I have
three sisters living, who are very dear to me. Well, I built a little
cottage in a pretty grove and we moved there. Judge Hutchins had
a large plantation on the river, and over a hundred slaves. He did
not offer us any money, for he knew we did not need it, but sent up
two of the favorite family servants, and Tip, the same faithful Tip
of whom I have written, was one of them. They begged old master
to give them to "Miss Tavy," and he did so. A few months after our
marriage Judge Hutchins insisted that I should study law, for he
needed a young man's help in his office. So I placed my mercantile
interests in other hands and began to peruse Blackstone. In two or
three months I was admitted to the bar on promise of continuing
my studies, which promise I kept, and in due time began to ride the
circuit at the tail of the procession. And what  a procession it was!
Judge Junius Hillyer, Judge Jackson, the Doughertys, Hope Hull,
Howell Cobb and his brother, Tom Cobb, Cincinnatus Peeples,
Basil Overby, and meeting occasionally Robert Tombs and Alex
Stephens. All great lawyers and eloquent, both in the forum and on
the platform. They are all dead, and I, only I, am left. Then there
were the Judges of the Supreme Court, Lumpkin, Warner and
Nisbet, whom I well knew, for somehow all of these noble men
made a pet of me, and from them I drew inspiration and
knowledge.

In 1851 I took the Western fever, and moved to Rome to grow up
with the town and the country. I was soon associated with Judge
Underwood in the practice of law, and for thirteen years we were
as intimate as brothers. The war came and we parted. After the,
war I became associated with Judge Joel Branham, another most
delightful partnership, which was only severed by his elevation to
the bench.

And now in my old age I cannot say as Jacob said to Pharaoh,
"Few and evil have been the days of the years of my pilgrimage."
We have had more than our share of blessings. We have been
blessed with health and the comforts of life. Of course the war
made an inroad upon our peace and happiness for a time, but the
good Lord preserved us and we suffered no dire calamity or
affliction. My motto is that of the Latin poet, "Carpe diem," enjoy
the day, enjoy every day as far as possible.

We have been blessed in our children, for they have been good to
us. Our boys are all in good form and feature - not a single
deformity to mar their manhood. Our girls are modest and well
favored. Not a Leah among them - all are Rachels--all are  frugal
and industrious, and love their paternal home. It is their Mecca,
and will be until we die.

For twenty-seven years we lived in Rome and prospered. Then we
retired to a beautiful little farm near Cartersville, where there were
springs and branches, a meadow and a creek near by, with a
cane-brake border. Not far away was a mill and a pond, and there
was a mountain in the background where small game abounded.
There we raised Jersey cows and colts and sheep and chickens and
peafowls, and lived well by day and feasted on music by night, for
every member of the family is a musician, which art they inherited
from their mother. It was a lovely home, and all the younger
children grew up there to manhood and womanhood, and were
happy. Their schooling was not neglected, though I could not send
but one boy and one girl to college. It was on the farm that the
boys learned what a dollar was worth when they earned it.

But by and by and one by one the boys left us for other avocations,
and five of the six now live in five different States from New York
to Mexico. As I had to be away a good portion of my time, my
wife and daughters were left without a protector, so I moved to this
town of Cartersville and bought this pleasant home, which we call
"The Shadows," because it is embowered by the shade of many
beautiful trees. This is all. We are still in the land of the living,
where mercy may be sought and pardon found.

Enough of this. It savors of self-conceit and vanity to write so
much about myself, and I feel that what I am or what I have done
should be told by another. But what is writ is writ.


NOTE.--Some of "Bill Arp's" friends wish that he had been less
modest, diffident and unassuming, it being a favorite contention
that with the assurance, self-laudation and pretentious
aggressiveness of the times, supported by his profound knowledge
and philosophic temperament, he could have attained high
political honors or achieved the loftiest eminence in our judiciary.
Others who love him better prefer him as he was and is. He could
not be as he is if he had not been as he was. The "Cherokee
Philosopher" is dearer to us than would be the Chief Justice of the
Supreme Court, or "governor," or "senator," or "Mr. President."
We love him for the offices he has avoided, the political
entanglements he has escaped. While there are millions struggling
for political office, from a doorkeepership in a police court to the
Presidency "Bill Arp" stands alone in the dignity of a personal
office to which he has been elected by a universal suffrage of
hearts touched and mellowed by a physical sympathy wholly
unknown in the field of political stress and strain. He is the elect of
a people who could see no other possible candidate for the place
he fills. He is neither soiled nor spoiled, except by the little
tenderness of legions who seek opportunity to show a sort of filial
reverence for the patriarch. Mrs. Arp knows his faults, chief of
which is that he likes to be petted. The introduction he received at
Tupelo, Miss., most tenderly expresses his relation to the Southern
people. The speaker said in conclusion, "I cannot say that Bill Arp
is the greatest man nor the best man, nor the most eloquent man,
but I can truthfully say that he is the best loved man in all the
Southland."
V. S.

CHAPTER III. BEHIND THE SCENES.

"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely
players."

The civil war was a play, a thrilling tragedy, in which great armies
were the players and the world the witnesses. But in every play
there are performances behind the scenes that the footlights do not
shine upon nor the audience have any knowledge of. There are
prompters and properties, dressing and undressing, false hair and
false faces, weapons and banners, and machinery for thunder and
lightning. There is hurrying to and fro, and sometimes subdued
altercations, jealousies and envyings. Sometimes there is real
rivalry and real love transpiring behind the scenes while it is
mimicked and played in front. The acts and deeds of mankind are
behind the scenes. The greater part of life--the better part and the
worse - is invisible to the world. Our domestic relations, fireside
pleasures, family dissensions, our joys and sorrows, desires and
ambitions, yes, our secret thoughts that harbor hate or cherish love
are all behind the scenes, known only to a few or to ourselves
alone.

I propose now to touch briefly upon some things that were behind
the scenes before and during the civil war-- some things that have
not been published and which present a vivid contrast to the glory
of a  soldier's life. These are war times and it is well enough to
exhibit the picture to the young men of the South and let them
ponder upon it and draw the line between a war of patriotic duty
and one of conquest and glory. This part of my address will be
brief and is intended chiefly for the entertainment of the veterans
who still live, for you know that while the capital stock of youth is
hope, that of age is memory.

Early in the year 1861, when secession was the great and vital
question that agitated our people, a convention was called to
decide whether Georgia would follow South Carolina's lead, or
not. All of the young men, nearly all of the women, and many of
the old men, were outspoken for secession, even though it
provoked war. There was a party, however, with Alexander
Stephens as a leader, who preferred co-operation and did not wish
Georgia to secede alone, but favored a convention of delegates
from all the Southern States and let them all go out together or
remain in the Union. This party, however, was too feeble to stem
the tide of resistance to Northern aggression, and so the delegates
from every county gathered at the capital.

There was a Union element among the delegates. It was composed
of old men who had property and did not wish it imperiled by war,
and there were some non-slaveholders, who were not in sympathy
with the slaveholders' policy or alarmed by their fears.

There were a few strong men who were for the old flag and the
Union above all other considerations. Of this class Herschel
Johnson was the leader. He was one of the great men of Georgia.
He was on the ticket for Vice-President when Stephen A. Douglass
ran for President. He was a man of sluggish, ponderous  mind, not
easily excited by ordinary events, but when aroused from his
lethargy by some vital issue he had no equal in Georgia. He was
called the sleeping Sampson, and his political foes used all their
arts to keep him asleep. He was opposed to secession, and went as
a delegate to the convention. Toombs and his party dreaded him
and feared the power of his eloquence. "Old Sampson is aroused,"
said Toombs, "and the boys must look out." Johnson began to
speak just before twelve and was fairly getting under way, and
knocking out the props upon which secession leaned, when he was
interrupted by Albert Lamar, the secretary and a suggestion made
to adjourn for dinner. At the dining wine was served, and Johnson,
being pressed by Lamar and his friends, drank too freely. He lost
his mental balance and the remainder of his speech fell flat and
tame and unfinished. After his death, Lamar, who was editor of the
Macon Telegraph, wrote up the unwritten fraud and published it,
boasting how he drugged the wine at the dinner table, and that if it
had not been done the old lion would have carried the majority of
the delegates with him as easily as a tornado carries the trees in its
track. "But for those two drinks," said Lamar, "Georgia would not
have seceded and there would have been no war."

Whether this be true or not true is of no great concern, for if no
war then it would have come later. There was no averting it as
long as the negro was here in slavery.

