Volume 13 / Part 2 — OUTING. (continued 3)

The shadows of evening are falling, so we turn homeward. The scenes of the outward journey meet the eye again, mellowed in the deepening twilight. At length we reach the landing, with a keen appetite for dinner, and in a condition to thoroughly enjoy the after-dinner pipe before an open fire, and the perusal of the latest novel.

OUTDOOR LIFE OF THE PRESIDENTS.

BY JOHN P. FOLEY.

III.—ANDREW JACKSON.

THE life of Andrew Jackson has been tersely described as “a battle and a march.” Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, were all born in the purple of slavery. They were the sons of wealthy planters; educated at the best schools; provided with private tutors, and, with one exception, graduated from the leading colleges of the period. They moved in the best circles of society, and could choose whatever profession or pursuit they pleased. Seats in the House of Burgesses of Virginia awaited them as soon as they became of age, and whatever other political preferment young native-born Americans could obtain under the colonial régime was easily within their reach. Very different the early life and fortune of Andrew Jackson, the fifth of the Southern Presidents.

Two years before he was born his father was a poor linen weaver in the North of Ireland, beaten in the struggle for existence and preparing with some of his relatives to emigrate to the new world. This little colony, made up of Jacksons and Crawfords, landed at Charleston, in 1765, and immediately started for the Waxhaw settlement, which lay partly in North and partly in South Carolina, in the region bordering on the Catawba River. This point, no doubt, was chosen because a number of colonists from the same part of Ireland had already made their homes there. The Crawfords bought good land in the centre of the settlement, while the Jacksons, not having the means to purchase, went on new land some miles distant. There Jackson, senior, built a hut and began to clear the woods around him. At the end of two years he became ill and died. Mr. Parton, in his excellent life of President Jackson, tells us that the widow, accompanied by her little family, brought the remains of her husband in a rude wagon out of the wilderness to the Waxhaw churchyard, and did not again return home after the interment. Instead, she went to the house of a brother-in-law, and in a few days gave birth to a son, whom she named Andrew. The log-house, where this event took place on March 15, 1767, was at a point on the North Carolina side, less than a quarter of a mile from the boundary line between the two provinces; so that the hero of New Orleans, many years later, erred in the matter of his nativity, when, in his celebrated manifesto to the nullifiers of South Carolina, he addressed them as “Fellow-Citizens of my native State.” Mrs. Jackson, at the end of three weeks, left her eldest son to assist this relative on his farm and went with her second son and the infant Andrew to the house of her brother-in-law, the Mr. Crawford with whom she and her husband crossed the Atlantic two years before. Crawford was then in comfortable circumstances. He had some capital when he arrived, and, in addition, was a good, thrifty and successful farmer. This was young Jackson’s home during the next ten or twelve years. His life was indeed “a battle and a march,” and march and battle began with his very infancy.

North Carolinians have long and tenacious memories, and when, more than a quarter of a century ago, Mr. Parton made a pilgrimage into Mecklenberg County to collect materials for the life of the great democratic chieftain, he was able to gather many an anecdote of the early life of his hero. “He was a wild, frolicksome, wilful, mischievous, daring, reckless boy, who loved his friends and detested his enemies.” Truly, the boy was father of the man. He allowed no one to impose upon him. On one occasion, we are told, some boys gave him a gun loaded to the muzzle in order to see him knocked over when he fired it. He was kicked over, and springing to his feet exclaimed: “If one of you laughs I’ll kill him!” And there was no laughter. It is said that the larger boys had trouble in getting along with him; but that he was idolized by the smaller ones, who always found in him a protector and a champion. “He was,” said one who knew him in youth, “a bully, but never a coward.” In boyish games and sports of every description he was thoroughly proficient. It was easy to make a wrestling match when “Andy” Jackson was present; but, although tall and active, he was not strong in proportion to his height, and was frequently thrown. He was fond of running and jumping, feats in which he excelled. He was addicted to gibberish or slang, and one of his favorite expressions was this: “Set de case: You are Shauney Kerr’s mare and me Billy Buck; and I should mount you and you should kick, fall, fling and break your neck, should I be to blame for that?” Young John Quincy Adams, who was born in the same year as Jackson, and who was at this time studying diplomacy under his father in Europe, would probably have fled in as great horror from his successor in the Presidency, if he then propounded to him this problem, as in after years he fled from him on the day of his inauguration. The woods of Waxhaw were full of deer, wild turkey and other game, and owing to the household demands of the colony, to hunt and kill them was much more of a necessity than a pleasure. Jackson, it is needless to say, became expert with the rifle, and the bird or animal that came within range rarely escaped with its life.

His mother’s ambition was to make him a clergyman, and in due time he was sent to what in those days was called “an old field school.” By and by he attended schools of a better class, at which lads were prepared for college. Where the means to pay for this superior education came from is not known, but it is believed that his mother was assisted by members of her family in Ireland. Jackson was not a studious boy, so he learned little except reading, writing, and arithmetic. His educational equipment all through life was very light, but, nevertheless, his name stands on the roll of the learned Doctors of Harvard, an act for which the younger Adams never forgave his old university. When the colonies decided to draw the sword, Jackson was a child nine years old, and the war was half over before its tide rolled along to the banks of the Catawba. From the very beginning, however, the Scotch-Irish settlers of Waxhaw were as loyal and devoted to the patriotic cause as the descendants of the Puritans who fell at Lexington and Bunker Hill. Many of them and their children went into the army, among others Hugh Jackson, Andrew’s eldest brother, who was “a man in stature if not in years.” He was killed in the battle of Stono. Robert Jackson, the second son, too young to bear arms, and Andrew were with their mother when Tarleton’s dragoons swept along to Waxhaw. A body of militia was taken by surprise and a large number killed and wounded. This was Jackson’s first lesson in war. He was then about thirteen, and he and his brother aided their mother in nursing the unfortunate victims of the raid. Tarleton’s troopers rode hard and fast over the Waxhaw farms, little dreaming that in one of its log-cabins they had left behind them a rough, ungainly boy who in after years was destined to defeat one of England’s ablest generals at the head of veteran soldiers bearing on their conquering banners the memorable names of Talavera and Badajos. Next came Lord Rawdon threatening to imprison all who refused to promise not to participate in the war. Mrs. Jackson fled with her two boys into the wilderness rather than make the pledge. A short time after both sons were present in the engagement at Hanging Rock, near Waxhaw, where the patriots were so nearly victorious. The defeat of Gates brought the victorious Cornwallis to the little settlement, and the terrified inhabitants, Mrs. Jackson and her children among them, again fled before the soldiery. Andrew found a refuge in a temporary home on a farm where he gave his services in exchange for his board. His principal duties were fetching wood, driving cattle, picking beans, going to the mill and the blacksmith’s shop. “He never,” says Mr. Parton, “went to the blacksmith’s without bringing home something with which to kill the enemy. Once he fastened the blade of a scythe to a pole, and on reaching home began to cut down the weeds, exclaiming, ‘Oh! if I were a man I would sweep down the British with my grass blade.’” The Jacksons were all home again in 1781, when the Waxhaw country became quiet.

Andrew was now fourteen, tall as a man, but without much bodily strength. He and his brother thought, however, that they could be of some service to their country, and from time to time joined small raiding parties, organized to retaliate on the enemy. Cornwallis sent a body of troops to suppress these disorders, and in a conflict the Jackson boys were captured. Then occurred that memorable incident in his life which so embittered him ever afterward against England. The officer who had captured him, ordered him to clean his boots. Jackson indignantly refused, declaring that he was a prisoner of war and expected to be treated as one. A fierce sword-blow aimed at his head was the answer. He warded it off with his arm, but the weapon struck his skull, inflicting a wound on arm and head, the marks of which remained to the day of his death. The brutal officer then gave the same order to the brother. He, too, refused to obey and was prostrated with a blow which nearly killed him. One day, while a prisoner, Andrew was threatened with death unless he guided the troops to the house of an obnoxious patriot. He pretended to comply, but went by a route which gave the intended victim notice of their approach and enabled him to escape. The two brothers were next marched off prisoners of war to Camden, forty miles distant. They and their companions were treated with horrible barbarity on the way. Forced to walk the entire distance without food, they were not even allowed to drink the muddy water by the wayside. In Camden jail they were nearly starved to death. Small-pox broke out among the ill-fed and ill-clothed captives and it became a very pest-hole. At length General Greene appeared before the place and there were hopes of a rescue. Jackson cut through a knot-hole in the fence and saw the operations in the field, which he reported to his fellow-prisoners. The Continental troops were defeated and the captives were in despair. But the faithful mother had not forgotten or abandoned them, and one day she appeared offering to exchange for her boys and some other prisoners, thirteen soldiers who had been captured by the men of Waxhaw. Her sons were so worn-out by starvation and disease that she scarcely knew them. What a journey that was home to the Waxhaw! They could procure only two horses for the entire party. The mother rode one; on the other was her son Robert, stricken with small-pox and held in his seat by the exchanged prisoners. By their side trudged Andrew, shivering with fever and ague, shoeless, almost naked, his feet and legs bleeding and torn by rocks and briers. Still the battle and the march!

