Part 31
The next weapon was the spear. These carried points so large that they could not have been used with the ordinary bow. They must have been attached to a larger piece of wood or cane than the arrow-shaft. They were probably mounted upon cane or pieces of wood from four and one-half to seven feet in length. They were doubtless used also in the destruction of the larger animals, either bears or buffaloes, during the buffalo period in Kentucky. The spear would be much more formidable in close quarters with an animal even as large as the wildcat than the bow and arrow. It would be comparatively as efficient as the bayonet of modern times.
Many of the flint knives were mounted on wooden handles. These sometimes measure from one to ten inches in length, and at very close range would become formidable weapons--not as formidable, however, as the battle-ax blade which has been described above.
In Kentucky there are no evidences of the cross-bow having been used. The five weapons which we have described completed the military accoutrement of these men, who must have spent a large portion of their lives in warlike scenes and exploits.
FOOTNOTE:
[31] Copyright, 1910, by the Filson Club.
JAMES H. MULLIGAN
James Hilary Mulligan, the author of _In Kentucky_, was born at Lexington, Kentucky, November 21, 1844. He was graduated at St. Mary's College, Montreal, Canada, in 1864; and five years later Kentucky (Transylvania) University granted him his degree in law. For forty years Judge Mulligan has been known in Kentucky as a lawyer, orator, and maker of clever, humorous verse. He was editor of the old Lexington _Morning Transcript_ for a year; and for six years he was judge of the Recorder's Court of Lexington, from which work he won his title of "judge." From 1881 to 1888 Judge Mulligan was a member of the Kentucky House of Representatives; and from 1890 to 1894 he was in the State Senate. In 1894 President Cleveland appointed Judge Mulligan Consul-General at Samoa, and this post he held for two years. While in Samoa he saw much of Robert Louis Stevenson, who was working upon _Weir of Hermiston_, and well upon his way to the undiscovered country when the Kentucky diplomat met him. When Stevenson died, December 4, 1894, the first authoritative news of his passing came in a now rare and precious little booklet of thirty-seven pages which Lloyd Osbourne, Judge Mulligan, Bazett Haggard, brother of the English novelist, and another writer, sent out to the world, entitled _A Letter to Mr. Stevenson's Friends_ (Apia, Samoa, 1894). It contained a detailed account of the writer's last days, his death, and funeral. Mr. Osbourne "ventured also to reprint Mr. Gosse's beautiful lines, _To Tusitala in Vailima_, which reached Mr. Stevenson but three days before his death." President Cleveland offered to send Judge Mulligan to Cape Town, Africa, but he declined the appointment, and came home. For the past fifteen years he has devoted his attention to the law and to the writing of verse and prose. His _Samoa, the Government, Commerce, and People_ (Washington, 1896), is said to be the most exhaustive account of that island ever published. Judge Mulligan's little humorous poem, _In Kentucky_, has made him famous. First read at a banquet in the old Phoenix Hotel, Lexington, in 1902, it has been declaimed in the halls of Congress and gotten into the _Congressional Record_. It has been parodied a thousand times, reproduced in almost every newspaper in English, illustrated, and at least one Kentuckian has heard it chanted by an Englishman in the shadow of the Pyramids in Egypt! More than a million souvenir postal cards have been sold with the verses printed upon them; and had the author had _In Kentucky_ copyrighted, he would have reaped a harvest of golden coins. As poetry Judge Mulligan's _Over the Hills to Hustonville_, or _The Bells of Old St. Joseph's_, are superior to _In Kentucky_, but they are both comparatively unknown to the general public. Judge Mulligan's home, "Maxwell Place," on the outskirts of Lexington, was the birthplace of _In Kentucky_.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Lexington Leader_ (April 4, 1909); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. xiv).
IN KENTUCKY
[From _The Lexington Herald_ (February 12, 1902)]
The moonlight falls the softest In Kentucky; The summer days come oftest In Kentucky; Friendship is the strongest, Love's light glows the longest, Yet, wrong is always wrongest In Kentucky.
Life's burdens bear the lightest In Kentucky; The home fires burn the brightest In Kentucky; While players are the keenest, Cards come out the meanest, The pocket empties cleanest In Kentucky.