And so Georgia seceded and prepared for war, and her sister States
followed in quick succession. While the new regiments were
forming the State was one vast recruiting camp. The call of the
drum resounded from mountain to seaboard. Men, women  and
children participated in the general enthusiasm. Beautiful banners
were being made by womanly fingers and presented to the
companions with womanly benedictions. Why is it, my friend, why
is it, that loving, pitying, tender-hearted women, who will not
willingly tread upon a worm, are always first and foremost in
urging their husbands, brothers, sons, to battle for their country or
their section? It is a fact that but for the smiles of mothers, wives,
sisters and sweethearts, Georgia would never have sent 100,000
soldiers to the front. I did not visit Virginia, in June, 1861, with
any intention of joining the army, but I did join while there and
knew full well that my wife would weep but still be proud of it.
Her five brothers were already there, and the wonder of it is that
she was not there herself, playing the role of Joan of Arc. But she
had a lively time of it at home three years later and saw enough of
war, for she had to flee from the foul invader with five little
children tagging after her. She paused in Atlanta, but only for a
day--just long enough to catch breath and start again. Then she
made a good, long run down to Tuskegee, in the secluded shades
of Alabama, the State whose beautiful name means "here we rest."
But it was no resting place for her, for Wilson's raiders were on the
wild hunt for rebels and refugees, and so she departed those coasts
with alacrity and sought retreat and safety at her father's plantation
on the upper Chattahoochee. She left almost everything behind her
when she fled from Rome that dark and dismal night. The house
was full of furniture, the pantry full of good things, the
smoke-house full of meat and lard and a barrel of home-made
soap. I believe she made more ado about losing that soap than
anything, for she had made it  in the dark of the moon and stirred it
from left to right with a sassafras paddle while it was boiling, But
in her wild haste she forgot some things that were very precious.
She forgot the package of love letters that I wrote her during my
courtship, in which I promised many things that she declares I
have ceased to perform since she lost them. She forgot the letters
that I wrote home from the army, many of them containing graphic
descriptions of the battles and who of our boys were killed and
who were wounded, and they were read aloud to the people from
her front door as soon as she received them. I would give money
for those letters now. She forgot her album - her maiden's treasure,
in which her friends and lovers, including myself, had written
tender verses. These were all given up as lost, but in December,
1884, she received the album, with these lines inscribed on the last
page:

"FRANKLIN, PA., Dec. 22d, 1884.

"With pleasure I return this book to its rightful owner. I came in
possession of it while marching through Georgia with Sherman's
army. I became attached to it for the sentiment contained in the
verses, and I sent it to a lady friend, Miss Downs, in Sparta, Ohio.
She married and moved away and has just returned the book to me
after twenty years' possession. My wish is that the rightful owner
may preserve its pages and hand it down to posterity.

Respectfully,
"E. A. Wilson."

That man is a gentleman, if he did belong to Sherman's army, but it
took him a long time to reform.

Shortly after I joined the army, I was appointed brigade
commissary on the staff of General Bartow. I had no military
forms or papers, no money where  with to purchase supplies, and I
had not yet drawn or issued a single ration, for I had just been
appointed. I was green, and was waiting for money and advices to
come from Richmond. After we had crossed the Shenandoah river,
General Bartow told me to ride on ahead until I reached Marshall,
a small village, and there procure some fresh meat and some bacon
for the boys to cook and eat when they arrived. "General," said I,
timidly, "how will I get these things? I have no money to buy them
with." "My dear sir," said he, "you must remember that this is war
and everything in this country owes tribute to the army. Look
around Marshall for three or four fat cattle--everything is fat up
here--buy them at a fair price, and give the owner a receipt and a
certificate and tell him to bring it to me when I get there and I will
approve it so that he can draw his money at Richmond. Buy some
good bacon, also, say a thousand pounds. The boys will want it to
cook with their beef. This is war, I tell you."

About that time I began to realize what war was, and that the civil
law was silent, dead or sleeping, and that nobody had any rights
save the generals and their officers.

When I arrived at Marshall I found a farmer unloading corn, and
he had the finest, fattest yoke of oxen attached to his wagon that I
ever saw. I stopped and saluted him. "Those are fine steers," said I,
"what would buy them?" "Well, about one hundred dollars, I
reckon," he replied. Then I made known my business, and soon
found that he would not sell, nor would he take any scrap of paper
on this here Southern Confederacy, as he called it. The argument
was soon exhausted and time was precious. By this time some
butchers from the First  Kentucky Regiment had arrived and were
ready for work. I pointed out the steers to them, and before the
farmer could say Jack Robinson they had them unyoked and were
leading them to the branch. Amazement, indignation, anger, took it
by turns over his features; then he began to use language--cuss
words and expletives in abundance. Suddenly he swore he'd ruther
die than be run over in any such way, army or no army. Then he
cried and wiped the tears away with his coat sleeve. His last
exclamation was, "How in the hell am I to get my wagon home?" I
was awfully sorry for that man. My hope is that he got his pay
from the Federal government after the war. Well, I got the bacon
without any trouble, for the merchant was a red-hot rebel and
made me eat dinner with him. Those great oxen were killed and
butchered and cut up into small mess pieces in less time than I can
tell about it. Wood was hauled up and camp fires built, and by
dark our brigade of four thousand men were full and had tumbled
down to sleep.

Well, I soon learned that war was war, and in course of time I
could impress provisions with but little scruples of conscience.
One time I impressed four hundred barrels of flour from a Union
sympathizer in Orange county who had a merchant mill and was
waiting to sell it to the Yankees for greenbacks. His wife was a
genuine rebel woman and treated me so kindly on the sly that I
gave back two hundred barrels of it. It was a case of Nabel and
Abigail.

Impressment of provisions was nothing compared with the
conscription of men and forcing them to fight and face the enemy,
willing or unwilling, whether they were brave men or cowards.
There  was the case of Jacob Wise, a rich Jew who lived in Rome
and had neither wife nor children. When the conscription officers
came to Rome he secreted himself, and one night came to my
house about midnight in tears. Trembling, he said, "Major, I vas
porn a coward; I could not fight a lettle poy nor a von arm seek
man. My legs vill turn around and run avay mid me efery time. I
vas porn shust dot vay, and I will pay big money if you vill keep
me out of his old war. Oh, mine Gott; oh, Abraham; oh, Isaac and
Yacup." He excited my sympathies so much that I undertook to
befriend him. There was an examining board then sitting in the
town, of whom Dr. Starr of Rome was the chairman. He was my
friend and knew Wise well, and so I brought Wise over to be
examined. Wise was ready to swear that he had consumption and
rheumatism and epilepsy and apoplexy and Bright's disease and
heart disease and any other disease; but I juggled with Starr and we
agreed that Wise should pay $5,000 to the county fund for the
support of poor soldier's wives and children, and be discharged.
Wise never hesitated a moment. Dr. Starr filled up a printed blank
and named the disease for which he was discharged in these Latin
words: "Non controlus shankus in combatibus"--can't control his
legs in battle. When we returned home, Wise paid the money over
to the county treasurer and I gave him the certificate of discharge,
but never explained the meaning of his remarkable disease.

But neither victories nor defeats are to be compared to the horrors
of battle, the things that are behind the scenes and are never
published. During the seven days' fight across the Chickahominy,
hundreds of the dead were hastily buried in trenches,  buried head
to foot a foot or so under the surface, and the earth heaped over
them; for you must know, my friends, that on a battlefield there are
neither shrouds nor graves, nor coffins nor mourners.

Heavy rains came on and softened that earth to mud and when a
few, days later, our wagons had to cross that field, the wheels sank
to the hubs when crossing the trenches and sometimes a leg,
sometimes an arm, and sometimes a ghastly skull was thrown up,
as if beseeching for mercy. Another graphic scene I witnessed the
night after the battle of Manassas. The hospital chosen was a large
brick building near the battle-ground. It was property that had been
vacated under military orders. But the surgeons' operating room
was not there. It was in a willow glade, not far away, where there
was a clear spring branch flowing peacefully along. Dr. Miller
ordered all the wounded brought there, for the night was beautiful
and the water convenient. All night long he and his assistants
amputated arms and legs, and probed for balls, and used bandages
and splints and other appliances, and as fast as one man was fixed
up he was taken away and the doctor said "Next!" like in a barber
shop. But there was no groaning. The boys were heroes under the
surgeon's knife as well as on the battle-field. I remember when Jett
Howard, of Kingston, limped up without assistance and the doctor
said, "What's the matter with you, Jett?" Jett pointed to where a
minie ball had penetrated his hip and said he could feel it on the
other side. Quickly the doctor thrust a probe into the wound, and
as quickly drew it out, and turning Jett around, and sound for the
ball under the skin, he found it. With his knife he cut an opening
and thrusting in his finger pulled out the ball and  gave it to him.
"Here's your diploma, Jett," he said. "Next!" Jet limped away with
a smile and had his wound dressed. When my brother-in-law,
Captain Cooper, was brought up with a shattered leg, his knee pan
crushed and his bones mangled, the doctor said, "Fred, this leg
must come off immediately," and he reached for his knife and
saw."Stop, doctor," exclaimed Fred, "can't you save my leg?" "No;
it is impossible," said he, "it must come off, I tell you." "Doctor, is
there a possible chance for me to save this leg?" "Perhaps," said
the doctor, "one chance in a hundred, but I warn you now that if it
is not speedily cut off you will be a dead man in two weeks."
Captain Cooper was full of nerve and faith. "Doctor, I will take
that chance," he said; and the doctor said "Next!" Fred was taken
to the hospital that night and died in two weeks.

Poor Tom King's leg was broken, and while it was being splinted
he was laughing and joking like a school boy. He lost only sixty
days from the service and lived only to die at Chickamauga.

