Part 1

Bob Taylor’s Magazine

$1.00 a Year. Monthly. 10 Cents a Copy.

Contents for May, 1905.

═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════ FRONTISPIECE—The Robert E. Lee Monument 122

ADDRESS TO OLD CONFEDERATES _Robert L. Taylor_ 123 Illustrated with photographs.

IN THE DARK _Grace MacGowan Cooke_ 128 Story. Illustrated by Mayne Cassell.

THE SPINNER. (Poem) _Eloise Pickett_ 133

MEN OF AFFAIRS 134 Illustrated with photographs.

COTTON AND WAR _Richmond Pearson Hobson_ 140 With portrait of author.

THE MASTER-HAND. (Poem) _Garnet Noel Wiley_ 144

THE BOY IN GRAY _Will N. Harben_ 145 Story. Illustrations by Lamira A. Goodwin.

SONG. (Poem) _Robert Loveman_ 152

THE PEOPLE OF THE SOUTHERN MILLS _Leonora Beck Ellis_ 153 Illustrated with photographs.

THE MERRY LADY. (Story) _Roger Pocock_ 159

A ROYAL RESIDENCE _James Henry Stevenson_ 165 Illustrated with photographs.

THE FINEST HOTEL. (Story). _A. Lytle Peterman, Ph.D._ 173

INDEFINITELY POSTPONED _Eva Williams Malone_ 180 Story. Illustrations by Mayna Treanor Avent.

TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. (Poem) _Isabella Howe Fisk_ 183

TRAINING SCHOOLS IN TENNESSEE AND THE South _J. H. Kirkland, D.C.L., Ph.D._ 184 Illustrated with photographs.

THE FOREIGN WIFE _Claude M. Girardeau_ 192 Continued story.

WHEN NELLIE SMILES. (Poem). _D’Arcy Moore_ 196

SERIOUS PROBLEMS OF SCIENCE TO-DAY _Charles Baskerville, Ph.D._ 197 With portrait of author.

“THE MESSAGE OF THE VIOLET.” (Story) _G. D. G._ 201

WHOSE TEMPLE YE ARE. (Poem). _Isabella Howe Fiske_ 202

LYRICAL AND SATIRICAL—Conducted by Vermouth 203

EDITORIAL 206 FRENZIED POLITICS. A TALE OF A LECTURE TOUR. FOOLISH DREAMERS.

LEISURE HOURS 213

BOOKS AND AUTHORS—Conducted by Mrs. Genella Fitzgerald Nye 221

THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW _Robert L. Taylor_ 225 Continued.

SOUTHERN PLATFORM 227

THE HUMOROUS, THE PATHETIC AND THE DRAMATIC. THE MYSTERIES _James Hunt Cook._ THOMAS JEFFERSON AND THE AVERAGE MAN _Dana C. Johnson._ THE LYCEUM PLATFORM _Dr. James Hedley._ ECHOES FROM THE FIELD. A GREAT LECTURER _Opie Read._ ═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════

Copyright 1905 by The Taylor Publishing Co. All rights reserved THE TAYLOR PUBLISHING COMPANY, Publishers, _Vanderbilt Law Building_, Nashville, Tenn.

_BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE ADVERTISEMENTS._

THE WONDERFUL ELECTRIC CANDY MACHINE

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THE CANDY MADE BY THIS MACHINE IS ABSOLUTELY PURE.

Granulated sugar is poured into the spinner and is instantly changed into flossy filaments of PURE candy without the touch of a contaminating finger.

Our machines are NEVER SOLD but leased for a period of ten years, giving Lessee EXCLUSIVE control of the territory leased.

At Los Angeles, Cal., our Lessee made and sold 850 ten cent packages of FAIRY FLOSS candy in one day from one machine.

Four FAIRY FLOSS candy machines which were operated at the Mechanics’ Pavilion, Boston, Mass., for twenty days in October, 1904, earned in that time $1,750.00.

Our Lessee in Minneapolis, Minn., sold in seven days from one stand running one machine, $205.00 worth of FAIRY FLOSS candy.

Our Lessee in Nashville, Tenn., sold $60.00 worth of FAIRY FLOSS candy from one machine in one day.

