HISTORY OF THE HALSCHAPTER XVIII—HOW THE BISHOP BROKE THE RECORDBy John Trotwood Moore
By John Trotwood Moore
Greeley, Col., Jan. 10, 1907.Editors Taylor-Trotwood Magazine, Nashville, Tenn.Gentlemen:—I write to ask that in the very interesting “History of the Hals,” now running in your magazine, you will persuade Mr. Moore to include the famous story, “How the Bishop Broke the Record.” This was published years ago in the “Horse Review,” and is the best thing of its kind ever written. I know hundreds of people who have said they would like to see it again and it ought to be in the “History of the Hals.” Very truly yours,A. L. Camp, Jr.
Greeley, Col., Jan. 10, 1907.
Editors Taylor-Trotwood Magazine, Nashville, Tenn.
Gentlemen:—I write to ask that in the very interesting “History of the Hals,” now running in your magazine, you will persuade Mr. Moore to include the famous story, “How the Bishop Broke the Record.” This was published years ago in the “Horse Review,” and is the best thing of its kind ever written. I know hundreds of people who have said they would like to see it again and it ought to be in the “History of the Hals.” Very truly yours,
A. L. Camp, Jr.
(Old Wash is a Baptist and it was with great difficulty and many misgivings that I induced him to go out to the Episcopal church recently and hear the Bishop of Tennessee preach. The old man went wild over the sermon and this is the peculiar way he took to tell about it.)
“Wal, sah, I went in dar an’ sot down in dat part of de gran’stand set off fur de colored folks. I look erroun’ an’ seed leetle bannisters an’ things runnin’ ’roun’ ’bout de pooties’ an’ neates’ mile track you eber seed, wid de fence all painted wid gold an’ lit up wid ’lectric lights. B’utiful pictures hung up in de club house gallery an’ de soft light cum in through de painted winders. I tell you, sah, dese yere Piscolopiums kno’ how to keep up dey church track, if dey do stick to de high-wheel sulky, an’ kinder think dat er record made dar, at dat way ob gwine, will ’title ’em to registration in de final year book quicker’n enny yudder track. An’ itwuz er good un—for it run erroun’ es smooth es er widder’s courtship, an’ it hed bin harrered an’ scraped an’ rolled till it wus es slick as er carpet ob banana peels.
“You ain’t nurver noticed how dese church tracks differ frum one ernudder, hes you, Boss?” asked the old man, with a sly smile. “Wal, dey do. Now, ef dat hed bin er Mefodis’ track it wouldn’t er had no fence erroun’ it, kinder free fur all, no money to be paid at de gate, and free lunch fur ebrybody. If it hed er bin a Baptis’ track it would er bin out in some big medder bottom, an’ stid ob bein’ roun’ it would jes’ foller de meanderin’s ob de ribber, handy fur spungin’ off de horses. An’ dey wouldn’t ’low nuffin’ to go on dat track but pacers, either, an’ dey must all be ob de Hal fambly—kinder close kin, yer kno’. De Presberterians would er hed dey track es roun’ es it cu’d be, an’ sech er high, whitewashed fence ’roun’ it dat nobody cu’d see ober it, an’ ’bout ebry ha’f hour dey would run out er big fo’-hoss sprinkler, furever sprinklin’ it, eben fur de yearlin’ races. Oh, it’s funny ter see how dey all differ!” he said.
“But dar dis one wuz, es pooty es it cu’d be, an’ free fur all. An’ jes’ off to de lef’ dey hed de nices’ leetle jedges’ stan’, all painted in silver an’ trimmed wid gold, while de timers’ box sat on de right, wid leetle peep-holes in it an’ pictures ob flyin’ things wid wings jes’ erbove—hosses dat hed broke de records, I ’spec. Jes’ den de ban’ in de ban’ stan’ struck up de sweetes’ music I urver heerd. It went all through my soul an’ made me feel like I wus er chile ergin an’ my good ole mammy, long dead an’ gone, wus singin’ me ter sleep at de cabin on de ole plantashun to de tune ob ‘De Ole Folks at Home.’ Den de perfume floated out like de smell ob de jess’mins I useter smell by de cabin do’, an’ de candles flickered on de quarter posts like de fireflies in de dusk ob my childhood days, an’ all dese things jes’ made me hongry to heah sum gospil ergin. Bimeby sum leetle angel boys, all dressed in white, wid shinin’ collars, cum marchin’ in, singin’ an’ bringin’ programs fur de races in dey han’s—leastwise dat’s whut I tuk ’em to be. I tell you, sah, it wuz gran’, an’ es I sot dar an’ tuck it all in an’ looked at dat shinin’ track wid de golden fence, I sed to myself:
“‘Great Scott! but ef dey can’t go fast on dis track, I lakter kno’ whut de yuse ob tryin’ enny yudder!’
“When de music stopped, de feller in de jedges’ stan’ made some ’nouncements, an’ den he ’lowed dat de Bishop ob Tennessee would go er exerbishun mile ergin time, an’ den I heerd de bell ringtingerling, tingerling, an’ de ban’ struck up lively lak, an’ de Bishop cum pacin’ in. Soon es I looked at ’im, sez I:
“‘He’ll do—he’s er good un! Got mos’ too much riggin’ on ’im to suit my taste, but den ebry man knows whut’s bes’ fur his own hoss. Ef he wuz mine I’d take off dat sweater an’ white blankit wid red embroidery, dem knee boots an’ dat obercheck. His gait’s all right an’ true es clockwork, an’ he don’t need nuffin’ but er pair ob quarter boots an’ fo’-ounce shoes. But dat’s all right,’ I said ergin, ‘eberybody knows whut’s bes’ fur his own hoss, an’ dem fancy riggin’s am pooty, ter-be-sho’.’
“Graceful? He wus es graceful es er swan on er silver lake, an’ es he paced up de quarter stretch to sco’ down I seed dat he wuz gwinter gib de recurd er close call. Down he cum so smooth you cudden’t see his riggin’, an’ es nachul es er eagle draps frum his mountin’ peak in de valley belo’. Dey didn’t hafter say ‘go’ to him but onc’t, an’ den he went erway lak er winged angel on de top spar ob er flyin’ yot.
“‘He that loseth his life for my sake shall save it,’ he said, an’ ebry lick he hit went home to de ole man’s hart. Oh, hit wuz er clip. He tuck up Greek art an’ literachure an’ he painted it so beautiful you cu’d see de statue ob Diana beam outen his eyes an’ de grace ob Apollo fall frum his hands. Away he went at dat pooty clip till he sud’n’y shifted his gait an’ struck de follies ob dis wurl, an’ denI seed whut all dat riggin’ wus fur, fur he turned it into er toga an’ he looked like Jupiter es he shook de roof wid his speed an’ his stride.
“‘He’s gwine too fast fur de fus’ quarter,’ I sed, as I sot holdin’ my bref; but befo’ de wurds wuz out he seed it, too, an’ he check up er leetle, an’ he cum down es gently es de summer winds play—but er-gittin’ dar all de time!—an’ den he tell us how all dis art an’ all dis interlect wa’nt nuffin’ ef we didn’t lub God an’ do right an’ lib pure libes, an’ his voice wus lak de music ob de winds in de valley, an’ ebrything he say jes’ peer to be dat way an’ no argyment—and all de time he wuz jes’ er-gittin’ dar—an’ es he passed de fus’ quarter I cudden’t help it, I jes’ tuck out my ole watch an’ snapped it, an’ dar it stood—thirty seconds, holy Moses!
“But dat didn’t wind ’im, fur he started in de naixt quarter so fas’ I tho’t sho’ he gwine fly in de air. But he didn’t. He fairly burnt up de track ob sin an’ folly an’ littleness an’ meanness, an’ he made de leetle rail birds ob selfishness fly to de woods, an’ de touts ob scandal slunk erway, an’ de drivers of trick an’ cheat hunted fer ernuther track, an’ de timers of folly throwed erway dey watch—an’ all de time he wus er-gittin’ dar—an’ he nurver teched hissef nur struck er boot nur missed his clip, an’ he made de ole high wheel sulky trimble all over lak er leaf in de storm, an’ he showed how ebrybody reap whut dey sow; how de artis’ lib in art, an’ de poit in poltry, an’ de patriot in de harts ob his countrymen, all arter dey dun dead an’ buried. An’ ‘Oh,’ he ses, so sarchin’ lak I see de folks trimble, ‘ef you lib fur de wurl you’ll die wid de wurl; but ef you lib fur God you’ll nurver die!’ An’ I cu’d see it all so plain an’ so quick an’ so terribul an’ so true I jes’ pulled out my ole timer ergin es he passed de ha’f, an’ click! dar she stood—59½!