On the sixth day of the Chickahominy fight, when McClellan was
in full retreat, our brigade commander, Tige Anderson, sent me
down the river to General Lee's headquarters for some instructions
about moving the brigade. I found him in a large wall tent with
many officers around him. This tent opened into another where the
camp tables were set for dinner and the servant bringing it in.
There were four or five large camp tables joined together, and as I
sat upon my horse awaiting a reply, I saw a man, an officer, whose
head and body were underneath the right hand table and his feet
out upon the straw. His slouched hat was over his head and eyes,
his sword was unbuckled, and his boots were on and  spurred. His
Confederate gray clothes seemed faded and worn. My curiosity
was greatly excited, and when the adjutant handed me the
instructions, I ventured to point to the sleeping man and to ask,
"Who is he?" "That is Stonewall," he said; "he has had no sleep for
forty-eight hours and fell down there exhausted. General Lee
would not suffer him to be disturbed, and so our dinner will be
eaten over him and in silence." Reverently I gazed upon him for a
minute, for I felt almost like I was in the presence of some
divinity. What a scene for a painter was that--the two greatest
generals of the army, yes, of the age, together; one asleep upon the
straw, worn out with fatigue and excitement, the camp tables set
above him; while the other, with his staff, dined in silence over
him and watched his needed rest. Both of them were patriots and
Christians, and both of them were men of prayer.

With them there were no selfish motives behind the scenes, but
every act and deed and thought was for God and their country. I
have long been grateful that I witnessed that scene, the bivouac of
a sleeping hero, and I love to recall Palmer's beautiful lines:

"We see him now--he old slouched hat
 over his eye askew,
 shrewd, dry smile, the speech so pat,
 calm, so blunt, so true. 
 blue light elder knows 'em well;
 he, "That's Banks. He's fond of shell
 save his soul. Now give him--," well,
's Stonewall Jackson's way.
, ground arms, kneel all, caps off;
 Blue Light's going to pray.
 the fool who dares to scoff
 Stonewall Jackson's way.  
's in the saddle; now fall in,
, the whole brigade;
's at the ford, cut off. Let's win
 out with ball and blade.
, maiden, wait, and watch and yearn
 news of Stonewall's band;
, widow, read with eyes that burn
 ring upon thy hand.
, wife, sew on, pray on, hope on,
 life shall not be all forlorn;
 foe had better ne'er been born,
 gets in Stonewall's way.

With many people on the border line, their loyalty rested on very
delicate pivots. Which shall I work for, pray for, or fight for, was a
serious and perplexing question. Fathers were separated from sons,
and brothers from brothers. Mrs. Lincoln was a Miss Todd, of
Kentucky, and all her brothers were in the Confederate service. I
knew one of them well, for he was for months on the staff of our
corps commander. He was of no force, just an ornament, and made
himself disagreeable by his abuse of Old Abe, his brother-in-law.
Mrs. Grant was interviewed last year in Saint Augustine and said
her sympathies were with the South, but her interest was with her
husband's choice. With many West Pointers there was no patriotic
emotion. Fighting was their profession, and position, pay and
promotion their coveted reward. General Geo. C. Thomas, one of
the ablest Federal generals, was a class-mate of General Joe
Johnston, and like him was a Virginian of the Virginians. When
Johnston was made a major-general by Mr. Davis, Thomas sought
a similar position, but was told the places were all filled and he
would have to wait. He did not wait, but was soon after offered
that position by Mr. Lincoln and accepted it. General  Johnston
told me of this at my house in '67 and was greatly mortified.
General Grant had no sympathy with the anti-slavery feature of the
war, for he was a slave-holder himself and hired them out in St.
Louis until sometime after Mr. Lincoln's proclamation of freedom
to the slaves. You will find more about this in Appleton's
Cyclopedia of American Biography, wherein is published a letter
from General Grant's father, in which he says, "My son, Ulysses,
was very improvident before the war and frequently applied to me
for money. In the fall of 1860 he begged me to lend him $500, as
he was in pecuniary distress. I wrote to him that I could not do it,
and I thought the income from the rent of his house and the hire of
his negroes ought to support him, but if he was suffering he had
better go to Galena and work for his brother in the tan-yard. This
he did, and got along fairly well till the war began and he got a
good position in the army."

What a blessed thing is peace and law and order, for, as Ben
Franklin said, "There never was a good war, nor a bad peace." The
contest was too unequal to last longer. Seven hundred thousand
could not cope longer with two million, seven hundred thousand.
There were many blunders on both sides, and much good blood
was wasted, and there were some pivotal points on which turned
tremendous results on the side of the South. Prominent among
them was the death of Albert Sidney Johnston at Shiloh, the failure
of Huger to come in time and cut off McClellan's retreat at
Malvern Hill, the death of Stonewall Jackson, the invasion of
Pennsylvania, and the removal of General Johnston at Atlanta. But,
no doubt, the will of God was done. Time is a good doctor. We are
learning to know each other better, both  North and South, and to
tolerate each other's opinions and prejudices. All that is now
necessary to make the reconciliation complete is for the North to
put our heroes and Confederate widows on the pension rolls, just
as they have theirs. Most all of ours are dead; only seventy
thousand are left of all our army; but there are a million pensioners
on the rolls up North, and as time rolls on they grow more thicker,
more denser-as Cobe would say.

"Time cuts down all,
 great and small,
 a pensioned soldier;
 do not die,
 multiply
 fast as they grow older." 

Now, if the North will do that, and apologize, we will be calm and
serene.

CHAPTER IV. THE ARISTOCRACY AND THE COMMON
PEOPLE.

Before the civil war our Southern civilization was divided into two
classes--the aristocracy and the common people. The aristocrats
were generally slave-holders, and though they were only
one-seventh of the voting population, they dominated the other
six-sevenths politically, socially, and financially. And yet there
was no friction. The common people were loyal to their wealthy
and educated leaders. They voted for them and fought for them.
They elected them to our highest offices. These aristocrats were
our governors, judges, and members of Congress, our civil and
military office-holders. And they were shining lights in the
councils of the nation. The common people were allowed to be
magistrates, constables and non-commissioned officers in the
militia. They served on the petit juries and worked the public
roads. Their loyalty to the aristocracy was beautiful. They shouted
for Toombs and Stephens, and Colquitt and Cobb, with a wild
hurrah, and when the war came they fought for their principles just
like our forefathers fought who resisted a tax on tea when not one
in a thousand drank it. Out of a company of eighty-four men who
went from Murray county, not one was a slave-holder. The
aristocracy was mainly an aristocracy of dominion. This kind of
aristocracy brings with it culture and pride and dignity of bearing.
The scriptures always mention the number of servants when
speaking of the old patriarchs'  consequence in the land. "I am a
man having authority," said the Centurion. "I say unto this man,
go, and he goeth, and to another, come, and he cometh." Dominion
is the pride of man--dominion over something. A negro is proud if
he owns a "possum" dog. A poor man is proud if he owns a horse
and a cow and some razor-back hogs. His neighbor is proud if he
owns a good horse and a top buggy and some bottom land and can
take the lead in his country church or his county politics. The big
boy loves dominion over his little brother, and the father takes it
over all--well, not always, for there are some wives who have a
sweet and silent control over their husbands; I speak from
experience. Bob Toombs once remarked, "That the dominion of a
good wife over her husband was his surest safeguard" against the
temptations of life. Toombs was a very great and noble man, and
the most beautiful trait of his character was his loyalty and
devotion to his wife.

But the Anglo-Saxon race glories in owning men, and it makes but
little difference whether the men are their dependents or their
slaves; the glory is all the same if they have got them in their
power. Wealthy corporations, railroad kings, princely planters,
have dominion over their employees and they control them at their
pleasure. It is not a dominion in law, but it is almost absolute in
fact, and there is nothing wrong about it when it is humanely
exercised; indeed, it is a very agreeable relation between the poor
laborer and the rich employer. An humble, poor man loves to lean
upon a generous landlord, and the landlord is proud of the poor
man's homage. I asked Bill A. once how he was going to vote, and
he said he couldn't tell me until he saw Colonel Johnson.  But the
dominion of the old aristocracy of the South was not over their
own race. It was over another, and it gradually grew into an
oligarchy of slave-owners, and the poorer whites were kept under
the ban. There was a line of social caste between them, and it was
widening into a gulf, for the poor white man could not compete
with slave labor any more than the farmer or the mechanic can
now compete with convict labor. But, at the same time, this kind
of slave aristocracy gave dignity and leisure to the rich, and
Solomon says: "In leisure there is wisdom;" and so these men
became our law-makers and jurists, and they were shining lights in
the councils of the nation. But, my friends, it was an aristocracy
that was exclusive, and it overshadowed the masses of the people
like a broad spreading oak overshadows and withers the
undergrowth beneath it. The results of the war wiped out this
distinction between the aristocrat and the common people. But
there are still left two classes--those who have seen better days,
and those who haven't. The first class used to ride or drive, but
most of them now take it afoot or stay at home. Seventy-five per
cent. of them are descendants of old Henry Clay Whigs. Forty and
fifty years ago they were the patrons of high schools and colleges,
and stocked the professions with an annual crop of high-strung
graduates who swore by Henry Clay and Fillmore and Stephens
and Toombs and John Bell and the Code of Honor. They were
proud of their birth and lineage, their wealth and culture; and when
party spirit ran high and fierce they banded together against the
pretensions of the struggling democracy. When I was a young man,
a Whig girl deemed it an act of condescension to go to a party with
a Democrat boy. But  the wear and tear of the war, the loss of their
slaves, and a mortgage or two to lift, broke most of these old
families up, though it didn't break down their family pride. They
couldn't stand it like the Democrats who lived in log cabins and
wore wool hats and copperas breeches. I speak with freedom of the
old Georgia democracy, for I was one of them. The wealth and
refinement of the State was, in the main, centered in the party
known as the Old Line Whigs. Out of one hundred and sixty
student in our State University at Athens, fifty-five years ago, one
hundred and thirty of them were the sons of Whigs. I felt
politically lonesome in their society, and was just going to change
my base when I fell in love with a little Whig angel who was flying
around. This hurried me up, and I was just about to go over to the
Whig party, when suddenly that party came over to me. I don't
know yet whether that political somersault lifted me up or pulled
the little angel down--but I do know she wouldn't have me, and at
last I mated with a Democratic darling who had either more pity or
less discrimination. She took me, and she's got me yet; she
surrendered, but I am the prisoner.