A pound of sugar will make sixteen packages of FAIRY FLOSS candy, such as was sold at the World’s Fair for ten cents each.

Our machines are fully protected by patents, dated January 31, 1899, and January 6, 1903, and other patents pending.

Like money and other good things, our machines are being imitated.

The Public is Warned that machines not having this name plate are infringements and users are liable to prosecution:

THE PROPERTY OF THE ELECTRIC CANDY MACHINE COMPANY, Nashville, Tennessee, U. S. A.

Candy machine patented Jan. 31, ’99; Jan. 6, ’08. Motor patented Oct. 14, ’90; Nov. 10, ’91.

GENERAL ELECTRIC COMPANY, U. S. A.

FOR FURTHER INFORMATION ADDRESS ELECTRIC CANDY MACHINE COMPANY, NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE.

_In writing to advertisers please mention Bob Taylor’s Magazine._

BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE

─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────── VOL. I MAY, 1905 NO. 2 ───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────

ADDRESS TO OLD CONFEDERATES.

By Robert L. Taylor.

Delivered at the Confederate Reunion at Brownsville, Tenn., in August, 1902.

Time in its tireless flight has brought us again to the full leaf and flower of another summer. The grass grows green about the dust of heroes; the roses twine once more about their tomb, and the morning-glories point their purple bugles toward the sky as if to sound a reveille to our immortal dead. Another year with its sunshine and its shadows, its laughter and its tears, its sowing and its reaping, its cradle songs and funeral hymns, now lies between us and that dark day at Appomattox when the star of Southern hope went down and the flag of Southern chivalry was furled forever. Another year has added whiter locks to the temples of those old veterans who wore the gray, and deeper furrows to their brows, and they now stand among us like solitary oaks in the middle of a fallen forest, hoary with age, covered with scars, and glorious as the living monuments of Southern manhood and Southern courage.

But we are not yet far enough away from that awful struggle to forget the bloody hills of Shiloh, where Albert Sidney Johnston died, and the fatal field of Chancellorsville, where Stonewall Jackson fell. We are not yet far enough away to forget the frowning heights of Gettysburg, where Pickett’s charging lines rushed to glory and the grave. We are not yet far enough away to forget Murfreesboro, Missionary Ridge and Chickamauga, and the hundred other fields of death and courage, where the flower of the South, the bravest of the brave and the truest of the true, fought for the cause they thought was right, and died for the land they loved. We are not yet far enough away to forget the agony and the tears of a nation that was crushed when the shattered armies of Lee and Johnston, weary, half-starved, bare-footed and in rags, stacked their arms in the gloom of defeat, and left the field of valor overwhelmed and overpowered, yet undaunted and unconquered. When time has measured off a thousand years, the world will not forget the sufferings and the sacrifices of the brave men who so freely gave their fortunes and shed their blood to preserve the most brilliant civilization that ever flourished in any land or in any age, for literature loves a lost cause.

Historians will some day sit down on our battlefield and write true history—history that will surpass the wildest dreams of fancy that were ever woven into fiction; and poets will linger among our graves and sing sweeter songs than were ever sung before. For each monument is within itself a volume of wild and thrilling adventure, and every tombstone tells a story touching as the soldier’s last tear on the white bosom of his manhood’s bride, tender as his last farewell.

I would not utter a word of bitterness against the men who wore the blue. They fought and died under the old flag to perpetuate the Union, and they were men worthy of Southern prowess and Southern valor. I would not, if I could, rob Grant, the great and noble chieftain, of his fame and glory. Every Southern soldier ought to stand with uncovered head when his name is spoken. For when all was lost, in the darkest and saddest moment of Southern history, he was magnanimous to Lee, and kind to his famished and shattered army. Along the blue lines of the triumphant foe, when the unhappy Confederates marched between them and laid down their guns, there was no shout of victory nor flourish of trumpets, but only silence and tears.

When the conflict had ended the Confederate soldier proudly stood among the blackened walls of his ruined country, magnificent in the gloom of defeat, and still a hero. His sword was broken, his home was in ashes, the earth was red beneath him, the sky was black above him; he had placed all in the scales of war and had lost all save honor. But he did not sit down in despair to weep away the passing years.