But the battle was only beginning for this seemingly ill-starred boy. When peace came, sending sunshine and joy through all the land, this heroic North of Ireland mother had been sleeping beside her husband in the Waxhaw graveyard more than a year, and the orphaned Andrew was striving hard to learn the trade of a saddler. His health was bad, and his spirit seemed broken. Perhaps it was grief for the mother whom he so deeply loved, and whose memory he revered all through life. Gradually, however, the spring and buoyancy of his nature asserted themselves. He made the acquaintance of some boys of his own age whose parents had fled from Charleston, when it was captured, to Waxhaw, and who were waiting for the evacuation to return. He was the owner of a horse at this time, but it is not clear whether he obtained him by gift or purchase. At all events, he ran races; very often rode them, and, impartial history bids us say, “gambled a little, drank a little, and fought cocks.” It was a rude age; the little society that existed was demoralized by war, and there was no one to restrain, perhaps no one even to advise, this young orphan boy. He followed his friends to Charleston, “riding his horse, a fine and valuable animal which he had contrived to possess.” His career in that city was wild and reckless. He ran up a long bill with his landlord, which he paid by a lucky throw at dice; the wager being his horse against two hundred dollars. All at once his conscience seems to have smitten him. He resolved to return home and reform. Never again through all his life did he throw dice for a wager. His scheme of reformation did not, however, include the abandonment of horse-racing and chicken-fighting, for during the next two years his biographers continue to record many achievements and adventures in this line. His other pursuits, if he had any, are not known. Some say he taught school. If he did, teachers must have been few and far between at that time in North Carolina. When he was seventeen or eighteen years of age, he went to Salisbury to study law. Unable to find an opening, he went to Morgantown, in Burke County, where he was equally unsuccessful. At length he succeeded in persuading Mr. Spruce McCoy, of Salisbury, a lawyer of eminence, and subsequently a distinguished judge, to undertake his instruction. The story of his career in Salisbury is a sad one, if certain traditions be true. He was, according to some of his biographers, “the most roaring, rollicking, game-cocking, horse-racing, card-playing mischievous fellow that ever lived in Salisbury.” The portrait is probably from the easel of a political enemy, or a well-meaning admirer, who deemed these the highest qualifications a young man could possess. In the first place, a life of this description involved the expenditure of considerable money even in a small North Carolina town a century ago, and Jackson had none. To suppose that he lived by gambling and horse-racing is absurd. It is certain, however, that on one occasion he ran a foot-race there under somewhat ludicrous conditions. The champion runner of the town was one Hugh Montgomery. A match was made between him and Jackson on these terms: Montgomery to carry a man on his back and get a start of half the distance. Jackson won by one or two feet, “amid the laughter of the town.”

He received his license to practice law before he reached his twentieth year. This he could not have accomplished if his life had been the wild and reckless one which some writers would have us believe. He left Salisbury immediately and went to live at Martinsville in Guilford County. Two of his friends kept a store there, and he probably assisted them, although, it is said, he earned a livelihood by serving as a constable. The following year a friend of his was appointed judge of the Superior Court in Tennessee. He appointed Jackson public prosecutor. The position was not one for which there were many applicants. In the first place, it led into the wilderness where the red man was yet very successfully disputing the advance of the pale-faces, and, in the next, the whites whom Jackson was coming to prosecute were not much higher in the scale of civilization than the native savages. Jackson induced some friends to accompany him in quest of fortune and fame, and a start was made for Jonesboro’, then the principal settlement in Eastern Tennessee. Thence they proceeded to Nashville, where they arrived in October, 1788. The journey was full of peril, and were it not for the watchfulness of Jackson one night the whole party would probably have been massacred. Having a presentiment of danger, he determined to sit up on guard. Toward midnight the hooting of an owl fell on his ear. This was followed by another and another, until in a short time all the owls in Tennessee appeared to have collected overhead of them. Jackson suspected that these owls carried scalping-knives and tomahawks, and awoke his companions. They were troubled no more by owls that night. At Nashville he found as much law business as he could attend to, and he set to work with his usual energy and vigor. In his capacity of public prosecutor he was obliged to attend court at Jonesboro’, which compelled him to make frequent journeys through the Indian-infested wilderness. This was hard and perilous work. No one dared attempt the trip alone, and travelers were in the habit of making up parties in order to be the better prepared for attack. Jackson one time was delayed, and his friends started without him. He followed and soon came upon their track, and, at the same time, the unmistakable trail of Indians immediately behind them. This was a situation which would have caused ninety-nine in a hundred men to turn back, but not so Jackson. Although his servant declined to go with him he determined to push ahead, and divided his provisions with his attendant, who turned homeward. Jackson came to a point where the Indians had branched off with the intention of surprising and attacking the whites with a certainty of success. At length he overtook his friends and warned them of their danger. It was snowing heavily at the time, and the entire party were turned away from the camp of some hunters from whom they had asked shelter. When returning home they again stopped at the camp, but every one of the hunters had been scalped.

Jackson now began to accumulate property, and he married Mrs. Robards, establishing his home, the first he really ever had, in Nashville. This was almost the first halt thus far in “the march and the battle” of his life. It was not, however, the famous home called the Hermitage, for that did not come until many years later. If money was scarce in Tennessee at that time, there was an abundance of land, and six hundred and forty acres, or a square mile of real estate, was the ordinary fee for trying a case at court. Jackson was in fact a land speculator, as well as a lawyer, and he was a purchaser whenever he could command the money. So large were his possessions that he sold six thousand dollars worth of land in one block to a gentleman in Philadelphia, and after that large transaction for that time, had still several thousand acres left. Some years later he engaged in business on his place at Hunters Hill, thirteen miles from Nashville. This plantation embraced several thousand acres, and he erected on it a house which was one of the finest in that part of the country. In a smaller building near it he opened a store and sold goods to the Indians through a small window. His prosperity, however, received a sudden check. The Philadelphia gentleman, whose notes he had taken for his land, failed, and the protection of the notes devolved on Jackson, who had discounted them. This he did at an enormous sacrifice.

He determined to retrieve his fortune, and to that end enlarged his operations in every direction. His slaves numbered one hundred and fifty, and in their management he was greatly assisted by Mrs. Jackson. He raised corn and cotton, which he shipped on his own boats. At his large store he took produce of all kinds in exchange for goods. He had on his plantation a cotton-gin, which was so recently invented that it had scarcely ceased to be a curiosity. With it he cleaned his own cotton and that of his neighbors, which was another source of income. He was an excellent farmer and very proud of his crops, which were nearly always good. But this was not all. In his youth he had been exceedingly fond of horses, and his equine tastes grew stronger as he advanced in years. He brought the famous “Truxton” from Virginia to Tennessee and won fame and money as a turfman. Few races came off in the country around in which his name was not among the entries, and, as he ran his animals with care and judgment, he was a frequent winner. His stable was in fact the best bred in all that section, and proved a large source of income to him. Down even to the present day there is a “Truxton” strain in Tennessee which is highly prized. In addition he amused himself with an occasional cockfight. On at least one occasion the ownership of six hundred and forty acres of land depended upon the issue of the battle between the game birds. During these years, while he was pursuing the avocation of a planter, of a dealer in the goods of every description needed in a new country, of a horse-breeder and of a speculator in land, he also found time to hold various public positions. He was a delegate to the convention that framed the constitution of the State; a member of the legislature; then a congressman and a judge. His service in Congress was very brief, and he resigned his position on the bench in order to recover the fortune he had lost. Jackson was a good public officer. He was not a great lawyer or jurist, but he fearlessly prosecuted every lawbreaker, and his decisions were always honest. Every scoundrel in the territory was his enemy, but he never quailed before one of them.

While he was on the bench the sheriff one day told him that a ruffian, who had been guilty of cutting off his child’s ear in a drunken passion, was in the court-house yard, armed with dirk and pistols, and defied arrest. Jackson directed him to summon a posse of citizens. The sheriff reported back that the citizens were too terrified to act. “He must be taken,” said Jackson; “summon me!” With a pistol in either hand, Jackson walked into the yard and strode up to the outlaw, who at once surrendered to him.

Jackson possessed undaunted courage and nerve. A mob assembled one time with the intention of tarring and feathering him. He was ill in bed when a committee waited on him to communicate the cheerful intelligence. “Give my compliments,” said he, “to Colonel —— [the leader of the party], and tell him my door is open to receive him and his regiment whenever they choose to call upon me, and that I hope he will have the chivalry to lead his men and not to follow them.” His brave defiance cowed the mob. It dispersed, and its leader apologized to Jackson.

Long years after, while Jackson was President, he told a story of one of his experiences during these frontier days, which we shall insert here.