The sun shines ever brightest In Kentucky; The breezes whisper lightest In Kentucky; Plain girls are the fewest, Their little hearts the truest, Maiden's eyes the bluest In Kentucky.
Orators are the grandest In Kentucky; Officials are the blandest In Kentucky; Boys are all the fliest, Danger ever nighest, Taxes are the highest In Kentucky.
The bluegrass waves the bluest In Kentucky; Yet, bluebloods are the fewest(?) In Kentucky; Moonshine is the clearest, By no means the dearest, And, yet, it acts the queerest In Kentucky.
The dovenotes are the saddest In Kentucky; The streams dance on the gladdest In Kentucky; Hip pockets are the thickest, Pistol hands the slickest, The cylinder turns quickest In Kentucky.
The song birds are the sweetest In Kentucky; The thoroughbreds are fleetest In Kentucky; Mountains tower proudest, Thunder peals the loudest, The landscape is the grandest-- And politics--the damnedest In Kentucky.
OVER THE HILL TO HUSTONVILLE
[From _The Lexington Leader_ (April 4, 1909)]
Over the hill to Hustonville, Past mead and vale and waving grain With fleecy clouds and glad sunshine And the balm of the coming rain; On where hidden beneath the hill, In the widening vale below-- Chime and smith and distant herd Sing a song of the long ago.
Over the hill to Hustonville Where silent fields are sad and brown, And the crow's lone call is blended With the anvil beat of the town; Where sweet the hamlet life flows on, And the doors ever open wide, Welcome the worn and wandering To the ingle and cheer inside.
Over the hill to Hustonville I knew and loved as a child, A scene that yet lights up to me With a radiant glow and mild; With drowsy lane and quiet street, Gables quaint and the houses gray, Ancient inn with battered sign, And an air of the far-away.
Over the hill to Hustonville Where men are yet sturdy and strong As were their sires in days long past-- As true as their flint-locks long. And maids are shy and soft of speech-- As the wild-rose, lithsome and true, Eyes alight as the coming dawn, Softly blue, as their skies are blue.
Some--sometime--in the bye and bye, With all my life-won riches rare-- Dead hopes and faded memories-- A silken floss of baby hair; Fast locked close within my heart-- Worn of strife and the empty quest-- I'll over the hill to Hustonville, To dream ever--and rest--and rest.
NELLY M. McAFEE
Mrs. Nelly (Nichol) Marshall McAfee, novelist and verse writer, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, May 8, 1845, the daughter of Humphrey Marshall, the younger. When but eighteen years of age she embarked upon a literary career. Her verse and short-stories appeared in many of the best American newspapers and magazines, and they brought her a wide reputation. On February 13, 1871, after a romantic courtship of some years, Miss Marshall was married to Captain John J. McAfee, a former Confederate soldier, then a member of the Kentucky legislature. Mrs. McAfee published two volumes of verse, entitled _A Bunch of Violets_, and _Leaves From the Book of My Heart_. Her novels include _Eleanor Morton, or Life in Dixie_ (New York, 1865); _Sodom Apples_ (1866); _Fireside Gleamings_ (Chicago, 1866); _Dead Under the Roses_ (1867); _Wearing the Cross_ (Cincinnati, 1868); _As by Fire_ (New York, 1869); _Passion, or Bartered and Sold_ (Louisville, 1876); and _A Criminal Through Love_ (Louisville, 1882). Mrs. McAfee died at Washington, D. C., about 1895.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Woods-McAfee Memorial History_, by N. M. Woods (Louisville, 1905); _Dictionary of American Authors_, by O. F. Adams (Boston, 1905).
FINALE
[From _A Criminal Through Love_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1882)]
Many years have been gathered to the illimitable past, and we find ourselves, with undiminished interest, seeking to learn all we can in regard to the positions and attainments of the characters who have been with us for so long.
This is the gist of what we have learned about them.