His slaves were gone but he was still a master. Too proud to pine, too strong to yield to adversity, he threw down his musket and laid his willing but unskilled hands upon the waiting plow. He put away the knapsack of war and turned his face toward the morning of peace. He abandoned the rebel yell to enter the forum and the court room and the hustings. He gave up the sword to enter the battles of industry and commerce, and now, in little more than a third of a century, the land of desolation and death, the land of monuments and memories, has reached the springtime of a grander destiny, and the sun shines bright on the domes and towers of new cities built upon the ashes of the old, and the cotton fields wave their white banners of peace and the fields of wheat wave back their banners of gold.

Who can portray the possibilities of a country that has produced the Lees and Jacksons and the brilliant Gordon and the dashing Joe Wheeler, who is as gallant in the blue as he was glorious in the gray, and the impetuous and immortal Bedford Forrest, the Marshal Ney of the Confederacy? Who can portray the possibilities of a country which has produced the stalwart and sinewy men of the rank and file, who followed the stars and bars through the smoke and flame of every desperate battle and stepped proudly into history as the greatest fighters the world has ever known?—a country so richly blessed not only with brave men and beautiful women, but whose blossoming hills and fertile valleys are so generous and kind, and whose mountains are burdened with coal and iron and copper and zinc and lead enough to supply the world for a thousand years; whose virgin forests yet stand awaiting and sighing for the woodsman’s ax, and whose winding rivers flow clear and cool and make music as they go. It is the beautiful land of love and liberty, of sunshine and sentiment, of fruits and flowers, where the grape-vine staggers from tree to tree as if drunk with the wine of its own purple clusters; where peach and plum and blood-red cherries and every kind of berry bend bough and bush and glow like showered drops of rubies and pearls. It is the land of the magnolia and the melon, the paradise of the cotton and the cane.

They tell us now that it is the new South, but the same old blood runs in the veins of these old veterans and the same old spirit heaves their bosoms and flashes in their eyes; the same old soldiers who wielded the musket long ago are nursing their grandchildren on their knees and teaching them the same old lessons of honor and truth, and the same old love of liberty. The mocking-bird sings the same old songs in the same old tree, and the brooks laugh and leap down the same old hollows. It is the same old South and we are the same old Southern people:

There may be skies as blue, but none bluer; There may be hearts as true, but none truer.

It is the same old land of the free and the same old home of the brave. It is the same old South resurrected from the dead, with the prints of the nails still in its hands and the scars of the spear still in its side.

“I’m glad I am in Dixie, Look away! Look away! And live and die for Dixie, Look away! Look away! Look away down South in Dixie.”

Within the borders of this fair land of Dixie the finest opportunities for investment and the richest fields for enterprise ever known in the Western Hemisphere are now open to all who wish to come and help us to make it blossom like the rose. A new development has already begun. Thirty years ago there was not a factory in South Carolina. To-day she is spinning and weaving more cotton than she raises and is second only to Massachusetts in the manufacture of cotton goods; and North Carolina and Georgia have made equal progress with South Carolina in this new idea of making the South not only the leader in agriculture, but also in converting our raw material into finished articles of commerce and trade, and thus saving to our section countless millions of wealth. In the mountains of south-western Virginia, south-eastern Kentucky, East Tennessee, North Alabama, where the sunshine plays hide and seek with the shadows, and where many rivers are born, there is a beautiful valley six hundred miles in length and from one to thirty miles wide. Until a quarter of a century ago the principal product of that country was children. The people did not realize that the north rim of the valley was almost an unbroken vein of coal and that the South was an exhaustless bed of iron, and they placed but little value on the vast parks of timber where the ax had never gleamed, but now the dynamite has just begun to jar the silent hills and the forests have just begun to fall. Birmingham is making the sky of night red with the glare of her furnaces, and all the way up the valley to the new city of Roanoke new furnaces are being lighted and new industries are developing, and Huntsville, Decatur, Chattanooga, Knoxville, Johnson City and Bristol on the line, will soon be great manufacturing centers, where the pig iron and the logs of hardwood that are now being shipped away to be converted into finished articles will pass through our own mills and we will cease to be the fools we have been in the past, buying furniture made in foreign cities out of our own timber and all the implements of agriculture made out of our own iron.

Until twenty years ago the sons of Mississippi, Louisiana and Arkansas were contented to sit on their verandas and watch the “nigger” and his lazy mule in the cotton field and listen to the melodies of the old plantation. But now the mills of Mississippi are beginning to mingle their music with these melodies, and the marshes of Louisiana are being converted into rice fields and she is making enough sugar to-day to sweeten the tooth of the world. Arkansas is building factories and opening her mines and mineral wealth, and sawing down her great forests of pine. At the close of the Civil War Texas was a wilderness, but now the howl of the wolf has given place to the whistle of the engine, and the whoop of the Indian has been hushed by the music of machinery. From Texarkana to El Paso prosperous cities and towns have sprung up like prairie flowers where the wild horse once galloped and the buffalo grazed, and great geysers of coal oil have solved the fuel problem.

In the full development of this new idea of transforming our raw material into finished goods lies our hope of regaining our prestige and power in the management of national affairs, and of winning back billions of wealth which were wiped out by the destroying angel of war. God grant that our beloved old South may be as happy in reaping the golden harvest of prosperity in the years to come as she has been brave and true through the suffering and woes of adversity in the sorrowful years of the past.

And now, my grizzled old friends who once wore the gray, in the name of the young men I congratulate you upon having lived to see the dawn of a brighter day for your battle-scarred and war-swept country. You must soon answer to the roll call of eternity and join your comrades on the other side. I give you the pledge of your sons that they will ever defend the record you have made and themselves live up to the traditions of their fathers. In the name of our women, both young and old, I implore the blessing of the Lord upon you, and pray that as the dews of life’s evening are condensing on your brow and the shadows of the long, long night are gathering about you, you may linger long in the twilight, with loving hands to lead you and loving hearts to bless.

IN THE DARK.

By Grace MacGowan Cooke

Virginia sat late at her work. Or rather, she sat before the desk which contained her work and fought the battle which is as old as our conception of a woman’s duty. She had that day listened to words of love from a man whom her heart rose up to answer—she, betrothed to Parke Winchester. Hasn’t a woman a right to change her mind? Ah, but Parke—his salvation as well as his happiness was in her hands! Had he not told her so a hundred times? Was he not drinking hard, and going straight to the dogs when she was coaxed into this secret pact with him? If she let him go, if she pushed him away from her, would he not fall lower? Could she ever forgive herself?

Then, she was uneasy about Fair; her young brother was evidently finding companions who did him no good. Twice he had come home of late so much under the influence of drink that she was put to the utmost of her powers to keep the matter from her father. She had no mother, she and Fair were the only children. In her desperation she had gone to Winchester; he would know, he would understand. She remembered the feverish eagerness with which he had answered her.

“You know, of course, Virginia, that I haven’t touched a drop since you promised to marry me. I can’t bear the thought of the stuff now. But I’ll hang around some of the places where it’s sold and catch up with Fair. I can help him. I can save him for you, Virginia, honey, because I’ve been there myself.”

Now, if she broke her word to Winchester she was losing more than her lover, for he had added fiercely, “But if you cast me off, if you break with me, I’ll go straight to the devil. You’ve got that on your conscience, little woman. I’ll go, and I’ll take Fair with me if I can. You’ve got the souls of two men in your keeping, for if you were my wife—as long as you have promised to be my wife—I’d as soon think of stealing a Bible from a church as taking a drink of whisky.”

Then came the thought of the other man, whom she could really love—the man who would save his own soul and not ask the sacrifice of a woman’s happiness for his salvation. Yet, she reasoned, it was a marvelous thing that her influence should have kept her betrothed from even the desire for drink. She half wished for a moment that influence were not so great. Then she reproved herself, sighed and pushed the heavy, dark hair from off her forehead. A vagrant, scuffling sound from the hallway outside kept intruding upon her consciousness. Finally the little intermittent noise secured her attention, and then she thought a dog or a cat must have been left inside when the house was closed for the night. She stepped to the door, to be met by a shambling, bowing old figure, and Uncle Vete’s deprecating, apologetic face.