So I did not marry my first love, but Mrs. Arp married her's--bless
her heart--and she now declares I took advantage of her innocent
youth and gave her no chance to make a choice among lovers. That
is so, I reckon, for I was in a powerful hurry to secure the prize,
and pressed my suit with all diligence for fear of accidents. Once
before I had loved and lost, and I thought it would have killed me;
but it didn't, for I never sprung from suicide stock. I had loved that
little maid of Athens amazingly. I would have climbed the
Chimborazo mountains and  fought a tizer for her--a small tiger.
And she loved me, I know, for the evening before I left for my
distant home I told her of my love and devotion, my adoration and
aspiration and admiration and all other "ations," and the
palpitating lace on her bosom told me how fast her heart was
beating, and I gently took her soft hand in mine and drew her head
upon my manly shoulder and kissed her. Delicious feast--delightful
memory. It lasted me a year, I know, and hasn't entirely faded yet. I
never mention it at home - no never; but I think of it sometimes on
the sly--yes, on the sly. Before I left her for my distant home she
promised to consider my love and write to me--but she never
wrote. She is considering it yet, I reckon. In a year or so she
married another college boy and was happy, and not long after I
married Mrs. Arp, and was happy, too. So it is all right and no loss
on our side.

I still love to ruminate about those delightful days--the memories
of love's young dream. And why not? Four thousand years ago
Jacob kissed Rachel, and Moses made a record of it in the sacred
volume, and it has come down to us through the corridors of time,
and is still the sweetest part of the story. To be mated as well as
married is the happiest condition of human life. What a beautiful
sight it is to see a venerable couple with loving children and
grandchildren around them, and going down the vale like John
Anderson my Jo John and his loving spouse. It seems to me that
marriage in those days, half a century ago, were more serious than
now. I will not say there was more love, but I know there were less
clothes and fewer divorces and grass widows. The boys married
the girls and the girls married the boys. But now it is not
uncommon to see our old widowers  following General
Longstreet's example, and taking the girls for wives. It is not
according to nature and is dangerous to both, especially if the old
man refuses to die in a reasonable time and fails to leave the
blooming widow a goodly sum. I recall now a beautiful Gwinnett
girl, the daughter of a friend of ours. The civil war wrecked her
father's fortune and he died soon after, leaving her almost
penniless. When she was twenty years old she wedded a rich old
man of fifty - an invald, whose lease on life seemed short - and he
settled on her an ample fortune to be hers at his death. Now she is
fifty years old and he is eighty, and keeps living on and on and on.
They are childless, and live on a farm in the country, and she looks
almost as old and haggard as he does. Hers is the wreck of a once
happy and hopeful life.

Now, before the civil war, our young men almost invariably mated
with our young girls, and our widowers married widows as a
general rule, unless there was a Yankee school mistress in sight.
They always married Southern widowers, and were glad to get
them. Four New England girls went off that way in my town, and
they made good wives and good mothers. They were raised to
habits of industry and economy, and that is what a widower wants
in a second wife. They take good care of his first crop of children
and get them educated and out of the way by the time the second
crop is coming on. There was no economy in ante-bellum days
among the aristocracy of the South. It wasn't necessary. The little
negroes were always standing around waiting for the scraps, either
of food or clothing. Whereas, in New England, where I went to
school one winter, they didn't even keep a dog or a cat at my
uncle's house, and the rule was to take no more on your plate  than
you were going to eat, and the dishes and the plates were left so
clean after meals that it was hardly necessary to wash them--and
maybe they didn't.

Most of these families are poor, but they are proud. They are
highly respected for their manners and their culture. They are
looked upon as good stock and thoroughbred, but withdrawn from
the turf. Their daughters carry a high head and a flashing eye,
stand up square on their pastern joints, and chafe under the bits.
They come just as nigh living as they used to as possible. They
dress neatly in plain clothes, wear starched collars and corsets, and
a perfumed handkerchief. They do up their hair in the fashion, take
Godey's Lady's Book or somebody's Bazaar. If they are able to hire
a domestic, the darkey finds out in two minutes that free niggers
don't rank any higher in that family than slaves used to. The
negroes who know their antecedents have the highest respect for
them, and will say Mas' William or Miss Julia with the same
deference as in former years. One would hardly learn from their
general deportment that they cleaned up the house, made up the
beds, washed the dishes, did their own sewing and gave music
lessons--in fact, did most everything but wash the family clothes.
They won't do that. I have known them to milk and churn, and
sweep the back yard, and scour the brass; but I've never seen one
of them bent over the washtub yet. In the good old times their rich
and patriarchal father lived like Abraham, and Jacob, and Job.
They felt like they were running an unlimited monarchy on a
limited scale. When a white child was born in the family it was ten
dollars out of pocket; but a little nigger was a hundred dollars in
and got fifty dollars a year better for twenty years to come.  
The economy of the old plantation was the economy of waste. Two
servants to one white person was considered moderate and
reasonable. In a family of eight or ten--with numerous visitors and
some poor kin--there was generally a head cook and her assistant,
a chamberhaid, a seamstress, a maid or nurse for every daughter,
and a little nig for every son, whose business it was to trot around
after him and hunt up mischief. Then there was the stableman and
carriage driver, and the gardener and the dairy woman, and two
little darkies to drive up the cows and keep the calves off while the
milking was going on. Besides these, there were generally half a
dozen little chaps crawling around or picking up chips, and you
could hear them bawling and squalling all the day long, as their
mothers mauled them and spanked them for something or nothing
with equal ferocity.

But the good old plantation times are gone--the times when these
old family servants felt an affectionate abiding interest in the
family; when our good mothers nursed their sick and old, helpless
ones, and their good mothers waited so kindly upon their "mistis,"
as they called her, and took care of the little children by day and by
night. Our old black mammy was mighty dear to us children, and
we loved her, for she was always doing something to please us as
she screened us from many a whipping. It would seem an unusual
wonder, but nevertheless it is true, that these faithful old domestics
loved their master's children better than their own, and they
showed it in numberless ways without any hypocrisy. We frolicked
with their children, and all played together by day and hunted
together by night, and it beat the Arabian Nights to go to the old
darkey's cabin of a winter night and hear him tell of ghosts and
witches  and jack-o' lanterns, and wildcats and grave yards, and
raw head and bloody bones, and we would listen with faith and
admiration until we didn't dare to look around, and wouldn't have
gone back to the big house alone for a world of gold. Bonaparte
said that all men were cowards at night, but I reckon it was these
old darkies that made us so, and we have hardly recovered from it
yet. When I used to go a-courting I had to pass a grave-yard in the
suburbs of the little village, and it was a test of my devotion that I
braved its terrors on the darkest night and set at defiance the
wandering spirits that haunted my path. Mrs. Arp appreciated it, I
know, for she would follow me to the door when I left and
anxiously listen to my retiring footsteps; and she declares to this
day she could hear me running up that hill by the graveyard like a
fast trotting horse on a shell road. The slaves of that day were loyal
to their masters, and in the main were happy and contented. Of
course there were some bad negroes, and there were some bad
masters. Alas for the negro! Before the war there was not an
outrage committed by them from the Potomac to the Rio Grande.
There was not a chaingang nor a convict camp in all the South.
Now, there are five thousand in the chain-gangs of Georgia and
fifteen thousand more in the Southern States. here would be fifty
thousand if the laws were enforced for minor offences, but we
overlook them out of pity.

What a blessed privilege it was for the boys of our day to go with
the cotton wagons to market, and camp out at night, and hear the
trusty old wagoners tell their wonderful adventures. What a
glorious time when we got home again, and brought sugar, and
coffee and molasses, and had shoes all around  for white and
black, with the little wooden measures in them and the names
written on every one. And we had Christmas, too, for white folks
and black folks; little red shawls, and head handkerchiefs, jack
knives and jews-harps, tobacco and pipes, were always laid up for
the family servants.

The times have wonderfully changed since then-- some things for
better, some for worse. The old aristocracy is passing away. Some
of them escaped the general wreck that followed the war and have
illustrated by their energy and liberality the doctrine of the survival
of the fittest-but their name is not legion. A new and hardier stock
has come to the front--that class which prior to the war was under
a cloud, and are now seeing their better days. The pendulum has
swung to the other side. The results of the war made an opening
for them and developed their energies. With no high degree of
culture they have nevertheless proved equal to the struggle up the
rough hill of life, and now play an important part in running the
financial machine. Their practical energy has been followed by
thrift. They have proved to be our best farmers and most
prosperous merchants and mechanics. They now constitute the
solid men of the State, and have contributed largely to the building
up of our schools and churches, our factories and railroads, and the
development of our mineral resources. They are shrewd and
practical and not afraid of work. The two little ragged brothers
who sold peanuts in Rome in 1860 are now her leading merchants.
Two young men who then clerked for a meagre salary are now
among the merchant prices of Atlanta. These are but types of the
modern, self-made Southerner--a class who form a most  striking
contrast to the stately dignity and aristocratic repose of the grand
old patriarchs and statesmen whose beautiful homes adorned the
hills and groves of the South some forty years ago.