“Now, Mr. B——,” said Jackson, “if any one attacks you I know you will fight with that big black stick of yours. You will aim right for his head. Well, sir, ten chances to one he will ward it off, and if you do hit him, you won’t bring him down. Now, sir [taking the stick into his own hands], you hold the stick so and punch him in the stomach, and you’ll drop him. I will tell you how I found that out. When I was a young man, practising law in Tennessee, there was a big bullying fellow that wanted to pick a quarrel with me, and so trod on my toes. Supposing it accidental, I said nothing. Soon after he did it again, and I began to suspect his object. In a few moments he came by a third time, pushing against me violently and evidently meaning fight. He was a man of immense size, one of the very biggest men I ever saw. As quick as a flash I snatched a small rail from the top of the fence and gave him the point of it full in the stomach. Sir, it doubled him up. He fell at my feet, and I stamped on him. Soon he got up, savage, and was about to fly at me like a tiger. The bystanders made as though they would interfere. Said I, ‘Don’t; stand back; give me room; that is all I ask, and I will manage him.’ With that I stood ready with the rail pointed. He gave me one look and turned away a bewitted man, sir, and feeling like one. So, sir, I say to you, if any fellow assaults you, give him the point in his belly.”

Jackson fought several duels, killing his antagonist in one of them; but these episodes in his life do not fall within the limits of this paper. His military career may be said to begin with his appointment, in 1802, to the command of the militia of Tennessee, although he was not called into active service until the following year. Jefferson had then completed the Louisiana purchase, and it was thought the Spaniards would not be willing to acknowledge the authority of the United States, and, possibly, might resist it. Troops were ordered to the frontier, and if necessary were to be marched to New Orleans. Tennessee promptly responded, and Major General Jackson discharged so well the duty assigned him that he was thanked by the Federal Government.

The ambitious, restless, brilliant Burr was at this time revolving in his fertile brain the erection of an empire in Mexico, and looking around for lieutenants to aid him in the realization of his dream, his eye fell upon Jackson, whom he had doubtless met in Philadelphia while he was Vice-President. In the summer of 1805 Jackson rode from his plantation into Nashville. The little town was gayly decked with flags and banners, and the streets were thronged with people from the surrounding country. Aaron Burr was expected, and the demonstration was in his honor. After an entertainment by the people of Nashville he rode home with Jackson as his guest. Burr’s project appealed to the imagination of Jackson and he offered his services. Next day Burr went away. A year later he was again in Kentucky and Tennessee, and Jackson again offered to join his expedition. The enterprise was then discussed everywhere, but no one had suspected, or at least given expression to, the suspicion that Burr’s plans were hostile to the interests of the United States. Rumors of this nature, however, were soon afloat, and Jackson laid the matter before Governor Claiborne. He at the same time wrote Burr, declaring that if his designs were inimical to the government, he desired to have no further relations with him. Burr was tried shortly afterwards for treason. He was always one of Jackson’s friends and entertained the highest opinion of his military capacity. When Congress declared war against England in 1812, Burr said that Jackson was the most capable general in the country. During the next five or six years Jackson was in private life.

The outbreak of hostilities with England called him again into the field. The Mississippi Valley was loyal to the core and promptly furnished a larger number of men than had been called for. Jackson, at the head of 2,500 volunteers, descended the Ohio and Mississippi to Natchez, where he received word from Wilkinson, at New Orleans, to await further orders. Wilkinson was jealous of Jackson and did not desire his co-operation if he could do without it. Jackson, angry at the delay, went into camp. Later on he was enraged when, instead of receiving an order to advance, he was instructed to disband his forces 500 miles from Nashville. It was a cruel order to give; cruel treatment of men who had so promptly rushed to the defense of their country. Jackson resolved to disobey it. He would not abandon his men so far from their homes. His quarter-master refused to furnish proper supplies. Jackson solved that problem by borrowing $5,000 on his own responsibility. The journey back was severe, and many of the men fell sick. Jackson placed one of the sufferers on his own horse and walked 400 miles on foot. His officers and mounted men who were strong enough followed his example and gave their horses to their companions who had succumbed to the hardships of the march. One soldier became so dangerously ill that it was proposed to abandon him. “Not a man shall be left as long as life is in him,” said Jackson. He watched over the sufferer as if he had been his own child, and saved his life.

In the summer of 1813 the terrible massacre of Fort Mimms occurred. The legislature of Tennessee authorized the raising of 3,500 men, and Jackson began operations against the Creeks in the following October. So great was his popularity that in a short time he had over five thousand men under his command. His name soon became a terror to the Indians, whom he mercilessly followed and fought whenever they dared to oppose him. But there was a tender heart in the breast of Jackson. After a fierce encounter at Tallahassee, an Indian woman was found killed on the field. An infant boy lay on her bosom vainly striving to satisfy his hunger. The child was brought within the lines and adopted by Jackson. Mrs. Jackson, who had no children of her own, became as attached to the little war-waif as her husband, and he grew to be a fine youth. When he died Jackson was deeply grieved, and the remains are buried at the Hermitage. The timely assistance rendered by Jackson to the besieged at Fort Talladega prevented a repetition of the Fort Mimms horror, for it was on the point of surrender when he appeared and put the savages to flight. His own supplies now fell short, and his men were threatened with famine. The volunteers in his command attempted to leave for their homes, but were prevented by the militia. The militia shortly after threatened revolt, and they were held in check by the volunteers. Both parties next united and resolved to abandon the field. Jackson rode to the head of the column and presenting his pistol declared he would kill the first man who advanced. So dire was the distress that he lived on acorns picked up in the woods. At the Great Horseshoe Bend of the Tallapoosa River, Jackson struck the Creek Indians a blow from which they never recovered. More than one thousand warriors took their final stand at that point in a strongly fortified camp. The battle was one of the fiercest in all our Indian annals. Six hundred braves were killed, for they had resolved to die rather than yield. Finally, the remnant of the band, their brethren nearly all slain, laid down their arms on the now historic Hickory Ground, at the fork of the Coosa and Tallapoosa rivers. Among those who surrendered was the famous Weatherford, the most valiant of all their leaders.

The Waxhaw lad, who thirty-three years before had been struck down by one of Tarleton’s officers for refusing to clean his boots, was now Major-General in the Regular Army of the United States and in full command of the division of the South. The war with England had been in progress two years with varying success on either side. Florida was a province of Spain, and its governor, while openly professing friendship for the United States, had allowed British vessels to land supplies in the harbor of Pensacola, where they were forwarded by officers on shore to the Indians in arms against us. He resolved to attack the place, and let Mr. Madison at Washington settle the difficulty which was certain to follow with Spain as best he could. An appeal for volunteers was promptly answered, and early in November Jackson was drawn up in front of the place with a demand for an immediate surrender. This was refused, and an attack was ordered next day. In a short time he was in possession of Pensacola, and the British ships were weighing anchor to escape the fire of his artillery. Fort Barancas blew up as he was making preparations to assault it. He had no further business in Pensacola, and resolved to leave, sending this note to the governor: “The enemy has retired; the hostile Creeks have fled to the forest, and I now retire from your town, leaving you to occupy your forts and protect the rights of your citizens.” Then came New Orleans, where the trained veterans of the Peninsula War were driven to their ships by the raw levies of the Mississippi Valley. The story is known to every school-boy. It did not end the war with England—for the treaty of peace had been signed at Ghent before the battle was fought—but it more than compensated for all our reverses during the long struggle, and added an imperishable laurel to our military fame. Praise of Jackson fell from every tongue, and the fighting back-woodsman of Tennessee became the idol of the country. While the whole Republic was resounding with laudation of his deeds and thanking him in set addresses and formal resolutions from Congress down to the smallest town council, his wife was awaiting him in a small log-hut in the forest. Before the war the bankruptcy of a relative for whom he was security had forced Jackson to sell everything in order to meet his liabilities. To this humble home he returned from the city he had saved. His next military service was in the Seminole War. Spain still held the Floridas, and her officers were again secretly assisting the savages against the United States. Without instructions, he entered the Spanish possessions, seized St. Marks, and sent its officials to Pensacola. The trial and execution of Arbuthnot and Ambrister followed, after which he captured Pensacola and Fort Barancas. Negotiations for the cession of Florida were pending at the time, and Jackson’s action became the subject of official investigation. He was sustained by public opinion and Congress. In a trip through the Middle and Eastern States he was everywhere received with the greatest enthusiasm. When Florida was annexed, Jackson became the first governor of the new Territory. His civil career was as vigorous and energetic as his military one had been, but he resigned at the end of a few months, and returned home to the Hermitage, which had in the meantime been built. He was next elected to the United States Senate, and declined the mission to Mexico offered him by Mr. Monroe. His defeat for the Presidency in 1824 was a severe blow, and the next four years were spent at his home near Nashville. In 1828 he swept the country, but his joy was turned to sorrow by the death of his wife a short time after his election.

