Rome, Georgia - History (part 17 of 17)

Money That Will Never Come Back

Confederate Government and state bills in general use during the Civil War, preserved here as a reminder of the South of slavery and plantation days. This money gradually* depreciated until at the end of the war a trunkful would just about buy a square meal, if such could be found. Stacks of it are still in the possession of families who have never become reconciled to the new order of things.

*Miss Omberg was the first subject of the socalled Battey operation, performed at her cottage home, 615 W. First St., Aug. 27, 1872. She died of organic heart trouble.

Myrtle Hill Addenda

Little of the following information appears elsewhere herein. The data was taken from headstones and slabs because it could not be obtained from the sexton's records.

Rev. Samuel Edward Axson, who departed this life May 28, 1884, aged 47 years, 5 mos. For 17 years pastor of the Rome Presbyterian church. "While yet iA the noonday of life, in the heat of a well-fought fight, the Master called him to his exceeding great reward."

" 'A traveler between life and death The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength and skill A perfect woman, nobly planned. To warn, to comfort and command; And yet, a spirit still and bright. With something of angelic light.' "

At top, the Philip Walker Hemphill lot at DeSoto Park, containing the first wife and two children of one of the founders of Rome; the James Hemphill-Jones-JoUy home on the Cave Spring road, near which in a private lot lie the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Wm. Montgomery; the Wm. S. Gibbons (Jos. Ford) home, also in Vann's valley, built by Jos. Ford, who lies buried in the 50-toot square lot seen at the bottom.

Dr. Homer Virgil Milton Miller; born Apr. 29, 1814; died May 31, 1896. "A Christian who faithfully served his God, a physician who loved his fellow man, a soldier and a senator from Georgia. He never did anything that caused a citizen of Georgia to put on mourning. Adsum."

Jno. Temple Graves lot: Grandmother, Lucretia Calhoun, wife of Dr. H. H, Townes, later of Dr. DeGraff enried ; died 1881. Favorite niece of Jno. C. Calhoun. A noble woman of the old regime."

Jordan Reese; born June 20, 1842; died at Culpepper, Va., Aug. 18, 1861, from wounds received Apr. 21, 1861, at the First Battle of Manassas.

Bayard E. Hand, Lt. U. S. Navy; born Mar. 25, 1830, at Darien, Ga.; died July 16, 1885 Wilmington, N. C. "The anchor of his soul was faith in Christ."

Map Of

On the topmost peak of Myrtle Hill Cemetery, looking to the west, is the heroic marble monument to the heroes of the Confdracy. On a large pedestal stands a Confederate soldier at parade rest, facing the west. Inscriptions say:

"This monument is the testimony of the present to the future that these were they who kept the faith given them by the fathers. Be it known by this token that these men were true to the traditions of their country's call; steadfast in their duty, faithful even in despair, and illustrated in the unflinching heroism of their deaths, the free-born courage of their lives."

"How well they served the faith their people know. A thousand battlefields attest, dungeon and hospital bear witness. To their sons they left but honor and their country. Let this stone forever warn those who keep these valleys that only their sires are dead - the principles for which they fought can never die."

"The Confederate States of America, 22 Feb., 1862. Deo Vindice. Erected by the Women of Rome to the memory of the soldiers of Floyd County, Ga., who died in defense of the Confederate States of America, 1861-65."

Confederate Soldiers' Section

In the part of Myrtle Hill Cemetery reserved for the deceased of the Civil War are 377 graves. Thig number includes 81 Confederate unknown and two unknown of the Federal Army. These Boys in Gray died at or near Rome; most of them succumbed to wounds or disease in Rome hospitals, while some were killed in defending Rome against Sherman's army in May, 1864, and in skirmishes before and after that date. The dead soldiers sleep with their heads pointed toward the beautiful Coosa Valley and their feet pointed northeastward toward Rome. Over the graves of the departed are simple headstone slabs of gray marble about 20 inches high.

In the list are many honored names from the Southern States. Included is one Spanish-American War veteran - E. L. Ellis, of Co. D, 3rd Ga., U. S. Volunteers.

The Philip W. Hemphill Graveyard

THE PHILIP W. HEMPHILL GRAVEYARD. This mortal sanctuary reposes in a grove of oaks and hickories on the top of the hill between DeSoto (Mobley) Park lake and the street car line, about 100 yards west of the old home of Philip Walker Hemphill, and contains the sacred dust of the following:

Elizabeth Cunningham Hemphill, first wife of Philip W. Hemphill, died Apr. 9, 1844; aged 34 years and 24 days. Two daughters, Margaret Jane Hemphill, who died July 3, 1837; aged 3 years, 3 months, 14 days, and Nancy whose slab contains the date 1841 but is otherwise indistinct. Mrs. Hemphill's slab states that she was for sixteen years a member of the Presbyterian church. James M. Cunningham, born Jan. 26, 1821, died Oct. 22, 1851. These graves are boxed over, with flat slabs on top. Fifteen feet northwest of the four are headstone and footstone marking the grave of a daughter of Samuel and Mary G. Mobley; time and weather have erased the first name and the dates of birth and death.