“I hates ter ’sturb you, li’l Mis,” he protested. “I hates might’ly ter ’sturb you; but dey’s trouble out to my house—I spect you knows ’bout it, honey.”

Virginia drew back, took up her lamp and motioned the old man to follow her downstairs to the dining room. “Don’t wake father, if it’s about Fairfax,” she cautioned. “It would only hurt his feelings, and make a bad matter worse.”

“Yas, baby chile, dat des’ what Vete was fearin’.” They stole softly to the dining room, and stood there confronted in the lamplight, the tall girl in her white dress, and the wizened little old negro in his comically ill-fitting broadcloth, hat in hand.

“You see ’t ’uz dishyer way: Marse Fair, he come out ter my place dis mawnin’—you know, Mis’, he train wid a feller what allers come out dar when he git ter spreein’. I uzzen’ dar. ’Ouldn’t ’a’ been no trouble ef I’d a’ been dar. Unk’ Vete can manage de bofe of ’em, tell dey git too bad.”

“Who was with my brother?” inquired the girl sharply.

The little old black man stole a side-long look at his interlocutrice. He was a slave, born on the Sevier plantation, body servant to her father, General Sevier, in whose discarded wear he now stood; and loyalty to the name warred in him with that freemasonry which keeps the male silent about the shortcomings of another male, when speaking to the woman who most needs to be warned of them.

“Dey dest one feller lef’ wid Marse Fair,” he mumbled. “Dey wuz a whole passel o’ boys dis mawnin’. But dem yutheh boys tuk an’ went home, whiles dey could walk. An’ I cain’t git Marse Fair to move.”

“Well, Uncle Vete, I’ll put on my things and go with you,” said Virginia, with sudden resolution. “I can manage Fair.” Returning, hat in hand, she had the curiosity to inquire, “How did you get in, Uncle Vete?”

“W’y, yo’ cook lady hyer, she a sisteh in de ‘Ban’ o’ High and Glor’ous Wardens,’ an’ I b’longs to de same division; an’ she lef’ me in, honey; she lef’ me in.”

“Did you drive?”

“I come ’long er’ ol’ Belzybug an’ de cyart.”

“And Beelzebub has made two trips to-day,” added Virginia. “He must be tired. Put him in the barn, Uncle Vete, and we’ll get a street hack as we go down past Summer Avenue.”

“An’ have ol’ Marse askin’ quisti’ns ’bout dat mule in de mawnin’? No, ma’am. No, li’l lady. I got a frien’, down de road hyer a piece, what keep a wagon yawd. I gwine leave dat mule dah, Miss Ginnie.”

The streets were quite deserted; it was near twelve o’clock. Virginia was glad that she met no one, though the little old black man bobbing after her was as efficient an escort and protector as she could have had. The street hack of the small Southern city is most commonly a vehicle of the family carriage style; probably many of them have descended from the estate of domestic privacy. One found, its sleeping driver wakened, his gaunt horse prodded into action, Virginia leaned forward, and began to ask Uncle Vete further questions in a carefully lowered tone, as he sat beside the driver.

“Is he worse than before?”

“’Bout de same, honey, des ’bout de same. I is saw ’um mo’ ’rageous; an’ ergin, I is saw ’um less ’rageous. ’Bout so an’ so, honey. Des ’bout so an’ so, Miss Ginnie, chile.”

“You say there’s some one with him; are they inside the house?”

Uncle Vete grinned, and twisted in his seat. “Yas, honey,” he admitted, finally. “Dey bofe inside de house, an’ de fambly, dey on de outside. Dat whut mek me come fer you dis time er night.”

“Do you mean that they turned you out?”

“Yas, honey. I foun’ Cindy an’ de chillen all turn’t out an’ blockaded, an’ young Marse a shootin’ th’oo de do’ ef anybody speak ter ’im.”

Virginia leaned back in silence. The crazy old vehicle creaked and rattled over the rough road. Its one sorry horse made slow progress.