Jackson was the first President inaugurated with what may be called military honors. He was surrounded by a body-guard of Revolutionary veterans, militia and military companies from all quarters of the Union. Martial music filled the air; the city was gayly decorated with flags and banners, and when the ceremonies were over artillery thundered out all over the capital. “I never saw such a crowd,” Daniel Webster wrote. “Persons have come 500 miles to see General Jackson, and they really seem to think that the country is rescued from some dreadful danger.” Jackson rode a magnificent charger to the Capitol, cheered by thousands of admirers who lined the sidewalks and filled every window and point of vantage. The reception at the White House which followed presented some extraordinary scenes. Indian fighters from distant Tennessee, hunters from Kentucky, trappers from the Northwest, and a mob of office-seekers from all sections of the Union, mingling with the refined society of the capital and visitors from other cities, surged through the great East Room. They clamored for refreshments, and in a short time emptied the barrels of punch that had been provided for their entertainment. Large quantities of glass and china were broken in the scramble, and the rush to see “Old Hickory” and shake his hand was so great that his friends found it necessary to surround and save him from injury.

His favorite exercise was driving and horseback riding. He retired about ten o’clock and rose early. He frequently took a short canter before beginning the labors of the day, but his usual hour for relaxation was in the afternoon. He was always accompanied by a servant. Mr. Van Buren sometimes rode with him, but more generally his nephew and Secretary, Mr. Donelson, who, with his family, lived at the White House. The summers he spent at Old Point Comfort in Virginia. There were occasional pilgrimages to the Hermitage, and trips North and East which were ovations at every point where he stopped. He narrowly escaped assassination, in 1834, while he was descending the steps of the Capitol in a funeral procession. A crazy painter out of employment fired twice at him without exploding the powder. On another occasion he was assaulted while in the cabin of a small steamer, at the wharf in Alexandria, by a Lieutenant Randolph who had been dismissed from the Navy. He was seventy years old lacking eleven days when his second administration closed. Like Jefferson, Madison and Monroe, he placed the reins of government in the hands of his Secretary of State, and immediately retired to the Hermitage, now as famous and as sacred to his followers as Mount Vernon, Monticello or Montpelier. There, in June, 1845, he died, surrounded by his grandchildren and favorite slaves; his last words being an expression of the hope that he would meet them all, black and white, in heaven. The march and the battle were at last ended.

A FALSE START.

THE JERSEY CITY ATHLETIC CLUB.

BY CHARLES LEE MEYERS.

TEN years have elapsed since the idea of an athletic club for Jersey City had its origin in the brains of two gentlemen. These were J. McF. Tappen and D. R. Van Winkle, and to their number they added a third counselor, W. J. Tait. From the action of this triumvirate sprang the present flourishing organization known as the Jersey City Athletic Club.

Support was quickly afforded. Soon some forty gentlemen were at work on the scheme, and quickly organized themselves into a regular body. The following officers were elected: W. J. Tait, president; J. McF. Tappen, vice-president; E. N. Wilson, treasurer, and E. F. Emmons, secretary. Matters immediately assumed such a flourishing condition, that the membership reached a century before the second meeting.

The idea uppermost in the minds of the originators, from the first inception, was that the club should unite the social element with physical culture, and so afford the exercises the air more of a pleasurable pastime than simply hard work for muscle’s sake. Acting on wise counsel, the executive officers of the new organization made but a modest venture, and finding that the higher they went the lower the rent, they secured a large garret over a row of brick buildings, at 723 Grand Street. Their first home was, however, admirably adapted for their purpose, for the rafters were very high, and afforded ample space and accommodation for the disposal of climbing-poles, trapezes, and other gymnastic paraphernalia. The work of fitting, ventilating, painting, etc., was undertaken with a will; a new floor was laid, an instructor—Mr. Louis Kline—engaged, club colors adopted (red and blue, with an emblem of a red Greek cross on a blue ground), and the club was in full swing.

Directly the premises were completed, they were put to practical use, and to the good effect of this vigorous action may be attributed the fact that the club gave its first outdoor games in the spring of 1879. These games consisted of five club events and four open events, and were held at the West Side Driving Park. All the noted athletes of the day competed, and a great success was scored. From this time the club may be regarded as having established itself on a firm footing financially and otherwise. Shortly afterwards it joined and became a prominent member of the N. A. A. A. A., but has now, however, thrown in its fortune with that of the Amateur Athletic Union.

Meanwhile, in its private life, the club was thriving. The membership increased, and more accommodation was needed. Room after room was added on the floor beneath the gymnasium, among them being a billiard-room, card-room, music-room, with piano and other instruments, and an office for committee meetings. The original policy of an admixture of social attractions was thoroughly carried out, and receptions, skating parties, and a varied round of amusements followed each other in quick succession, all serving to maintain the interest.

So matters moved smoothly and pleasantly until the roller-skating craze infected the city, and as the seductive influences of the slippery floor, and the novelty of the fashion made themselves felt, gradually the attendance at the club fell off, and it seemed as if a period of darkness were in store for it. And indeed to the determined spirits who, by their devotion, tided matters over, a deep and lasting debt is owed. This danger, although at the time it looked really great, soon disappeared. One by one the rinks closed, members of the club returned to their proper allegiance, and affairs resumed their former prosperity.

JERSEY CITY ATHLETIC CLUB HOUSE.

In the latter part of 1885 an epidemic struck Jersey City—it was a “club fever.” All the men in the city were either organizing or joining clubs. Clubs were formed for almost every purpose, social, intellectual, literary, athletic, bowling, etc. The social element so strongly developed by the ten or a dozen rinks, had to find an outlet, and the movement flowed clubward. Among the first to recognize and direct this curious fever was the Jersey City Athletic Club, and as a consequence its membership filled up so rapidly that in November, 1885, its rooms were entirely inadequate for the uses of its members, and it was decided to build a club-house.

The scheme for the enlargement of the premises had a very modest beginning, for in the spring of 1885 a demand for further accommodation in the matter of bowling alleys had been put forward. To meet this the proposition was made that two alleys should be built on some land adjoining the Alpha Rink. This by no means met with general approbation, and it became evident that the membership was falling off, and that the club was being deserted for its more enterprising rivals, notable among which was the Palma Club, which had just completed a new building. When, therefore, the “club fever” broke out, a club meeting was held, and a proposition made that a committee be appointed whose duty it should be to raise the large sum of $25,000 for building purposes. Though the scheme was much derided, the committee was formed, and comprised the following gentlemen: Messrs. J. C. Appleby, C. H. Dickson, H. Hartshorne, and E. R. Grant. When this prompt and timely action became known, it enlisted so many desirable recruits that in six months from the inception of the building scheme the membership had trebled, in spite of the fact that in the city four other large and well-appointed clubs offered their attractions.

WALKING TO WIN.

The plans were finally passed, and ground purchased for a sum of $5,000, while the building to be erected was to cost $20,000. On the first night the amount subscribed was $6,000, and thus assured of the success of the venture the various committees perfected their work, and on Thanksgiving Day, 1886, the building was finished. Then the question arose how the completed building was to be furnished. The solution of the problem proved easier than might have been expected. The ladies came graciously to the rescue. A fair was organized to raise the necessary funds, and the good work which had been done during the months of preparation was apparent when, after the close of the fair, which was open for ten days, the sum of $8,000 in cash remained as a monument to its success.

The new club-house stands at the corner of Crescent and Clinton Avenues—almost the highest portion of “The Heights”—upon the brow of the hill. The site is superb, commanding from the eastern windows and tower a magnificent view of New York harbor and the surrounding country. The style of architecture is modern Queen Anne. The basement and first and second stories are of undressed brown-stone, and the upper stories wood, with a slate roof. The tower forms a notable feature; a roomy piazza on one side of the house and a large porch are popular parts of the house in summer. The entrance is very spacious, and opens into a large vestibule, and this again leads to a wide hall running through to the billiard-room.

In the basement are the bowling-alleys, six in number, fitted with all the latest improvements, and built by the best makers in the costliest style. In fact, so well is their construction carried out, that the claim that they are among the best of their kind in America is fully justified. The active use to which they are put every night vouches for the interest displayed in the pastime by the members. On the left of the bowling-alleys is the wheelroom, which affords storage for a large number of wheels, and gives easy egress to the street through the side-doors.

PUTTING THE SHOT.

On the first floor, the offices and the card-room are on one side of the hall, and on the other the parlor and the library. The last now contains some three hundred volumes of standard books, and additions are constantly being made; in addition, a large supply of monthly and weekly periodicals is taken. A large open grate is a feature of this room; the furnishings are throughout easy and luxurious, while its situation, being in the base of the tower, allows the light to enter from three sides, rendering it most comfortable and suitable for its purpose. The entire wing is occupied by the billiard-room, which contains four billiard and two pool tables. The room is lighted directly from three sides and indirectly from the fourth, and therefore has the best facilities for lovers of the game to display their skill with the cue. Off this room are coat-rooms, etc., and a complete barber’s shop.

THE RUNNING BROAD JUMP—LANDING.

On the next floor is the gymnasium, which is one of the finest in the country. From the floor, which measures eighty by fifty feet, there is a space of forty feet to the peak of the roof. Every kind of apparatus that has been invented for exercise and to further muscular development is represented, while the lofty rafters make the swinging rings, climbing ropes and poles a notable feature. Off the gymnasium and in the wing are the spacious locker-rooms and baths. Around three sides runs a spacious gallery, and on the mezzanine floor is situated the large music-room, at the back of the gallery, and looking out on the gymnasium. On the fourth side is the stage—while the gymnasium itself makes a splendid auditorium. It is used on the occasion of club performances, and having a seating capacity of 800, with the large gallery and music-room as a foyer, it makes an ideal amateur theatre; and again, when the annual receptions are held, it makes a capital ball-room—all the apparatus being removable. The stage itself is replete with every convenience—handsome drop-curtain, scenery, etc.—and there is a fine wardrobe of costumes. The method of construction permits the wings to be run out when occasion demands, and while not in use the stage is lifted back against the wall, and the proscenium shuts up flat against the stage, much like the closing of an accordion, so giving the entire floor except a few feet for other purposes.

HIGH JUMP NO. 1—THE RISE.

The value of the club’s property amounts to about $45,000, and its income reaches $18,000, a sum large enough to allow considerable addition each year to its possessions, besides paying current expenses. The membership, which has a limit of 650, reaches 625. The original object of the club has been fully attained, for it has added greatly to the social life of the city. An element of its success has been the absence of internal dissension; all work together for the common good, sinking personal differences, and never allowing them to hamper any public project. The rules are strict: no liquor can be brought into, sold, or drunk in the house; no gambling or games of chance are allowed by the State laws, and are also prohibited by the club rules under penalty of expulsion.

The bowling team is the club’s joy and pride. At the close of the season of 1886–7, however, the team was last on the list, having won only four out of twelve games. This was to be expected, as the alleys had been in use only a few months; but in the season of 1887–8 the team won ten out of a possible fourteen games, and gained thereby the championship of the Amateur Bowling League. This league is composed of the Jersey A. C., New York A. C., Orange A. C., Brooklyn A. A., Roseville A. C., Elizabeth A. C., and Palma Club. Of these the Elizabeth Club had never been beaten on their own alleys until the Jersey City Club lowered their colors, rolling the highest score in the tournament upon their alleys in contest with them. The tournament commenced in November, 1887, and the twelve scheduled games were finished with a tie for first place between the Jersey City, New York, and Palma Club. The Jersey team won the deciding games in good style, defeating successively the Palmas and the New Yorks, and winning ten out of fourteen games.

HIGH JUMP NO. 2—OVER.

After the tie was made, the three clubs drew as to who should play first, the J. C. A. C. drawing the bye. The New Yorks played the Palma Club, the latter winning. This left the J. C. A. C. to play the Palma Club upon the alleys of the N. Y. A. C., and it was a game worth recording. At the end of the third frame the Palma score was 102 pins ahead, and it looked as if the game was won. Neither score changed much until the end of the sixth frame, when the score of the J. C. A. C. began to show a little improvement. By this time the excitement was growing, and the spectators began to be interested. All eyes were strained upon the pins at the end of the alleys as one of the crack bowlers carefully poised the huge ball in mid-air, taking careful aim, when suddenly, with an eerie screech, a wild-eyed, consumptive cat, with arched back and bristling fur, darted like a streak of darkness diagonally across the alley. All the boys shouted, and were convulsed with laughter at the strange apparition, coming from nowhere and disappearing as mysteriously as it had come. The claims of the rival clubs were loud as to the significance of the visitant, the Palmas claiming it as their mascotte, the J. C. A. C. boys claiming it as a “hoodoo” for the Palma score, and so it proved. By this time the excitement had spread all through the house, and the men swarmed down into the alleys.

Slowly the score began to change its aspect, until, by the final frame, when the Palmas had finished their play, they were eleven pins ahead of the J. C. A. C., who had one more man to roll. When on the first ball he made a “strike,” counting ten, he was seized by the enthusiastic team and carried around upon their shoulders. Each of his following shots proved to be a “strike,” and brought up the score of the J. C. A. C. to a total of 43 pins above that of their opponents. A large model of the cat, done in cotton, five times the size of the original, with heroic verses telling of its famous run, and its “hoodoo” influence, is one of the proud possessions of the club, and adorns its rooms.

Among other trophies are the prizes for a match contest between the Orange A. C. and the J. C. A. C. The team is composed of Messrs. A. M. Ryerson, captain, F. Cavalli, J. H. Curran, O. D. Stewart, A. H. Brown, E. R. Grant, G. E. Hogg, J. A. Davis, E. Klein and H. W. McLellan. Bowling tournaments between the members of the club for prizes help to promote good play and develop champions.

The baseball team has won a number of local victories, and interests a large number of members. Having, however, no regular grounds to practice on, the team contents itself with playing against local club nines.

The club is extremely strong in wheelmen, having among its members 75 per cent. of the Hudson County Wheelmen, who form the largest and strongest cycling organization in New Jersey, and one which is hand in hand with the J. C. A. C. It was proposed at one time to amalgamate, but the H. C. W., not wishing to lose their identity, compromised by nearly all becoming members of the J. C. A. C. Among their wheelmen, Charles E. Kluge possesses a world-wide fame. His records on the “Star” and tricycle, and latterly upon the crank machine, are well known, while his world record for twenty-five miles stands unrivaled. Others who have carried the club’s name to the front upon the racing-track are E. P. Baggot, E. M. Smith, W. P. Smith, and C. A. Stenken. On the whole, however, the members are more devoted to rolling up mileage on the road than rolling down Father Time on the track.

The achievements of the athletes of the J. C. A. C. belong rather to its past history than to its present. For the first years of its existence the club gave spring and fall games and their success was unquestioned. The novelty, however, wore off and the great difficulty in reaching the trotting track, which was the only available ground, prohibited an attendance sufficient to make them a financial success. So, after money had been lost steadily for the sake of the sport for some years, the games were abandoned, although the club athletes continued to score successes in the field and on the track. Among these were Hugh McMahon, whose best on record at the hurdles stood for a number of years, A. D. Stone, G. Y. Gilbert, and Charles Lee Meyers. A feature of the club athletics consists of runs from the house across country and return, and a series of races in its gymnasium, such as obstacle and potato races.

In the spring of 1885 it gave an entertainment which brought together all the noted athletes of the day as performers, among them being L. E. Myers, F. P. Murray, Robt. Stall on the rings, G. Y. Gilbert, and many others of the same class.

In 1887 the Boxing and Wrestling Championships of America were given under the auspices of the club and in its gymnasium.

The original idea, which has been mentioned before as existing in the minds of the originators of the club, has been well carried out. In order to obliterate from the minds of the ladies the inherent prejudice against all men’s clubs, the rooms were at first thrown open to them every Thursday evening, a dance was given every month, and a ladies’ class formed in the gymnasium. The result of this diplomacy was made apparent when the furnishing of the new club-house had to be accomplished. After their noble efforts in this cause, the question arose how to recompense them for their devotion, and how to place them in possession of all the club privileges without cost (for the club’s gratitude could do no less), and yet not make them members.

This difficult problem was solved by giving up to the ladies the afternoons of Tuesday and Thursday of each week and also Thursday evening, and having an informal dance once each month. At these times all privileges are free to ladies, and numerous groups enjoy themselves bowling, playing billiards, pool, cards, and often getting up an impromptu dance in the gymnasium. This feature is naturally one of the most attractive to the members, and among the ladies themselves the club is a very popular place. It has not so far interfered in the smallest degree with the exercise of the members’ privileges, as they can use all the club’s advantages on these occasions, courtesy of course giving preference to the fair sex, and indeed it has been of unexpected benefit to the club. Ladies, by telling their friends of the beauty of the club-house and the enjoyment to be obtained on its ladies’ days, have induced their male friends to join the club. A grand ball is given annually to the ladies, the first one in the new club-house being in honor of the ladies’ services during the fair. In January, 1888, Governor Green and all his staff of State officials honored the Club Ball by their presence.

Another prominent characteristic of the club is musical ability. Almost the first action of the club after its organization was to give an entertainment which took the form of a minstrel show, with only the members as performers. These shows grew better year by year, until in the fall of 1885 the club produced “The Mikado,” which had a run of two nights and splendid success. These plays were given in a local theatre and were “in black,” with most of the dialogue localized. In the fall of 1887, having its own theatre, the club took a step forward and produced “Erminie,” in black, with a remarkably successful run of four nights. Shortly after this the club orchestra was organized, and is now one of the notable features of every entertainment. In April of last year, “Patience” was produced for three nights, but this time with the assistance of the wives, sisters and sweethearts of the members, and exactly as written, with every detail. Such a splendid success was scored that its repetition was almost a necessity, so it was again given the month following, making four performances. The entire performance was marked throughout by the most careful attention to artistic effect, and in this it was quite a triumph.

In such ways the club has retained the sympathy and co-operation of the ladies. For instance, when “Patience” was produced, they contributed a major part of the attraction by splendid singing and acting.

The club is in the height of its prosperity. While the substantial reasons for its existence continue, there seems no doubt of its standing and permanency.

MY BOAT.

ON A CANADIAN FARM IN MIDWINTER.

BY W. BLACKBURN HARTE.

BY decree of the inexorable res angusta domi, I left my native England in the last days of the year of grace 1886, for Canada, with the determination of becoming a farmer. I was a cockney to my backbone, and had not the slightest idea of farming, but still I was young and hopeful, and I imagined that this happy consummation would take but a very short time to accomplish. Many a night, while lying in my bunk during the passage across the Atlantic, I built châteaux en Espagne innumerable, and galloped over limitless acres of which I held the freehold. Alas! my castles have since been irretrievably mortgaged to Doubt and Despair, and if the reader will give me his kind attention while I relate my experiences, we will together watch these castles of cards topple to the ground.

Upon my arrival at Montreal I at once advertised for a situation on a farm, for I had more ambition than capital or collateral security, and consequently was unable to immediately blossom forth into a landed proprietor. To my great delight I received three or four answers from farmers in different parts of the country, each of whom represented that his farm was situated in the very heart of the garden of Canada, and desired me to come on without delay. Subsequent experience led me to the conclusion that Canada was one immense garden—of snow, and remarkably well ventilated. After a little thought, I decided to place myself and accompanying transcendent abilities at the disposal of a gentleman—evidently a public philanthropist—who, judging from the friendly warmth of his communication, appeared to have been anxiously looking forward to my arrival on this continent.

The next day I boarded a train going east, and after a two hours’ journey arrived at my destination, which was only fifty miles from the metropolis. I had reason later to thank my stars that I had not decided to begin my career as a farm-hand in the neighborhood of the “Rockies,” because in that case my return to civilization would have been well-nigh impossible, considering the state of my exchequer. The name of the village was Knowlton, in the province of Quebec. Some of my readers are doubtless acquainted with the locality.

A negro conductor passed through the car and announced in stentorian tones, first in French-Canadian patois, and then in English, the name of the station, and looking out of the window I saw a noble edifice which appeared to have been blown together, “promiscuous-like,” on a very windy day, and then tarred over. This was the waiting-room and station-master’s sanctum combined; in fact, it was the station. There was not the ghost of a platform, but a low fence surrounded the rear of the shanty. The station-master, as I afterwards found out, was a man of exceedingly portly dimensions, and was greatly impressed with a sense of his own importance, so there was little room in the shanty for aught else beside himself and the stove.

The whole population of the place, about twenty-five or thirty persons all told, counting one or two of the canine genus, were assembled in the yard to witness the train come in. This appeared to be the only dissipation of which the villagers were at any time capable. They looked like so many badly packed bundles of cloth, and spoke a villainous gibberish, which would confound the natives of La Belle France. I fancy I was looked upon as a sort of natural curiosity. Certainly I was the “observed of all observers” upon that occasion, and caused no little diversion. I stood and watched the departing train until it was out of sight, and then sat down upon my chest. To confess the truth, I did not feel in the best of spirits. The prospect seemed less inviting now that I was, as it were, plumped down, out of all civilization, upon the scene of my new labors.

My benefactor, the farmer, now approached me, and introduced himself by suddenly bawling in my ear, “Now then, young feller, get up, and take hold of t’ other end of this box. Great Scott! what a terror, anyway. What ’ev you got in it, anyhow?”

Mr. Wiman, for that was the gentleman’s name, had never seen me before in his life, but he jumped to the conclusion that I was “his man,” because, as he afterwards explained to me, I looked “so English, you know.” I guessed, too, that a stranger in those parts was rather a rara avis.

We carried the box to his sledge, which he had kindly brought down to drive me up to the farm. Taking a seat beside him, I inquired what distance his place was from the village.

“Well, I guess it’s something over five miles—more or less,” was his reply.

We drove on for a long time in silence, and I began to think that there was a considerable difference between a five-mile drive in the “old country” and a similar distance in Canada. I ventured to hint as much to Mr. Wiman. He burst into a hearty laugh.

“Bless yer! I should jist reckon there is a difference. That’s all! We keep up with the times on this side ’ev the water. This ’ere is a live country, sir—a live country!”

I did not quite understand how the advanced state of the country should so materially alter the mileage, but kept my own counsel. I could not help, however, reflecting that despite the fact that I was now in a land of enlightenment and progress, I had never seen such a dismal, dreary landscape in my life. Nature in her sterner aspects cannot so quell the soul of man as when she presents herself in merely bleak desolation. There was nothing but snow, which almost blinded me with its dazzling whiteness, and certainly added to the depression of my spirits.

At last Mr. Wiman drew rein at a wayside auberge and told me to wait a few minutes until he returned. This was comforting. The atmosphere was not 90° in the shade—it was 20° below zero! I jammed my hard felt hat down over my face, under the impression that by getting my head into it as far as possible I should keep my ears from dropping off. Foolishly enough, I had neglected to purchase a fur cap when in Montreal, and now bitterly repented my want of forethought.

The first quarter of an hour did not seem so very long, as my mind was occupied with hundreds of conflicting thoughts, and those inevitable “first impressions” which chill one’s cherished hopes. But when a “few minutes” slowly dragged itself into a good half-hour, it struck me that the Canadian method of reckoning the flight of time must be conducted on the broad basis which characterized the mileage. I rubbed my hands with snow to keep them warm and prevent them from freezing, and jumping off the sledge I paced rapidly up and down, under the veranda in front of the hostelry, to induce circulation. I had read something and heard more about the climate in this part of the world, and was afraid that unless I was extremely careful I should coagulate into one complete block of ice. At last my patience was exhausted, and I determined to go in quest of my employer. I found him, the centre of a small circle of convives assembled around the stove, discussing in broken French and English, thick with authority and liquor, the question of commercial union.

I nervously asked him when he intended to resume his journey. He replied by pointing to a vacant seat, and asking me to take “something hot.” I was half frozen, and readily accepted the offer.

“Sorry—hic—sorry I forgot you,” he said, with a cheerful smile.

“Don’t mention it,” I replied politely. “I’m still alive.”

In another hour or so the party broke up, leaving Mr. Wiman decidedly none the better for his potations. In fact, he was wholly unfit to have charge of the horse.

He took my arm, and staggering out into the cold again, we found the horse lying down in the snow, almost stiff, and the sledge overturned. It was dark. In Canada there is no twilight. It is a sudden transition from day into night, and I began to wish myself back in Montreal. However, after many kicks and objurgatory coaxings, the poor beast was induced to stand up, and righting the sledge and replacing my belongings, we again took our seats. Mr. Wiman then handed the reins to me with instructions to drive “home,” and fell fast asleep on my shoulder. I did not, of course, know the road in the least, but the horse did. He had been left for a “few minutes” on many occasions before. I could not refrain from inwardly making comparisons between the brute and his master, not altogether favorable to the intelligence of the latter. I also did not forget to thank God for the brute’s endowment, as otherwise we should in all probability have been buried beneath the snow, which, in some places, was over ten feet in depth. As it was, the ride was not unattended with danger, as it was hard to see the track in the dark, and every now and again the poor animal slid up to his neck in the snow, and only extricated himself after severe struggles. The farmer awoke at intervals, when the sledge was almost overturned, but he kept his seat wonderfully. This, of course, was the force of long habit. I have heard of tipsy sailors preserving their equilibrium in the same marvelous fashion. Wiman would then encourage the horse with a few sanguinary expressions, and again relapse into the land of Nod. As this may be getting wearisome to the reader, I will only mention one other incident of that memorable drive.

Just in front of the homestead we encountered a very large drift, and as the horse endeavored to scramble through it, the sledge upset and deposited both of us at least a couple of feet under the snow. I was the first to get my head above the surface, and began to search for my companion and my box. I found the son of Bacchus coiled up quite content. After sundry kicks he realized his position, and clutching the sledge with both hands, instructed me to let go the traces and free the horse. This I did, and, after many attempts, the unfortunate beast regained his feet.

In a few minutes more we were safe in the barn, and having watered and fed the horse, we made our way into the house, which, from what I could make of it, was simply another barn of somewhat greater pretensions. But even this looked very inviting after my late experience of the Canadian roads.

The floor of the kitchen, sitting-room and drawing-room—a domestic combination, which we now entered—was almost covered with snow that had entered through the doors on either side. An enormous stove or range was placed in the centre of the room, and the walls were decorated with pictorial representations, mostly culled from the Christmas issues of various illustrated periodicals. A deal table, a kitchen dresser, sparsely laden with crockery of assorted patterns and culinary utensils, and a few rickety chairs, completed the inventory of furniture.

Mr. Wiman pointed to a plate of hash which stood upon the table—which, it is almost unnecessary to mention, was quite innocent of a cloth—and told me “to get outside of it.” I did not require a second invitation, but fell to like a hungry wolf.

Just then a female voice from an adjoining room shrieked out, “Is that you, Nathan?” to which the gentleman in question, who was tugging at his boots in a fruitless endeavor to remove them, responded in the Canadian affirmative, “Yah.”

“H’ain’t you ’toxicated?”

“Yah.”

“As usual,” resumed the voice, not angrily, but with a philosophical mixture of sadness and good-humor.

“Yah.” Wiman had a fondness for this peculiar monosyllable. “Come and take off these darned boots. They don’t mind me.”

At this frank confession I could not help laughing aloud. This brought Mrs. Wiman, for it was she, to the door, attired in a dilapidated dressing-gown and a pair of very masculine carpet slippers, with an old hussar undress uniform jacket thrown over her shoulders, the whole surmounted by a huge nightcap. Her strange appearance did not tend to decrease my mirth. The good woman, however, was not in the least indignant at my rude behavior, and, indeed, seemed to enter into the joke herself. I introduced myself, and was then asked a great many questions respecting the art of milking, etc., to which I replied with some diffidence, as my knowledge of such matters was not very extensive. As a boy, I remember gazing in at the entrance of a dairy in our street by the hour together, dreaming of green fields and babbling brooks, but I had never seen any cows there. The principal object that attracted my attention was—what? I won’t disclose. The joke is too ancient.

When I had finished my sumptuous repast it was nearly one o’clock in the morning, and Mrs. Wiman took up a candle, minus a candlestick, and showed me up to my room, which was on the next and top floor. I stuck the candle on the floor in the farther corner of the room, out of the wind and snow, which again made its appearance through the half-wrecked window. There was no furniture of any kind in the room, with the exception of a low truckle-bed.

I was then left alone, as I thought, but on looking towards the bed I noticed that it had already an occupant, who reminded me of what Robinson Crusoe must have looked like after having been deprived of his barber for a twelvemonth. I crept silently into bed, generously giving my companion the greater half of it, and laid awake, thinking over the events of the past few hours, until it was almost daylight, when I fell into a troubled sleep. I seemed to have been asleep only a few minutes, however, when an alarm clock, which I had not noticed standing in the recess of the window before retiring, began to make its presence known in a very demonstrative manner. I sat up and rubbed my eyes, invoking anything but blessings upon the devoted head of the inventor of these execrable “utilities.” My partner turned over and uttered a groan, and then becoming aware of my presence, he said, “Thank ’evin you’ve come at last.” Somehow I could not find it in my heart to echo this sentiment.

“Why?” I asked.

“’Cause, I’ll be able to leave now.”

“Oh. But how is it that you are going?”

“I guess you’ll soon find out why. Anyway, there’s no time for talking on this ’ere farm. Shove on yer things and foller me.”

This was not very encouraging, but I did not hazard any further remarks, and was soon ready to follow my Job’s comforter. I began to think that life on a Canadian farm was not all couleur de rose. When we reached the kitchen, he lit a couple of lanterns, and we stepped out into the yard, nearly up to our waists in snow. That fellow Thomson, who sang of the sluggard and enlarged upon the advantages of early rising, never put his theories into practice. If he had tried getting up at four A. M. in picturesque Canada, in the depth of winter, he would have tuned his lyre to a different strain.

We then went into the stable, and Jim (my partner) gave me a bucket to fetch some water for the horses, also a shovel with which I was to find the pump. This was not an unnecessary precaution. The pump was situated somewhere about one hundred yards from the barn. The wind had been very boisterous during the night, and the snow had drifted in deep reefs over a mile long, and the pump was completely buried. Finding that I was not very successful in my search, Jim joined me, and by our united efforts we at last discovered it. I am certain that no old-time Californian miner was ever more delighted at striking gold than I was when we found that pump. I thought I should lose my ears before we uncovered it.

On returning from this voyage of discovery we were met by Mr. Wiman, who told me to follow him and “milk.” The cow-barn was at the far end of the yard, and housed over fifty head of cattle. Another tramp through the snow! I noticed that this place was far warmer even than the house, which I rightly attributed to the animal life within its walls. This “milking” was a practical test of my abilities which I had not been looking forward to with any great eagerness. I will pass over this experience, which even after this lapse of time makes a cold sweat start out upon my brow. Suffice it to say, that after one hour of pulling and tugging, with great beads of perspiration rolling down my cheeks, to the utter disgust of the cow, and at great personal risk, I succeeded in obtaining sufficient lacteal fluid for, at least, one cup of tea. By this time breakfast was ready for me; I was ready for breakfast, and the meeting was adjourned.

The pièce de résistance was the hash of the previous evening, re-hashed; but farm work does not foster one’s epicureanism, and I ate like an alderman. When I had finished my meal I drew my chair up to the stove and produced a pipe, thinking that an hour was allowed for each meal. I was soon informed to the contrary, however, by Mr. Wiman, who burst into a hearty laugh.

“Ah, that’s English, don’t cher know? It won’t wash out ’ere. I’d advise you to follow Jim, and larn ’ow to ’itch on a team for drawing bark. We don’t di-gest our food in this country, yer know. It’s got ter take its chance.”

The next thing to be done was to water the cattle, which was no easy task. The spring, or watering-place, was in the centre of the field adjoining the yard, at a distance of half a mile, and was only distinguishable by a tree which stood close to it. We procured a shovel and hatchet, and after a great deal of shoveling we came upon the trough, which was filled with solid ice at least a foot in thickness. I suggested that a little dynamite kept upon the premises would be a handy article in winter, at which witticism Jim surrendered all the smile that was left in him after a protracted spell of farm-labor. At last we broke the ice sufficiently for two cows to drink at once, and Jim told me to run up as fast as my legs would carry me and turn out six cows, as otherwise the water would freeze again. The reader may think that this verges upon exaggeration, but I can assure him, or her, that on more than one subsequent occasion I had to break the ice a second time within the space of a quarter of an hour.

When all the cows had been watered, there was “clearing-out” to be done. This was not a particularly clean occupation, but it was, at all events, far warmer. Then came feeding, which with our careful management took a great deal of time and a surprising amount of hay. Jim was always thinking of his master’s best interests. He explained this carelessness by confiding to me that he had worked for twelve months for “glory,” that is, without remuneration, beyond bed and board. He said that this was the only way in which he could get a portion of his arrears from his respected employer. I had also agreed to come upon the same terms during my novitiate, and had indeed paid a small premium, but I had not anticipated such a lengthy term of apprenticeship.

Wiman now entered and announced dinner, a call to which we quickly responded. Mrs. Wiman appeared to have quite a genius for making hashes; indeed, she was a rustic Soyer. As I had by this time learned to expect, the chief dish was a resurrection of the morning’s meal, with sundry vegetable additions. I was very hungry, but I must confess indulged in irritants (i. e., pepper and salt) to an extent which would have put to shame an Anglo-Indian with a cast-iron interior. Pastry was a sybaritic innovation which had not then found its way into this part of the Dominion.

We passed the afternoon in much the same way as the morning, and worked until 7.30 P. M., when we supped on bread and cheese and went to bed.

The next day was Sunday, a day which in the dear “old country” is usually kept holy, with an exemption from all toil not absolutely necessary. My first Sabbath on the farm had almost slipped away before I remembered what the day was. Thinking that the farmer had also made a mistake, I mentioned the matter to him. He seemed quite surprised at my religious scruples, which he regarded as another evidence of British insular retrogression, and remarked that all days were alike to him. And so it proved, for we spent the whole of that afternoon ploughing snow, which drifted again almost as quickly as it was furrowed.

In the evening Jim broached the subject of his resignation to the “boss,” who blankly refused to accept it, and informed him that if he wanted to go he must walk to the station, as he would see him—ahem’d—before he would allow him the use of a horse and sleigh. As I have said before, the village was considerably over five miles from the farm, and to walk there through the snow was out of the question. It meant almost certain death.

But Jim avowed his intention of performing this feat, and very early on the following morning he rose, packed up his scanty wardrobe, and departed.

Just before daybreak, about two hours after Jim’s exit, the infernal clock rang out my doom. Upon reaching the barn I hung my lantern upon a hook in the beam above, and sitting down upon my milk-stool, commenced operations upon one of the cows.

Suddenly I heard a voice at my elbow. “I can’t go through that wood—it’s haunted.” A little bit scared myself, I turned round abruptly, and in the dim light encountered the white face of the adventurous Jim. Pulling myself together, I rather hastily demanded what uneasy spirit could find pleasure in being out in such beastly weather.

“Well, you come with me, and see if there ain’t a ghost.”