Walter Floor's firm has grown and flourished; the dark cloud of sorrow that so long overshadowed his sky, has rolled away, and he is nevermore melancholy or oppressed. His home is the resting-place and haven for everybody who chooses to enjoy shelter and repose. Constant and Valentine are standing guests at the Floor mansion; the talented painter has no longer any need to work for money. The mention of his name opens every door to him, and Fortune and Fame await him with their arms laden with golden sheaves and shining laurel wreaths. His greatest work of art--his masterpiece--was taken from Mozart's Opera of _Don Juan_. At a glance any one could tell that the artist painted the portrait _con amore_, for Donna Anna was nothing more than a portrait of Margarethe Heinold--whom we must ever after this moment remember only as Margarethe Hendrik. More happiness than came with this name to her could scarcely be enjoyed by mortal. Great sums were offered again and again to Constant for this picture, but he refused to sell it; it now graces the elegant _Salon_ of Julian Hendrik in his magnificent villa, which stands on the banks of the Rhine.
Margarethe, after the night of her brilliant _debut_, never stepped upon the boards. She was often urged to let the world hear her splendid voice, which returned to her in all its volume and beauty after she regained her health, but she refused to entertain the proposition for an instant, declaring that public life, however glorious, had no charms for her; that she lived only for her husband, to whom she becomes ever more tenderly attached the better she became acquainted with his noble heart, elevated mind, and peerless character as a man and a gentleman.
Didier Mametin is still in Paris; at the death of old Vincent he became his heir, and was at last able to open such a photographer's _Atelier_ as other artists pronounced perfect in every detail. The lighthearted Frenchman, never accustomed to an extravagant mode of living, is just as merry in humor and abstemious in diet as of yore. Henriette often declares that he acts as if he were afraid of starving--he is such a hoarder for "rainy days." But Didier had a varied experience, and the lessons he learned were not easily forgotten. One happy fact remains: He and Henriette love each other dearly, and would not exchange their places or give up their home to be a king and queen and live in a palace.
Roderick Martens attends to the ship-building interests of Jyphoven, in Amsterdam, and occupies the old Jyphoven mansion. Herr and Madame Jyphoven continue to reside in Paris. Bella is enchanted with life in the French city, and declares that to be mistress of the whole world--if she would go but for a day--could be no inducement to her to set her foot in the old Holland fishery, as she now describes it to be. She is entirely reconciled to Francisca. The beauty and happiness of the young wife would captivate the most callous heart.
And Von Kluyden? This man who devoted himself to intrigue and rascality for so long, knew not, while he lived, how otherwise to occupy his time. He was never satisfied. Nemesis held him fast in her cruel clutches. When the time came for Hendrik to assert and prove his rights, he did so most successfully; and that for which Isabella bartered her honor, and beauty, and youth, passed like sand through the fingers, and was hers no more. Von Kluyden was successful in nothing that he undertook to accomplish; the ghost of the murdered Horst followed him day and night;--he finally died in a madhouse! Isabella had, a little while before his dementia, entrusted herself and her million of money into the hands of a young man of the titled nobility--who in his turn did not love the young widow even for her marvelous beauty--but for the _thalers_ and _gulden_ that brought plenty to his empty coffers and luxury to his impoverished home. In this marriage Isabella did not find the happiness she expected to find, and for which she had so long waited. The Prince squandered her enormous fortune, as Princes are usually supposed to squander fortunes, in about the half of a year's duration, and by that time, having found out and enjoyed all that life held for him of pleasure or excitement, he closed his career by putting a pistol-ball through his head, early one morning, while the sun was shining, and the birds were singing, and flowers were blooming on every side.
So it has come to pass that Isabella--although not yet twenty-five years of age, has been twice a widow--(and a very charming one she is!) not likely now ever to be aught else! The sale of her beauty, her honor, her peace of mind, has brought to her, as a recompense for what she has lost, a varied and rich experience, which will save her forever hereafter from the chance of being deceived and betrayed through the tenderest and noblest impulses of the human heart.
And so the curtain goes down forever between us and those with whom we have whiled away some pleasant hours, and gathered, it may be, profit or amusement from their acting on the stage of life.