The John Hume Cemetery

THE JOHN HUME CEMETERY. This private burial ground was established by John Hume, the pioneer, on his country estate, "Tantatanara'' ("Running Waters") on the Southern railway two miles north of North Rome and about two miles east of the Oostanaula river. It is 1,500 feet northwest of the old home. In this lonely spot, nurtured by the gentle breezes and the glamour of the long ago, sleep the following in peace everlasting:

Beautiful Subjects In Beautiful Settings

Graduation procession of Shorter College, "Maplehurst," 1919, at top. The seniors are accompanied by the sophomores bearing daisy chain, and the sophomores followed by the juniors. In the central picture Miss Sarah Glover, '22, drives the prize-winning Shorter float in the Home-coming parade, Oct. 13, 1921. At the bottom is the prize float of 1920.

Occupants Of The Old Seventh Avenue Cemetery

Note: The cemetery that usually goes by the above title was known to some as "Oak Hill." The first burials appears to have been those of James McEntee and Mrs. Rebecca Mann, in 1837, and the last of Thos. Jefferson Helm, in 1904. The place was generally abandoned in 1857, when Myrtle Hill Cemetery was opened up by the city, and since then all but perhaps 100 of the deceased have been removed to the new burial place. Its location is on Seventh Avenue, three blocks north of the City Auditorium, overlooking the Oostanaula river and within sight of the home of Major Ridge. Notes are appended below in the hope that the preservation of these fragments of the past will constitute a service and an inspiration to future generations.

Judge William H. Underwood, father of Judge Jno. W. H. Underwood, and an important figure in the removal of the Cherokee Indians west, sleeps in an unmarked grave.

Dr. George Magruder Battey's grave was once surmounted by a flat, vinecovered slab which contained the single word "George," laced there by his wife, Emily Verdery Battey, a native of Augusta. It has been lost with numerous others. Dr. Battey was born in 1826 at Augusta, and died in 1856 at Rome; aged 30.

John Henry Lumpkin, born June 13, 1812, died July 10, 1860. The shaft to Judge Lumpkin is of white marble, about 12 feet high, and is the largest in

Dr. John Noble's grave is covered with a raised slab of gray stone and on it is the inscription "Generous and just. He lived and died without an enemy." Dr. Noble died November 16, 1848, at the age of 24. He was a brother of the second wife of Weems Berrien, father of Miss Frances Berrien, of Rome, halfbrother of McPherson Berrien, of Savannah, whose only daughter, Lou, married Francis S. Bartow, colonel of the 8th Georgia Regiment of the Confederacy.

Esther Ligon, born Dec. 2, 1775; died June 10, 1859. Ancestors of Miss Lilly Miltchell, of Rome, Mrs. Wm. Worth Martin, of Atlanta, and Mrs. Geo. Turrentine, of Rome. The Berrien children are buried in the lot.

Eliza Hall Reeves, born July 6, 1803, died June 20. 1892. Mrs. Reeves taught private school on or near Eighth Avenue near cotton factory and W. & A. R. R. Taught Judge John C. Printup and many others. She and her husband kept the old Exchange Hotel for a time and the old Choice House, where the Hotel Forrest now stands.

Jas. H. McEntee, died May 5, 1837, aged 4 years, 3 months, 28 days. This lad was probably son of Jim McEntee, who kept a store and boarding house on the north side of Broad street where the Martha Berry hospital was later located. The boy was playing near the house while workmen were putting up lumber, and a piece fell and killed him. A granddaughter of Jim McEntee was the late Mrs. J. Aiken (Rosalind Burns) Gammon. The only daughter of the McEntees was Mary Jane, who married John T. Burns of South Carolina, the father of Rosalind Gammon. Mr. McEntee was an Irishman and his wife a beautiful woman of great refine- ment. Martha Baldwin Smith, living on the Alabama Road opposite the Shorter College lot, used to spend nights at the McEntee's when it was too late to return home from school, and Mr. McEntee would bounce her and Mary Jane on his knee. Mr. McEntee in his declining years lived on a farm on the Etowah River near the W. & A. R. R.. where his daughter was wooed and won by J. Aiken Gammon.

Two sisters lie side by side. Sallie R. Freeman died June 27, 1878 at 20, and Mary Joe Freeman Oct. 30, 1876, at 11 years. "So through the clouds their spirits passed into that pure and unknown world of love where suffering cannot come."

Mrs. Fannie E. Perry, consort of Thos. J. Perry, born Feb. 22, 1834, died July 2, 1856; 23 years, 4 months, 11 days. Mr. Perry was Rome's postmaster for a long time; his wife was kin to the Ombergs of Rome. Her grave has a flat marble slab over it.

Mrs. Mary Rogers, born^ Aug. 8, 1799, died May 3, 1876. Sister of Miss Linnie Hargrove's mother; aunt of Zachariah B. and Rob Hargrove and Mrs. Wm. Fort. Was mother of Jobe Rogers. She lived at one time in the John J. Seay home, built by the Forts, at the southeast corner of Second avenue and E. Fourth street. Was noted for keeping her home in perfect order.

Mattie Saurie, died Oct. 4, 1869; 22 years old. Cynthia M. Saurie, died Sept. 9, 1853; 15 years. