With Our Writers

John Trotwood Moore, Esq.

Wilmar, Minn., Feb. 17, 1906.

Sir: Two copies of Trotwood’s Monthly have been sent me, and I greatly enjoyed the well-chosen, readable articles, and think there must surely be a field for such a magazine.

In “Educating the Horse,” you give a much-needed warning against the abuse of the checkrein, and the following is written in the hope that so great a lover of horses as your article shows you to be may pick up a real sharp-pointed pen and with black ink give somebody a well-meant, gentlemanly roasting. Like your monthly, it is dedicated to the horse.

The name of Jackson is greatly revered by the American people, and deservedly so; for there have been distinguished soldiers, statesmen, horsemen and whole-souled Southern gentlemen among the Jacksons, but there was one of that name who, I think, ought to have his effigy placed in front of every judge’s stand at every racecourse of the nation. This particular one is the Mr. Jackson who invented that rotten abomination called the Jackson, but now called the overdraw checkrein.

I think not one sound reason can be given for its use, not even on the score of ornament, and twenty could be given against it. It is as cruel as the “scavenger’s daughter,” which the guides will show you in the torture chamber in the Tower of London, and works on the same principle, and is kin to the diabolical contrivance so graphically described by Charles Reade in his inimitable novel, “It Is Never Too Late to Mend,” and again works on the same principle.

Some of the best horsemen, the most carelessly careful drivers, and the best horses are to be found in the coaching clubs in large cities, particularly in New York.

Do you suppose there is money enough in all New York City to induce one of those men to use that check to drive a coach load of people down Broadway at a busy time, or up and down the Adirondacks or Catskills, where close driving and short, quick turning are wanted? Not much, and he does not like spoiling his horses’ necks and legs; besides he wants them to plunge into their collars at a word.

The only two lines that can be effectively used against it, I think, are fashion and ridicule. Make its use “bad form,” and guy it into the ground.

Every user of that check rein ought to memorize some of the sublime lines of Shakespeare. Anyhow, every time he checks a horse up he ought to repeat that immortal speech of Dogberry.

GEORGE MADDISON.

[We thank Mr. Maddison and heartily agree with him.—Ed.]

Editor Trotwood’s:

In your March issue, reprinting the familiar poem, “The Old Canoe,” which the anthology-makers so persistently ascribe to the late Gen. Albert Pike, you say: “Like many other good poems, it was, perhaps, the only one some poet wrote, and, never thinking it would be immortal, or that it had any special merit, failed to sign his name to it.... Its authorship has never before, perhaps, been publicly corrected.”

Both these statements are erroneous.

Nine years ago, when Miss JennieThornley Clarke’s “Songs of the South” was published, it contained this poem, marked “anonymous.” As I chanced to know its real authorship, and hence knew that it lacked several hundreds of miles, geographically speaking, of being a “song of the South,” I sent a communication to the New York Critic, which was printed in its issue of March 13, 1897, giving the facts. I have several times since publicly corrected the statement that General Pike was the author of the poem. The actual author was Miss Emily Rebecca Page, who was born in Bradford, Vt., in 1834, and died in Chelsea, Mass., in 1862. “The Old Canoe” was written in 1849, and appeared in the Portland Transcript in that year. It was not by any means “the only one the poet wrote.” Miss Page was a voluminous writer of both verse and prose, having been a constant contributor to many New England periodicals. She was later assistant editor of “Gleason’s Pictorial” and “The Flag of Our Union,” two Boston literary publications which were very popular forty or fifty years ago. She also published several volumes of poetry.

R. L. C. WHITE.

Nashville, February 26, 1906.

[We knew there must be a history for this poem, and we thank Dr. White for his letter.—Ed.]

Editor Trotwood:

Old Tom’s body lies mouldering in the grave, but his spirit goes pacing on. The gifted pen of the good man, Col. Frank Buford, calls attention to the fact that the sacred dust of the grandest and noblest old Roman is being disturbed. The evergreen of the old tree which marked the revered spot has withered and gone. The Colonel’s item in Trotwood’s jewel case carries us back to a great day in the history of the horse. That the passing of old Tom Hal No. 1 marked a distinct epoch in the equine history of the world may seem a far-fetched statement, but where on the face of the earth is there record, in horse lore, of a greater achievement? Bought by the gallant Capt. Thos. Gibson as a stable companion to the great John Dillard, Jr. (Gibson’s), for the sole purpose of production and betterment of the army of fine saddle horses of the “middle basin,” in good old Tennessee, he grandly served the purpose, for who that has had a “Hal” mount, on a typical Tennessee spring morning, for a ten-mile spin on its fine roadways, over hill and down valley, by babbling brook, has failed to thank God for life, liberty and the capture of happiness on that particular horse. He had populated the fields with a family of superb saddlers, and made greatest achievement of the day as a sire of speed, for “Little Brown Jug,” as the fore pacer of old Tom’s coming family and fame as a sire of the greatest race horses, set the stride, to be bettered by the immortal Hal Pointer 2:04½, who hauled the grim-visaged, silent old warrior to victory in hundreds of hard-fought battles, and the other “Pointer,” blazoned on the course “1:59¼,” a race record not to be rivaled by any other blood. And so, when as a progenitor of size, and beauty, and intelligence, and speed, and stamina, and saddle, and all purpose qualities old Tom had distanced the best hopes of his early admirers, and was gathered to his fathers, his hoofs beat a tattoo down the gold-paved streets leading to St. Peter’s beautiful stables. And the sir knight who drew his rein at the door announced to St. Peter, “Old Tom Hal, Jr., No. 16934, from Tennessee!” and St. Peter looked sad as he said: “I know him not by that cognomen. Take him away. He bears the dub title given by the arch foe of his race of pacers. Clean him of his saddle and cloth, bridle and dub; groom him and clothe him in new purple and gold, and place on his saddle skirt his proper title, viz., ‘Old Tom Hal No. 1,’ and return and ask Ed Geers to ask ‘Old Wash’ to give him the first box stall to the right, and care well for him. The bin of clipped golden oaks is for him, and you, for having the temerity to bring this King here with such a dub title, will go to outer darkness for sixty days.” And it was done.

The funeral of old Tom Hal No. 1 was celebrated at the beautiful mansion place of the famed Bufords, near Buford’s Station, Giles County, Tenn., andwhen the thousands from forty miles around, and mourners from Ohio who came to do honor had tethered their saddle steeds in the great open timber, one could well imagine that the brilliant legion of the immortal “Wheeler” had camped close on our trail. There were hundreds of sons, daughters, grandsons and daughters and nephews and close kin to old Tom Hal there, with moistened eyes and somber mien, as the band played the dirge. The “silent Wheeler” of the harness brigade was there, with the incomparable “Pointer,” 2:04½ as chief mourners, came in a special coach, but there was not time for Pointer’s mourning compatriot to deliver a eulogy. His was the still grief of one who mourns, but cannot weep. All the good people of Maury, Giles, Williamson and adjoining counties were there. The woods seemed full of the cavalry of peace. Cannons of war had been molded into ploughshares, and swords had been fashioned into blacksmith’s pruning knives, and after the time for music and oration, there was a time for feasting, and then the assembled multitude witnessed, not a miracle as to loaves and fishes, but a master demonstration of the measureless, distinctive Southern hospitality (which has to be born Southern to be operative, and seen and realized to be appreciated) of Colonel Buford, on whose estate the funeral was held. People had heard of barbecues, but some of us had never before sniffed the enticing odors of meats thus baked, while our stomachs were collapsed. Trenches some hundreds of feet long, and three feet wide, were filled with live coals, embers of burning firewood, and across these trenches, on green poles, lay wired the fresh sacrifices of lamb and shoat, burnt offerings to the god of the race course, cut in half lengthwise, and these poles (in the brawny hands of the dark-skinned, faithful tillers, the salvation of the people in past time of peril, and the necessity of the future for the development of the wonderful Southland’s broad acres), so frequently turned as to insure a beautiful bake. Suffice it to say the meat and bread and coffee went the whole rounds with the great multitude, and there were many more than the “twelve baskets” after all the people were fed. And while old Tom’s spirit will go pacing on, his name, and his fame briefly, should be carved on a native granite boulder of as many tons weight as can be moved to a conspicuous place in the public square at Columbia, or some other public center, where time or change of ownership would not interfere, as the generations pass. I will be glad to aid such movement.

E. Z. STRIDE.

Cleveland, O., March 1, 1906.

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