But the children of the old patricians have come down some, and
the children of the common people have come up some, and they
have met upon a common plane and are now working happily
together, both in social and business life. Spirit and blood have
united with energy and muscle, and it makes a splendid team--the
best all-round team the South has ever had.

CHAPTER V. THE ORIGINAL "BILL ARP."

Some time in the spring of 1861, when our Southern boys were
hunting for a fight, and felt like they could whip all creation, Mr.
Lincoln issued a proclamation ordering us all to disperse and retire
within thirty days, and to quit cavorting around in a hostile and
belligerent manner.

I remember writing an answer to it as though I was a good Union
man and law-abiding citizen, and was willing to disperse, if I
could; but it was almost impossible, for the boys were mighty hot,
and the way we made up our military companies was to send a
man down the lines with a bucket of water and sprinkle the boys,
as he came to 'em, and if a feller sizzed like hot iron in a slack
trough, we took him, and if he didn't sizz, we didn't take him; but
still, nevertheless, notwithstanding, and so forth, if we could
possibly disperse in thirty days we would do so, but I thought he
had better give us a little more time, for I had been out in an old
field by myself and tried to disperse myself and couldn't do it.

I thought the letter was right smart, and decently sarcastic, and so I
read it to Dr. Miller and Judge Underwood, and they seemed to
think it was right smart, too. About that time I looked around and
saw Bill Arp standing at the door with his mouth open and a merry
glisten in his eye. As he came forward, says he to me: "Squire, are
you gwine to print that?"  

"I reckon I will Bill," said I. "What name are ye gwine to put to it?"
said he. "I don't know yet," said I; "haven't thought about a name."
Then he brightened up and said: "Well, 'Squire, I wish you would
put mine, for them's my sentiments;" and I promised him that I
would.

So I did not rob Bill Arp of his good name, but took it on request,
and now, at this late day, when the moss has covered his grave, I
will record some pleasant memories of a man whose notoriety was
not extensive, but who filled up a gap that was open, and who
brightened up the flight of many an hour in the good old times, say
from forty to fifty years ago.

He was a small, sinewy man, weighing about one hundred and
thirty pounds, as active as a cat, and always presenting a bright and
cheerful face. He had an amiable disposition, a generous heart, and
was as brave a man as nature ever makes.

He was an humble man and unlettered in books; never went to
school but a month or two in his life, and could neither read nor
write; but still he had more than his share of common sense; more
than his share of good mother wit, and was always welcome when
he came about.

Lawyers and doctors and editors, and such gentlemen of leisure
who used to, in the olden time, sit around and chat and have a
good time, always said, "Come in, Bill, and take a seat;" and Bill
seemed grateful for the compliment, and with a conscious humility
squatted on about half the chair and waited for questions. The
bearing of the man was one of reverence for his superiors and
thankfulness for their notice.

Bill Arp was a contented man--contented with his humble lot. He
never grumbled or complained at  anything; he had desires and
ambition, but it did not trouble him. He kept a ferry for a wealthy
gentleman who lived a few miles above town on the Etowah river,
and he cultivated a small portion of his land; but the ferry was not
of much consequence, and when Bill could slip off to town and
hear the lawyers talk he would turn over the boat and the poles to
his wife or his children and go. I have known him to take a back
seat in the courthouse for a day at a time, and with face all greedy
for entertainment listen to the learned speeches of the lawyers and
charge of the court, and go home happy and be able to tell to his
admiring family what had transpired. He had the greatest
reverence for Colonel Johnson, his landlord, and always said that
he would about as leave belong to him as to be free; "for," said he,
"Mrs. Johnson throws away enough old clothes and second-hand
vittels to support my children, and they are always nigh enough to
pick 'em up."

Bill Arp lived in Chulio district; we had eleven districts in the
county, and they had all such names as Pop-skull, and
Blue-gizzard, and Wolf-skin, and Shake-rag, and Wild-cat, and
Possum-trot, but Bill lived and reigned in Chulio. Every district
had its best man in those days, and Bill was the best man in
Chulio. He could out-run, out-jump, out-swim, out-rastle, out-ride,
out-shoot anybody, and was so far ahead that everybody else had
given it up, and Bill reigned supreme. He put on no airs about this,
and his nabors were all his friends.

But there was another district adjoining, and it had its best man,
too. One Ben McGinnis ruled the boys of that beat, and after
awhile it began to be whispered around that Ben wasn't satisfied
with his limited territory, but would like to have a small  tackle
with Bill Arp. Ben was a pretentious man. He weighed about 165
pounds, and was considered a regular bruiser. When Ben hit a man
he meant business, and his adversary was hurt--badly hurt, and Ben
was glad of it. But when Bill Arp hit a man he was sorry for him,
and if he knocked him down he would rather help him up and
brush the dirt off his clothes than swell around in triumph. The
quicker a man whips a fight the less of it he has to do, and both
Ben and Bill had settled their standing most effectually. Bill was
satisfied with his honors, but Ben was not, for there was many a
Ransy Sniffle who lived along the line between the districts, and
carried news from the one to the other, and made up the coloring,
and soon it was narrated around that Ben and Bill had to meet and
settle it.

The court-grounds of that day consisted of a little log shanty and a
shelf. The shanty had a dirt floor and a puncheon seat, and a slab
for the 'Squire's docket, and the shelf was outside for the whiskey.

The whiskey was kept in a gallon jug, and that held just about
enough for the day's business. Most every body took a dram in
those days, but very few took too much, unless, indeed, a dram
was too much. Pistols were unknown, and bowie-knives and
brass-knuckles and sling-shots and all other devices that gave one
man an artful advantage over another.

When Colonel Johnson, who was Bill Arp's landlord, and Major
Ayer and myself got to Chulio, Bill Arp was there, and was
pleasantly howdying with his nabors, when suddenly we
discovered Ben McGinnis arriving upon the ground. He hitched his
horse to a swinging limb and dismounted and began trampoosing
around, and every little crowd he got to, he would lean forward in
an insolent manner and say, "Any  body here got anything agin Ben
McGinnis? If they have, I goll, I'll give 'em five dollars to hit that; I
golly, I dare anybody to hit that," and he would point to his
forehead with an air of insolent defiance.

Bill Arp was standing by us and I thought he looked a little more
serious than I ever had seen him. Frank Ayer says to him, "Bill, I
see that Ben is coming around here to pick a fight with you, and I
want to say that you have got no cause of quarrel with him, and if
he comes, do you just let him come and go, that' all." Colonel
Johnson says, "Bill, he is too big for you, and your own beat knows
you, and you haven't done anything against Ben, and so I advise
you to let him pass; do you hear me?"

By this time Bill's nervous system was all in a quiver. His face had
an air of rigid determination, and he replied humbly, but firmly,
"Colonel Johnson I love you, and I respect you, too; but if Ben
McGinnis comes up here outen his beat, and into my beat, and me
not having done nothing agin him, and he dares me to hit him, I'm
going to hit him, if it is the last lick I ever strike. I'm no phist
puppy dog, sir, that he should come out of his deestrict to bully
me."

I've seen Bill Arp in battle, and he was a hero. I've seen him when
shot and shell rained around him, and he was cool and calm, and
the same old smile was upon his features, but I never saw him as
intensely excited as he was that moment when Ben McGinnis
approached us, and, addressing himself to Bill Arp, said, "I golly, I
dare anybody to hit that."

As Ben straightened up, Bill let fly with his hard, bony fist  right in
his left eye, and followed it up with another so quick that the two
blows seemed as one. I don't know how it was, and never will
know; but in  less than a second, Bill had him down and was on
him, and his fists and his elbows and his knees seemed all at work.
He afterwards said that his knees worked on Ben's bread basket,
which he knew was his weakest part. Ben hollered "enough" in due
time, which was considered honorable to do when a feller had
enough, and Bill helped him up and brushed the dirt off his
clothes, and said, "Now, Ben, is it all over betwixt us, is you and
me all right?" And Ben, said, "It's all right 'twixt you and me, Bill;
and you are much of a gentleman." Bill invited all hands up to the
shelf, and they took a drink, and he and Ben were friends.

This is enough of Bill Arp--the original, the simon-pure. He was a
good soldier in war. He was the wit and the wag of the camp-fires,
and made a homesick youth laugh away his melancholy. He was a
good citizen in peace. When told that his son was killed he looked
no surprise, but simply said: "Major, did he die all right?" When
assured that he did, Bill wiped away a falling tear and said, "I only
wanted to tell his mother."

You may talk about heroes and heroines; I have seen all sorts, and
so has most everybody who was in the war, but I never saw a more
devoted heroine than Bill Arp's wfe. She was a very humble
woman, very, and she loved her husband with a love that was
passing strange. I have seen that woman in town, three miles from
her home, hunting around by night for her husband, going from
one saloon to another, and in her kind, loving voice inquiring, "is
William here?" Blessings on that poor woman; I have almost cried
for her many a time. Poor William, how she loved hm. How
tenderly would she take him, when she found him, and lead him
home, and bathe  his head and put him to bed. She always looked
pleased and thankful when asked about him, and would say, "he is
a good little man, but you know he has his failings." She loved Bill
and he loved her; he was weak and she was strong. There are some
such women now, I reckon. I know there are some such men.

CHAPTER VI. "BIG JOHN."

"Big John" was one of the earliest settlers of Rome, and one of her
most notable men. For several years he was known by his proper
name of John Underwood; but when another John Underwood
moved there, the old settler had to be identified by his superior
size, and gradually lost his surname, and was known far and near
as "Big John." The new comer was a man of large frame, weighing
about 225 pounds, but Big John pulled down the scales at a
hundred pounds more. He had shorter arms and shorter legs, but
his circumference was correspondingly immense. He was notable
for his humor and his good humor. The best town jokes came from
his jolly, fertile fancy, and his comments on men and things were
always original, and as terse and vigorous as ever came from the
brain of Dr. Johnson. He was a diamond in the rough. He had lived
a pioneer among the Indians of Cherokee, and it was said fell in
love with an Indian maid, the daughter of old Tustenuggee, a
limited chief, and never married because he could not marry her.
But if his disappointment preyed upon his heart, it did not prey
long upon the region that enclosed it, for he continued to expand
his proportions. He was a good talker and an earnest
laugher--whether he laughed and grew fat, or grew fat and
laughed, the doctors could not tell which was the cause and which
was effect, and it is still in  doubt, but I have heard wise men
affirm that laughing was the fat man's safety-valve, that if he did
not laugh and shake and vibrate frequently, he would grow fatter
and fatter, until his epidermic cuticle could not contain his
oleaginous corporosity.

Big John had no patience with the war, and when he looked upon
the boys strutting around in uniforms, and fixing up their canteens
and haversacks, he seemed as much astonished as disgusted. He sat
in his big chair on the sidewalk, and would remark, "I don't see any
fun in the like of that. Somebody is going to be hurt, and fighting
don't prove anything. Some of our best people in this town are kin
to them fellers up North, and I don't see any sense in tearing up
families by a fight." He rarely looked serious or solemn, but the
impending strife seemed to settle him. "Boys," said he, "I hope to
God this thing will be fixed up without a fight, for fighting is a
mighty bad business, and I never knowed it to do any good."

Big John had had a little war experience--that is, he had
volunteered in a company to assist in the forcible removal of the
Cherokees to the far west in 1835. It was said that he was no
belligerent then, but wanted to see that the maiden he loved had a
safe transit, and so he escorted the old chief and his clan as far as
Tuscumbia, and then broke down and returned to Ross Landing on
the Tennessee river. He was too heavy to march, and when he
arrived at the Landing, a prisoner was put in his charge for safe
keeping. Ross Landing is Chattanooga now, and John Ross lived
there, and was one of the chiefs of the Cherokees. The prisoner
was his guest, and his name was John Howard Payne. He was
suspected of trying to instigate the Cherokees to revolt and fight,
and not  leave their beautiful forest homes on the Tennessee and
Coosa and Oostanaula and the Etowah, or New Town, as it was
called, an Indian settlement on the Coosawattee, a few miles east
of Calhoun, as now known. There he kept the author of "Home,
Sweet Home" under guard, or on his parol of honor, for three
weeks, and listened to his music upon the violin, and heard him
sing his own songs until orders came for his discharge, and Payne
was sent under escort to Washington.

Many a time have I heard Big John recite his sad adventures. "It
was a most distressive business," said he. "Them Injuns was
heart-broken; I always knowed an Injun loved his hunting-ground
and his rivers, but I never knowed how much they loved 'em
before. You know they killed Ridge for consentin' to the treaty.
They killed him on the march and they wouldn't bury him. The
soldiers had to stop and dig a grave and put him away. John Ross
and John Ridge were the sons of two Scotchmen, who came over
here when they were young men and mixed up with these tribes
and got their good will. These two boys were splendid looking
men, tall and handsome, with long auburn hair, and they were
active and strong, and could shoot a bow equal to the best bowman
of the tribe, and they beat 'em all to pieces on the cross-bow. They
married the daughters of the old chiefs, and when the old chiefs
died they just fell into line and succeeded to the old chiefs' places,
and the tribes liked 'em mighty well for they were good men and
made good chiefs. Well, you see Ross dident like the treaty. He
said it wasent fair, and that the price of the territory was too low,
and the fact is he dident want to go at all. There are the ruins of his
old home now over there in DeSoto,  close to Rome, and I tell you
he was a king. His word was the law of the Injun nations, and he
had their love and their respect. His half-breed children were the
purtiest things I ever saw in my life. Well, Ridge lived up the
Oostanaula river about a mile and he was a good man, too. Ross
and Ridge always consulted about everything for the good of the
tribes, but Ridge was a more milder man than Ross, and was more
easily persuaded to sign the treaty that gave the lands to the State
and take other lands away across the Mississippi.

"Well, it took us a month to get 'em all together and begin the
march to the Mississippi, and they wouldn't march then. The
women would go out of line and set down in the Woods and go to
grieving, and you may believe it or not, but I'll tell you what is a
fact, we started with 14,000, and 4,000 of 'em died before we got
to Tuscumbia. They died on the side of the road; they died of
broken hearts; they died of starvation, for they wouldn't eat a thing;
they just died all along the way. We didn't make more than five
miles a day on the march, and my company didn't do much but dig
graves and bury Injuns all the way to Tuscumbia. They died of
grief and broken hearts, and no mistake. An Indian's heart is tender
and his love is strong; it's his nature. I'd rather risk an Injun for a
true friend than a white man. He is the best friend in the world,
and the worst enemy. He has got more gratitude and more revenge
in him than anybody."

Big John's special comfort was a circus. He never missed one, and
it was a good part of the show to see him laugh and shake and
spread his magnificent face.  
He took no pleasure in the quarrels of mankind, and never backed
a man in a fight; but when two dogs locked teeth, or two bulls
locked horns, or two game chickens locked spurs, he always liked
to be about. "It is their nature to fight," said he, "and let 'em fight."
He took delight in watching dogs and commenting on their sense
and dispositions. He compared them to the men about town, and
drew some humorous analogies. "There is Jimmy Jones," said he,
"who ripped and splurged around because Georgia wouldn't secede
in a minute and a half, and he swore he was going over to South
Carolina to fight; and when Georgia did secede shore enough, he
didn't join the army at all, and always had some cussed excuse, and
when conscription came along, he got on a detail to make potash,
con-ding him, and when that played out he got him a couple of
track dogs and got detailed to catch runaway prisoners. Just so I've
seen dogs run up and down the palings like they was dying to get
to one another, and so one day I picked up my dog by the nape of
the neck and dropped him over on the outside. I never knowed he
could jump that fence before, but he bounced back like an Indian
rubber ball, and the other dog streaked it down the sidewalk like
the dickens was after him. Dogs are like folks, and folks are like
dogs, and a heap of 'em want the palings between. Jack Bogin used
to strut round and whip the boys in his beat, and kick 'em around,
because he knew he could do it, for he had the most muscle; but he
couldn't look a brave man in the eye, muscle or no muscle, and I've
seen him shut up quick when he met one. A man has got to be
right to be brave, and I had rather see a bully get a licking than to
eat sugar."

CHAPTER VII. THE ROMAN RUNAGEE.    ATLANTA, GA.,
May 22, 1864.

MR. EDITOR: "Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow," as
somebody said, I am seeking a log in some vast wilderness, a
lonely roost in some Okeefinokee swamp, where the foul invaders
cannot travel nor their pontoon bridges float. If Mr. Shakespeare
were correct when he wrote that "sweet are the juices of
adversity," then it is reasonable to suppose that me and my folks,
and many others, must have some sweetening to spare. When a
man is aroused in the dead of night, and smells the approach of the
foul invader; when he feels constrained to change his base and
become a runagee from his home, leaving behind him all those
ususary things, which hold body and soul together; when he looks,
perhaps the last time upon his lovely home where he has been for
many delightful years raising children and chickens, strawberries
and peas, lye soap and onions, and all such luxuries of this
sublunary life; when he imagines every unusual sound to be the
crack of his earthly doom; when from such influences he begins a
dignified retreat, but soon is constrained to leave the dignity
behind, and get away, without regard to the order of his going--if
there is any sweet juice in the like of that, I haven't been able to
see it. No, Mr. Editor, such scenes never happened in Bill
Shakespeare's day, or he wouldn't have written that line.

I don't know that the lovely inhabitants of your  beautiful city need
any forewarnings, to make 'em avoid the breakers upon which our
vessel was wrecked, but for fear they should some day shake their
gory locks at me, I will make public a brief allusion to some of the
painful circumstances which lately occurred in the eternal city.