“‘By de horn ob de tabbernacle,’ sez I, ‘he can’t keep up dat clip! Dat’s de ha’f dat burnt up Joe Patchen!’
“But I tell you, Boss, his name was P’inter—he had no noshun ob quittin’. He spun erlong on de straight stretches lak he had er runnin’ mate, an’ you’d wonder whut hilt ’im to de yearth. Den he ease up gently on de turns ob de track—whar he hit de doubters an’ de ’siety an’ de fools dat grasp at de bubbles ob wealth an’ folly on de ribber, an’ let de mighty stream wid all its depth an’ grandeur pass onnoticed to de ocean’—as he sed, he ease up dar an’ ketch his bref so gently lak, an’ sorrerful, you’d think he gwine stop an’ weep fur ’em, an’ you feel lak weepin’ yourse’f, fur yore own follies an’ de follies ob de wurl—but all de time he wus gittin’ dar!—an’ ef he did ease up es he went up de hill, it wus only jes’ long enuf ter let de light shine down on ’im frum heben, an’ he seemed ter linger jes’ er minnit in de sweetnes’ ob its glory.
“I wiped erway a tear an’ snapped my ole timer ergin—1:30½! ‘Dat’s good Baptis’ doctrine,’ sez I, ‘ef it am a trifle speedy. Lord, ef he do bust de recurd I hope you’ll gib ’im de Atlantic Ocean to spunge off in—sumpin’ in keepin’ wid his own nachur.’ An’ I sing sof’ly to myse’f dat good ole hymn, sung by Moses an’ de profets so long ergo:
Baptis’, Baptis’ is my name,I’m Baptis’ till I die;I’ve been baptized in de Baptis’ church,Gwinter eat all de Baptis’ pie!Hard trials,Great tribelashuns, chilluns,Hard trials,I’m gwine ter leab dis wurl’.
Baptis’, Baptis’ is my name,I’m Baptis’ till I die;I’ve been baptized in de Baptis’ church,Gwinter eat all de Baptis’ pie!Hard trials,Great tribelashuns, chilluns,Hard trials,I’m gwine ter leab dis wurl’.
Baptis’, Baptis’ is my name,I’m Baptis’ till I die;I’ve been baptized in de Baptis’ church,Gwinter eat all de Baptis’ pie!Hard trials,Great tribelashuns, chilluns,Hard trials,I’m gwine ter leab dis wurl’.
Baptis’, Baptis’ is my name,
I’m Baptis’ till I die;
I’ve been baptized in de Baptis’ church,
Gwinter eat all de Baptis’ pie!
Hard trials,
Great tribelashuns, chilluns,
Hard trials,
I’m gwine ter leab dis wurl’.
“But bless you, honey, he wus jes’ playin’ on dem yudder quarters; he commenced ter pace now. He got right down on de groun’, an’ dough he didn’t make no fuss an’ you cudn’t see er moshun, nur eben de spokes ob de sulky, he talked lak er dyin’ muther to her wayward boy. He scorned de track ob dis wurl an’ seemed ter be pacin’ in de pure air ob God, an’ yit he didn’t rouse er angry wind, nur bring out de loud shouts frum de wurldly gran’ stan’, nur de hoozars of victory, nur de wild frenzy ob delight—but des tears, sweettears. I cried lak er baby. I furgot ter time ’im. De sof’ light cum in frum de winder ob God an’ got inter de winder ob de ole man’s hart. De smell ob de yearthly flowers wus turned to heabenly ones, an’ when his sof’, ’pealin’ voice died away an’ de sweet, ’pealin’ music commenced, I cudn’t tell whar de sermin ended an’ de music begun, dey run togedder so. I sot in er sort ob er dream; I wanted ter go ter heaben; I heerd de white folks all pass quietly out; I heerd de notes ob de organ die erway, but I sot in de cornder, way off by mysef, an’ thanked God dat I’d seed de light an’ heerd de recurd ob salvation busted.”