Curious to know what had frightened the fellow, I took down the lantern, and together we sallied forth into the snow. We had hardly reached the middle of the meadow when a dark object came rushing towards us, and a sepulchral “bur-bur” sent Jim flying back in the direction of the barn.

“There it is!” he cried, in a voice full of terror.

I held the lantern aloft and shouted, “Who’s there?”

“Bur-bur,” was the reply. Then I ascertained the name and condition of this perturbed spirit. It was a calf! It suddenly dawned upon me that I had noticed the barn door was open when I first came down, and I immediately came to the conclusion that Jim had let the ghost out himself when he went in to put on his boots, which he was in the habit of leaving in the barn when his day’s work was over.

When Jim received a personal introduction to his ghost, he grew as courageous as Bob Acres before he came into actual contact with pistols and cold lead, and shouldering his bundle again he started forth, just as daylight was dawning in the east. I gave him my pouch of tobacco to render his journey less irksome, and that was the last I ever saw or heard of poor Jim.

The weather for the next three weeks was comparatively fine, and I got along far better, and sometimes managed to find time to indulge in the luxury of a “farmer’s holiday,” viz., chopping wood. Mr. Wiman seemed to be, on the whole, very well satisfied with me, and encouragingly informed me that he had no doubt but that I should get into working order by the time work commenced, which, in his opinion, was not until the spring, when ploughing, etc., began. This was something of a revelation to me. In my intense ignorance of farm matters I had imagined that there was already plenty to do.

It now became forcibly evident to me that I was not intended for a farmer. A daily communion with nature appeared every day less like the celestial “all beers and skittles” I had previously conceived it to be. The smoky London I had left became by comparison with my present surroundings a very seventh heaven of felicity. I began to long once more to relapse into a unit in one of the world’s great loveless hives. I communicated my desire to Mr. Wiman. He would not hear of my leaving him until the expiration of three months, vowing that I had agreed to stay for that term, and threatening that if I attempted to leave without his sanction, he would “have the law of me.” I had made no such agreement, but I saw that it would not help me to make a disturbance, and so restrained my natural indignation at such treatment. However, I determined to seek pastures new, and prepared my traps for flight at the first opportunity which offered itself.

I had not long to wait. A few days after my skirmish with the “boss,” he had to attend to some very important business at a neighbor’s farm about two miles farther east. Now or never was the time to escape. I immediately began my preparations by harnessing the best horse in the stable to a sledge. Everything was packed, so there was only the transfer of my chest from my room to the sledge. But how should I accomplish this without arousing her ladyship’s suspicions? The fates were propitious. I had barely finished harnessing the horse, when Mrs. Wiman’s stately form emerged from the house, with a hatchet in her hand.

“Where are you off to?” she inquired.

“Oh, I’m going to the wood to draw bark,” I replied, leisurely surveying the straps to disarm suspicion.

“S’pose you’ll be back in time for dinner,” she said, picking her way across the yard and entering the corn-bin, where a plentiful supply of killed cow was always kept.

“Oh, yes,” I answered. “And I guess when I return I’ll be jolly hungry, so please cut off a double dose for me,” I added, venturing upon a little joke as a kind of farewell. Then I darted across the yard, and went up to my room—I don’t know how many stairs at a time—and, by a herculean effort, shouldered my box, hurried down again, almost breaking my neck in my haste, and had it on the sledge before I had breath enough to say “Jack Robinson.” I was just in the act of covering it over with some sacks when Mrs. Wiman reappeared with a huge piece of raw flesh in her hand. She comprehended the situation in a flash.

“So you are a-going to draw bark, are yer? Not to-day, my beauty!” I cannot lay much claim to this distinction, and so remained modestly silent. Men cannot receive flattery with the same brazen effrontery which characterizes the least beautiful members of the softer sex.

“Now just take that ’orse out, afore I come and ’elp yer,” she continued. “And be lively about it, my fine feller.”

I was now fairly seated ready to start, and catching up the reins I lashed the horse, and we plunged out of the yard.

“Stand away, there, ma’am. Look out, or there’ll be a circus on this farm!”

* * * * *

What a drive that was! The snow began falling in heavy flakes, and I had only a very slight acquaintance with the road, but we went like the wind. Here we go through a drift! Capsized?—no, another miracle in our favor. The horse stumbles—he’s down? No, Providence again! Shall I be too late for a train? I have not the least idea of the time-table, but drive as if a whole legion of excited women in old huzzar jackets, with streaming hair and vengeance in their hearts, were after me.

Ah! there’s the lake, and over yonder is the railway station. The wind blows in my teeth; my blood tingles with excitement, and the horse, entering into the spirit of the affair—bolts! Yes, I have lost all control over him. He throws up his head, sniffs the keen air, and taking the bit between his teeth, tears through the snow, scattering it in clouds on either side, like a thing possessed. Here is another dilemma. Supposing he should take it into his head to gallop on right past the station, and return home by a short cut known only to himself. I hardly know now whether I should accentuate this period with a mark of interrogation or exclamation. I think a very large? would be the most suitable, as somewhat expressive of the chaos of horrors presented to my mind as the possibility of such a contingency arose. I cannot express what my feelings were at that moment; I leave the reader to draw his own inferences from the—?

The station at last! Thank Heaven! The runaway tears into the yard, but not deeming himself capable of clearing either the fence or the shanty, he comes to a dead standstill. I’m saved! I rush into the shanty, where I find the station-master fast asleep in his chair. My hurried entrance awakes him, and he starts up red in the face with anger and surprise, at such a display of energetic impatience in his private domain.

“What do you want, young man?” he asks, severely.

“I want a ticket for Montreal. When does the next train start?”

“Is that all ye disturbed me for? Well, I guess,” he replied, with provoking deliberateness, again settling himself comfortably in his chair, “I guess you’re afraid of being late, ain’t you? I likes punctual young men, that I do!”

“When does the train start?” I cried, angrily.

“Well, I rather think she’s got to get here first. But, if all’s well, she’ll start from this ’ere dee-pôt in three hours’ time.”

Three hours!—three mortal hours to wait. Horrors! Why, that gave time for Wiman to return home and start in pursuit. I paced up and down the yard like a caged lion, glancing every few minutes in the direction of the lake. At length the train came in sight, and almost simultaneously I noticed a team galloping with incontinent haste through the blinding snow, half-way across the lake.

It was a race between the iron horse and thews and sinews. On they come. Which will be the first in? With breathless interest I glance from one to the other.

Hurrah! the train is in. My baggage is checked and in the van.

“All aboard there! Right away!”

Here comes Wiman through, puffing and blowing like a grampus; and standing with easy grace upon the platform of the hindmost car, there goes “yours truly.”

A NIGHT PADDLE.

BASEBALL.

THE legislative work of the season of 1888 ended with the conventions of the National League and the American Association; the former being held in New York on November 21st, and the latter in St. Louis on December 5th. What was accomplished by the two organizations will unquestionably lead to an improvement in the working of the professional baseball business in 1889. Not only were the playing rules of the game greatly improved—though there is still room for further advancement toward a perfect code—but a movement was made toward the adoption of a system of salaries for players, more in accordance with the merit of the individual, and with the increase in the financial success of the clubs as a whole, than is possible under the previous star systems with its fancy salaries. The plan of grading salaries which was adopted at the League convention, and which could not be successfully carried out without the co-operation of the American Association, was virtually endorsed by the latter at their December convention by the appointment of a special committee to work out with a similar committee of the League a plan of grading salaries. These committees meet in New York in March, 1889. Neither organization took action at their respective conventions as to the adoption of the double umpire plan, which is the only true solution of the umpire difficulty. The American Association, by reducing the salaries of umpires to figures below those paid to their lowest-salaried player, took a decided step backward, as it is a short-sighted policy to discourage the entrance of the best class of men into the corps of umpires. The onerous duties of a capable staff of umpires exceed in the value of the work done those of the most important players of the club team, and they should be placed on a par with the best players in the matter of salaries, especially in view of the fact that good umpiring conduces as much to the financial success of a club as the work of successful battery players. Thousands of patrons were driven from ball grounds last season by the disgraceful rows which were induced by unsatisfactory umpiring, and this fact should be borne in mind when arranging the umpire salary question of 1889.

The movement, inaugurated by the editor of the Dublin Sport, in favor of the introduction of our national game, as one of the established sports of Ireland, naturally excites great interest in the United States. It is to be hoped that it will be followed up until the American game is practically inaugurated in Dublin. Since the baseball teams now in Australia have decided to return by way of Europe and the British Isles, an opportunity will be afforded our Irish friends to see how the game is played by our professional experts. It will give a great impetus to the game if the efforts of Sport in organizing an Irish professional team can be practically carried out in time for the season of 1889. It only needs some of the Yankee energy and enterprise illustrated so strikingly in Mr. Spalding’s Australian tour to make the Irish movement a decided success. As Colonel Fellows says, “There’s millions in it!”