Not many days ago the everlasting Yankees (may they live always
when the devil gets 'em) made a valiant assault upon the city of the
hills--the eternal city, where for a hundred years the Indian rivers
have been blending their waters peacefully together--where the
Cherokee children built their flutter mills, and toyed with frogs
and tadpoles whilst these majestic streams were but little spring
branches babbling along their sandy beds. For three days and
nights our valiant troops had beat back the foul invader, and saved
our pullets from their devouring jaws. For three days and nights we
bade farewell to every fear, luxuriating upon the triumph of our
arms, and the sweet juices of our strawberries and cream. For three
days and nights fresh troops from the South poured into our streets
with shouts that made the welkin ring, and the turkey bumps rise
all over the flesh of our people. We felt that Rome was safe--
secure against the assault of the world, the flesh and the devil,
which last individual is supposed to be that horde of foul invaders
who are seeking to flank us out of both bread and existence.

But alas for human hopes! Man that is born of woman (and there is
no other sort that I know of) has but a few days that is not full of
trouble. Although the troops did shout; although their brass band
music swelled upon the gale; although the turkey bumps rose as
the welkin rung) although the commanding general assured us that
Rome was to  be held at every hazard, and that on to-morrow the
big battle was to be fought, and the foul invaders hurled all
howling and bleeding to the shores of the Ohio, yet it transpired
somehow that on Tuesday night the military evacuation of our city
was peremptorily ordered. No note of warning - no whisper of
alarm - no hint of the morrow came from the muzzled lips of him
who had lifted our hopes so high. Calmly and coolly we smoked
our killikinick, and surveyed the embarkation of troops, construing
it to be some grand manoeuvre of military strategy. About ten
o'clock we retired to rest, to dream of tomorrow's victory. Sleep
soon overpowered us like the fog that covered the earth, but nary
bright dream had come, nary vision of freedom and glory. On the
contrary, our rest was uneasy - strawberries and cream seemed to
be holding secession meetings within our corporate limits, when
suddeny, in the twinkling of an eye, a friend aroused us from our
slumber and put a new phase upon the "situation." General
Johnston was retreating, and the foul invaders were to pollute our
sacred soil the next morning. Then came the tug of war. With hot
and feverish haste we started out in search of transportation, but
nary transport could be had. Time-honored friendship, past favors
shown, everlasting gratitude, numerous small and lovely children,
Confederate currency, new issues, bank bills, black bottles, and all
influences were urged and used to secure a corner in a car; but
nary corner--too late--too late--the pressure for time was fearful
and tremendous--the steady clock moved on--no Joshua about to
lengthen out the night, no rolling stock, no steer, no mule. With
reluctant and hasty steps, we prepared to make good our exit by
that overland line  which railroads do not control, nor A. Q. M.s
impress.

With our families and a little clothing, we crossed the Etowah
bridge about the break of day on Wednesday, the 17th of May,
1864, exactly a year and two weeks before the time when General
Forrest marched in triumph through our streets. By and by the
bright rays of the morning sun dispersed the heavy fog, which like
a pall of death had overspread all nature. Then were exhibited to
our afflicted gaze a highway crowded with wagons and teams,
cattle and hogs, niggers and dogs, women and children, all moving
in disheveled haste to parts unknown. Mules were braying, cattle
were lowing, hogs were squealing, sheep were bleating, children
were crying, wagoners were cursing, whips were popping, and
horses stalling, but still the grand caravan moved on. Everybody
was continually looking behind, and driving before--everybody
wanted to know everything, and nobody knew anything. Ten
thousand wild rumors filled the circumambient air. The everlasting
cavalry was there, and as they dashed to and fro gave false alarms
of the enemy being in hot pursuit.

About this most critical juncture of affairs, some philanthropic
friends passed by with the welcome news that the bridge was
burnt, and the danger all over. Then ceased the panic; then came
the peaceful calm of heroes after the strife of war is over--then
exclaimed Frank Ralls, my demoralized friend, "Thank the good
Lord for that. Bill, let's return thanks and stop and rest--boys, let
me get out and lie down. I'm as humble as a dead nigger--I tell you
the truth--I sung the long metre doxology as I crossed the Etowah
bridge, and I expected to be a  dead man in fifteen minutes. Be
thankful, fellows, let's all be thankful--the bridge is burnt, and the
river is three miles deep. God sakes, do you reckon those Yankees
can swim? Get up, boys--let's drive ahead and keep moving--I tell
you there's no accounting for anything with blue clothes on these
days--ding'd if I ain't afraid of a blue-tailed fly."

With a most distressing flow of language, he continued his
rhapsody of random remarks.

Then there was that trump of good fellows, Big John - as clever as
he is fat, and as fat as old Falstaff--with indefatigable diligence he
had secured, as a last resort, a one-horse steer spring wagon, with a
low, flat body setting on two rickety springs. Being mounted
thereon, he was urging a more speedy locomotion by laying on to
the carcass of the poor old steer with a thrash-pole ten feet long.
Having stopped at a house, he procured a two-inch auger, and
boring a hole through the dashboard, pulled the steer's tail through
and tied up the end in a knot. "My running gear is weak," said he,
"but I don't intend to be stuck in the mud. If the body holds good,
and the steer don't pull out his tail, why, Bill, I am safe." "My
friend," said I, "will you please inform me what port you are bound
for, and when you expect to reach it?" "No port at all, Bill," said
he, "I am going dead straight to the big Stone Mountain. I am
going to get on the top and roll rocks down upon all mankind. I
now forewarn every living thing not to come there until this
everlasting foolishness is over." He was then but three miles from
town, and had been traveling the live-long night. Ah, my big
friend, thought I, when wilt thou arrive at thy journey's end? In the
language of Patrick Henry, will it be the next week or the  next
year? Oh, that I could write a poem, I would embalm thy honest
face in epic verse. But I was in a right smart hurry myself, and only
had time to drop his memory a passing rhyme.

 Big John, farewell!
'Twas painful to my heart
 see thy chances of escape,
 that old steer and cart.
 I see thee now,
 axletrees all broke,
 wheels with nary hub at all,
 hubs with nary spoke.
 though the mud is deep,
 wits will never fail;
 faithful steer will pull thee out,
 he don't pull out his tail.

Mr. Editor, under such variegated scenes we reported progress, and
in course of time arrived under the shadow of thy city's wings,
abounding in gratitude and joy.

With sweet and patient sadness, the tender hearts of our wives and
daughters beat mournfully as we moved along. Often, alas, how
often was the tear seen swimming in the eye, and the lips quivering
with emotion, as memory lingered around deserted homes, and
thoughts dwelt upon past enjoyments and future desolation. We
plucked the wildflowers as we passed, sang songs of merriment,
exchanged our wit with children--smothering by every means, the
sorrow of our fate. These things, together with the comic events
that occurred by the way, were the safety-valves that saved the
poor heart from bursting. But for these our heads would have been
fountains and our hearts a river of tears. Oh, if some  kind friend
would set our retreat to music, it would be greatly appreciated
indeed. It should be a plaintive tune, interspersed with occasional
comic notes, and frequent fugues scattered promiscuously along.

Our retreat was conducted in excellent order, after the bridge was
burnt. If there was any straggling at all, they straggled ahead. It
would have delighted General Johnston to have seen the alacrity of
our movements.

But I must close this melancholy narrative, and hasten to subscribe
myself, Your runagee,

BILL ARP.P. S.--Tip is still faithful unto the end. He says the old
turkey we left behind has been setting for fourteen weeks, and the
fowl invaders are welcome to her. Furthermore, that he threw a
dead cat into the well, and they are welcome to that. B. A.

CHAPTER VIII. HIS LATE TRIALS AND ADVENTURES

Some frog-eating Frenchman has written a book and called it
"Lee's Miserables," or some other such name, which I suppose
contains the misfortunes of poor refugees in the wake of the
Virginny army. General Hood has also got a few miserables in the
suburbs of his fighting-ground, and if any man given to romance
would like a fit subject for a weeping narrative, we are now ready
to furnish the mournful material.

As the Yankees remarked at Bull Run, "those are the times that try
men's soles," and I suppose my interesting family is now prepared
to show stone bruises and blisters with anybody. It is a long story,
Mr. Editor, and cannot possibly be embraced in a single column of
your wandering newspaper; but I will condense it as briefly as
possible, smoothing over the most affecting parts, so as not to
occasion too great a diffusion of sympathetic tears.

After our hasty flight from the eternal city, we became converted
over to the doctrine of squatter sovereignty, and pitched our tents
in the piney woods. Afar off in those fields of illimitable space, we
roamed through the abstruse regions of the philosophic world.
There no unfriendly soldier was perusing around and asking for
papers. There the melancholy mind was soothed. There the lonely
runagee could contemplate the sandy roads, the wire-grass woods,
and the millions of majestic pines that stood  like ten-pins in an
alley, awaiting some huge cannonball to come along and knock
'em down. The mountain scenery in this romantic country was
grand, gloomy and peculiar, consisting in numberless gopher-hills,
spewed up in promiscuous beauty as far as the eye could reach. All
around us the swamp frogs were warbling their musical notes. All
above us the pines were sighing and singing their mournful tunes.
Dame Nature has spread herself there in showing her lavish hand,
and wasting timber along those endless glades. Truly, we were
treading on classic ground, for we pitched our tents in a blackberry
patch, and morning, noon and night, luxuriated in peace upon the
delicious fruit which everywhere adorned the sandy earth.

But those piney woods to which we fled did not by any means
agree with our ideas of future comfort. After it had rained some
forty days and forty nights without a recess, the corn crop had
pretty well died out, and General Starvation seemed about to
assume command of the region around about.