_Voila tout._
MARY F. CHILDS
Mrs. Mary Fairfax Childs, maker of dialect verse, was born at Lexington, Kentucky, May 25, 1846. She is the daughter of the Rev. Edward Fairfax Berkley (1813-1897), who was rector of Christ Church, Lexington, for nineteen years. Dr. Berkley baptized Henry Clay, in 1847, and buried him five years later. Miss Berkley was a pupil at the Misses Jackson's Seminary for young ladies until her thirteenth year, or, in 1858, when her father accepted a call to St. Louis, in which city he labored for the following forty years. In St. Louis, she continued her studies at a private school for girls, when she left prior to her graduation in order to devote herself more especially to music, Latin, and French. Miss Berkley was married, in 1870, to William Ward Childs, a returned Confederate soldier; and in 1884 they removed to Clinton, Missouri, where they resided for seven years, when business called them to New York, their home until Mr. Child's death in 1911. Mrs. Childs's life in New York was a very busy one. She was prominent in several social and literary groups; and for many years she was corresponding secretary of the New York Chapter of the United Daughters of the Confederacy. Her first poem that attracted wide attention was entitled _De Namin' ob de Twins_, which originally appeared in _The Century Magazine_ for December, 1903. It was the second in a group of _Eleven Negro Songs_, written by Joel Chandler Harris, Grace MacGowan Cooke, Paul Lawrence Dunbar, and one or two other poets. That Mrs. Childs's masterpiece was the flower of the flock admits of little question: it is one of the best negro dialect poems yet written by a Southern woman. Exactly a year later the same periodical published her _A Christmas Warning_, with the well-known refrain, _Roos' high, chicken--roos' high_. These, with many others, were brought together in an attractive volume, entitled _De Namin' ob de Twins, and Other Sketches from the Cotton Land_ (New York, 1908). This collection is highly esteemed by that rather small company of lovers of dialect verse. Mrs. Childs's poem, _The Boys Who Wore the Gray_, has been printed, and is well-known throughout the South. She has recently completed another collection of sketches, called _Absolute Monarchy_, which will appear in 1913. At the present time Mrs. Childs is historian of the Society of Kentucky Women of New York, although she is residing at Kirkwood, Missouri, near St. Louis.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mrs. Childs to the present writer; _The Century Magazine_ (January, 1906).
DE NAMIN' OB DE TWINS[32]
[From _De Namin' ob de Twins, and Other Sketches from the Cotton Land_ (New York, 1908)]
What I gwine name mah Ceely's twins? I dunno, honey, yit, But I is jes er-waitin' fer de fines' I kin git, De names is purty nigh run out, So many niggahs heah, I 'clar' dey's t'ick as cotton-bolls in pickin'-time o' yeah.
But 't ain' no use to 'pose to me Ole secondary names, Lak 'Liza_beth_ an' Jose_phine_, or Caesah, Torm, an' James, 'Ca'se dese heah twinses ob mah gal's Is sech a diff'ent kind, Dey's 'titled to do grandes' names dat ary one kin find.
Fer sho dese little shiny brats Is got de fus'-cut look, So mammy wants fine city names, lak you gits out a book; I ax Marse Rob, an' he done say Some 'rageous stuff lak dis: He'd call de bruddah Be'lze_bub_, de sistah Gene_sis_;
Or Alphy an' Omegy--de Beginnin' an' de en'-- But den, ob co'se no man kin tell, what mo' de Lawd 'll sen'; Fer de pappy ob dese orphans-- You heah me?--I'll be boun', While dey's er-crawlin' on de flo', he'll be er-lookin' roun';
'Ca'se I done seen dem Judas teahs He drap at Ceely's grabe, A-peepin' 'hind his han'kercher, at ole Tim's yaller Gabe; A-mekin' out to moan an' groan, Lak he was gwine 'o bus'-- Lawd! honey, dem dat howls de mos,' gits ober it de fus'.
Annynias an' Saphiry, Sis Tab done say to me, But he'p me, Lawd! what _do_ she 'spec' dese chillum gwine o' be? 'Sides, dem names 's got er cur'us soun'-- You says I's hard to please? Well, so 'ould any granny be, wid sech a pa'r as dese.
Ole Pahson Bob he 'low dat I Will suttinly be sinnin', Onless I gibs 'em names dat starts 'em right in de beginnin'; "Iwilla" fer de gal, he say, F'om de tex' "I will a-rise," An' dat 'ould show she's startin' up, todes glory in de skies;
An' fer dis man chile, Aberham-- De fardah ob' em all-- Or else Belshazzah, who done writ dat writin' on de wall; But Pahson Bob--axcuse me, Lawd!-- Hed bettah sabe his bref To preach de gospel, an' jes keep his "visin" to hiss'f;
Per nary pusson, white nor black, Ain' gib no p'int to me 'Bout namin' dese heah Chris'mus gifs, asleep on granny's knee; (Now heshaby--don' squirm an' twis', Be still you varmints, do! You anin' gwine hab no niggah names to tote aroun' wide you!)
'Ca'se on de question ob dese names I sho is hed mah mine _Per_zactly an' _per_cidedly done med up all de time; Fer mah po' Ceely Ann--yas, Lawd, Jes nigh afo' she died, She name' dis gal, "Neu-ral-gy," her boy twin, "Hom-i-cide."
FOOTNOTE:
[32] Copyright, 1908, by B. W. Dodge and Company.
WILLIAM T. PRICE
William Thompson Price, dramatic critic, creator of playwrights, was born near Louisville, Kentucky, December 17, 1846. He was educated in the private schools of Louisville, but the Civil War proved more interesting than text-books, so he ran away with Colonel E. P. Clay, whom he left, in turn, for John H. Morgan, and Generals Forrest and Wheeler. He was finally captured and imprisoned but he, of course, escaped. After the war Mr. Price went to Germany and studied for three years at the Universities of Leipzig and Berlin. From 1875 to 1880 he was dramatic critic for the Louisville _Courier-Journal_; and the following five years he devoted to editorial work for various newspapers, and to collecting material for his enormous biography of the Rev. George O. Barnes, a noted and eccentric Kentucky evangelist, which appeared under the title of _Without Scrip or Purse_ (Louisville, 1883). Mr. Price went to New York in the early eighties, and that city has remained his home to this day. In 1885 he was dramatic critic for the now defunct New York _Star_, which he left after a year to become a reader of new plays for A. M. Palmer, the leading manager of his time, whom he was associated with for more than twenty years. Mr. Price's _The Technique of the Drama_ (New York, 1892), gave him a high position among the dramatic writers of the country. A new edition of it was called for in 1911, and it seems destined to remain the chief authority in its field for many years. In 1901 Mr. Price became playreader for Harrison Grey Fiske; and in the same year he founded the American School of Playwriting, in which men and women, whom the gods forgot, are transformed into great dramatists--perhaps! His second volume upon the stage, _The Analysis of Play Construction and Dramatic Principle_ (New York, 1908), is the text-book of his school. At the present time Mr. Price is editor of _The American Playwright_, a monthly magazine of dramatic discussion.
BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Price to the present writer; _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).
THE OFFENBACH AND GILBERT OPERAS[33]
[From _The Technique of the Drama_ (New York, 1892)]
The light-hearted genius of Paris composed a new style of opera for the general merriment of the world. Who can describe the surprises, the quaintness of song, the drolleries of action of the Offenbach school? It was the intoxicating wine of music. Gladstone, when premier of England, found time to say that the world owed as much in its civilization to the discovery of the fiddle as it did to steam.
This cannot be applied in its whole sense to Offenbach, but this master of satire and the sensuous certainly expressed his times. He set laughter to song. It was democratic. It spared not king, courtier, or the rabble. It was wisdom and sentiment in disguise. It was born among despotisms, and jested when kingdoms fell. It was the stalking horse behind which Offenbach hunted the follies of the day and bagged the absurdities of the hour. If it had _double entendre_, its existence had a double meaning. Its music and purpose defied national prejudices. Under its laughter-compelling notes the sober bass-viol put on a merry disposition, and your cornet-a-piston became a wag. It was flippant, the glorification of youthful mirth and feelings, and it made many a melancholy Jacques sing again the song of Beranger,
"_Comme je regrette ma jambe si dodu._"
It is not the purpose here to commend its delirious dances, but to admit that there was genius in it. In a technical sense the dramatic part of them are models compared with the inane and vague compositions of a later school.
The opera bouffe is in a stage beyond decadence, and no longer regards consistency, even of nonsense, in its dramatic elements. Some of the conventionalisms of its technique remain.
We hear again and again the old choruses, the drinking songs, the letter songs, the wine songs, the conspirators' songs, the departure for the war, the lovers' duets, and what-not, with the old goblets, the old helmets and all in use; but order is lost, and the topical song often saves the public patience, apart from the _disjecta membra_, upon which are fed the eye and the ear.