We felt constrained to depart from those coasts, and seek an Egypt
somewhere in a rounder and more rolling country. So we took the
train for Atlanta and designed to take roundance from there and
find a retreat away up the Chattahoochee river where Mrs. Arp's
father lived.

All along the line, at every station, pretty women got on and got
off. When they leave us, an affectionate man like myself
unconsciously whispers, "Depart in peace, ye treasures of delight."
Casting a longing, lingering look behind, I exclaimed in the
beautiful language of Mr. Shakespeare, 'I have thee not, but yet I
see thee still.' Farewell, sweet darlings, until I come again. But
woman is sometimes very variegated  and peculiar in the way she
does. I am just reminded how, on a late occasion, I found but one
vacant seat in the car after I located my numerous and interesting
family. A luxurious lady, with some aggravating curls, had
occupied nearly all of a seat, spreading herself like a setting-hen,
all over the velvet cushion. "Madam, can I share this seat with
you?" said I. "Certainly sir," and she closed in her skirts some
several inches. In a short space of time she became affected with
drowsiness. Her neck became as limber as a greasy rag. Leaning on
my shoulder, she seemed wonderfully affectionate, as her head
kept bobbing around, and I felt very peculiar at such times as she
would subside into my palpitating bosom. About this critical
juncture, I ventured to turn my astonished gaze towards Mrs. Arp,
and seeing that she was waiting for some remark, I observed,
"Hadn't I better remove my seat? Do you think I can endure the
like of this?"

"I do not, William," said she. "You had better stand up awhile, and
when you get tired some of the children will relieve you." The
glance of her eye and the manner in which she spoke brought me
up standing, and gave me a correct view of the situation.
Immediately I assumed a perpendicular attitude, and the curly head
was left without a prop. I assure you, Mr. Editor, a man's wife is
the best judge of such peculiar things; and as for me, I am always
governed by it.

We arrived in Atlanta about the time the first big shells
commenced scattering their unfeeling contents among the suburbs
of that devoted city. Then came the big panics; then shrieked the
man-eater; then howled the wild hyena among the hills of
Babylon.  
All sorts of people seemed moving in all sorts of ways, with an
accelerated motion. They gained ground on their shadows as they
leaned forward on the run, and their legs grew longer at every step.
With me it was the second ringing of the first bell. I had sorter got
used to the thing, and set myself down to take observations. "How
many miles of Milybright?" said I. But no response came, for their
legs were as long as light, and every bursting shell was an old
witch on the road. Cars was the all in all. Depots were the center
of space, converging lines from every point of the compass made
tracks to the offices of railroad superintendents. These
functionaries very prudently vamoosed the ranch to avoid their too
numerous friends, leaving positive orders to their subordinates.
The passenger depot was thronged with anxious seekers of
transportation. I "Won't you let these boxes go as baggage?" "No,
madam, it is impossible." Just then somebody's family trunk as big
as a nitre bureau was shoved in, and the poor woman got
desperate. "All I've got ain't as heavy as that," said she; "I am a
poor widow, and my husband was killed in the army. I've got five
children, and three of them cutting teeth, and my things have got to
go." We took up, her boxes and shoved them in. Another good
woman asked very anxiously for the Macon train. "There it is,
madam," said I. She shook her head mournfully and remarked,
"You are mistaken, sir, don't you see the engine is headed right up
the State road, towards the Yankees? I shan't take any train with
the engine at that end of it. No, sir, that ain't the Macon train."
Everybody was hurrying to and fro at a lively tune. "What's today,
nigger?" said a female darkey with a hoopskirt on her arm. "Taint 
no day, honey, dat ever I seed. Yesterday was Sunday, and I reckon
today is Runday from de way de white folks are movin' about.
Yah, yah; ain't afeered of Yankees myself, but dem sizzin'
bumshells kills a nigger quicker dan you can lick your tongue out.
Gwine to getaway from here - I is."

I went into a doctor's shop, and found my friend packing up his
vials and poisons and copiva and such like. Various excited
individuals dame in, looked at a big map on the wall, and pointed
out the roads to McDonough and Eatonton and Jasper, and soon
their proposed lines of travel were easily and greasily visible from
the impression of their perspiring fingers. An old skeleton, with
but one leg, was swinging from the ceiling looking like a mournful
emblem of the fate of the troubled city. "You are going to leave
him to stand guard, doctor?" said I. "I suppose I will," said he; "got
no transportation for him." "Take the screw out of his skull," said I
"and give him a crutch, maybe he will travel; all flesh is moving
and I think the bones will catch the contagion soon."

A few doors further, and a venerable auctioneer was surveying the
rushing, running crowd, and every now and then he would raise his
arm with a seesaw motion and exclaim, "Going--going--gone!
Who's the bidder?" "Old Daddy Time," said I, "he'll get them all
before long." The door of an old friend's residence swung open to
my gaze, and I walked in. Various gentlemen of my acquaintance
were discussing their evidences of propriety over a jug of
departing spirits. "I believe I'll unpack," said one. "Dinged if I'm
afraid of a blue-tailed fly; I'm going to sit down and be easy." "In a
horn,"  said I. Just then a sizzing, singing, crazy shell sung a short-
metre hymn right over the house. "Jake, has the dray come?" he
said, bouncing to his feet: "confound that dray-- blame my skin if
I'll ever get a dray to move these things-- boys, lets all stay; durned
if it don't look cowardly to run! Boys, here's to-who shall we drink
to?" "Here's to Cassabianca," said I. "Good, good," they all
shouted. "Here's to Cabysianka. Let me speak it for you, boys,"
said out host; "I've spoken it a thousand times." He mounted the
seat of a broken sofa, and spreading himself, declaimed:

"The boy stood on the burning deck,

 all had fled but him."

"That's me," said one. "It's me exactly," said another. "I'm
Babysianka myself--dog my cat if I don't be the last one to leave
this ship." Another shell sizzed, and bursted a few yards off. "Boys,
let's take another drink and leave the town-- dod rot the Yankees."
"Here's to--the--the 'Last of the Mohicans,' " said I. "Exactly--that's
so. I'm him myself. I'm the mast of the Lohikens; durned if I'll
leave these diggins as long as--as long as--" "As the State road,"
said I, "which is now about four inches and a half." "That's it; that's
so," said my friends. "Here's to the State road and Dr. Brown and
Joe Phillips, as long as four inches and a half."

By and by the shells fell as thick as Governor Brown's
proclamations, causing a more speedy locomotion in the excited
throng who hurried by the door, but my friends inside had passed
the Rubicon, and one by one retired to dream of Bozarris and, his
Suliote band. Vacant rooms and long corridors  echoed with their
snores, and they appeared like sleeping heroes in the halls of the
Montezumas.

Contagious diseases are said to be catching, and the Atlanta big
panics brought the Atlanta folk to an active perpendicular quicker
than all the physics ever seen in a city drug store. It certainly has a
tendency to arouse the dormant energies of feeble invalids. Weak
backs and lame legs, old chronics and rheumatics, in fact, all the
internal diseases which honest fear of powder and ball had
developed since the war begun, were now forgotten in the general
flight; and the examination boards could have seen many a
discharge invalidated, and a living, moving lie given to their
certificates.

All day and all night the iron horses were snorting to the echoing
breeze. Train after train of goods and chattels moved down the
road, leaving hundreds of anxious faces waiting their return. There
was no method in this madness. All kinds of plunder was tumbled
in promiscuously. A huge parlor mirror, some six feet by eight, all
bound in elegant gold, with a brass buzzard spreading his wings on
top, was set up at the end of the car and reflected a beautiful
assortment of parlor furniture to match, such as pots, kettles,
baskets, bags, barrels, kegs, bacon and bedsteads piled up together.
Government officials had the preference and government officials
all have friends. Any clever man with a charming wife or a pretty
sister could secure a corner in more cars than one, and I will
privately mention to you, Mr. Editor, that I have found a heap of
civility on this account myself. Indeed, I have always thought that
no man is excusable who has not either one or the other.

CHAPTER IX. BILL ARP ADDRESSES ARTEMUS WARD.
ROME, GA., September 1, 1865. MR. ARTEMUS WARD,
Showman - 

SIR: The reason I write to you in particler, is because you are
about the only man I know in all "God's country," so-called. For
some several weeks I have been wantin' to say sumthin'. For some
several years we rebs, so-called, but now late of said country
deceased, have been tryin' mighty hard to do somethin'. We didn't
quite do it, and now it's very painful, I assure you, to dry up all of a
sudden, and make out like we wasn't there.

My friends, I want to say somethin'. I suppose there is no law agin
thinkin', but thinkin' don't help me. It don't let down my
themometer. I must explode myself generally so as to feel better.
You see I'm tryin' to harmonize. I'm tryin' to soften down my
feelin's. I'm endeavoring to subjugate myself to the level of
surroundin' circumstances, so-called. But I can't do it until I am
allowed to say somethin'. I want to quarrel with somebody and
then make friends. I ain't no giant-killer. I ain't no Norwegian bar. I
ain't no boa-constrickter, but I'll be horn-swaggled if the talkin' and
writin' and slanderin' has got to be all done on one side any longer.
Sum of your folks have got to dry up or turn our folks loose. It's a
blamed outrage, so-called. Ain't you editors got nothin' else t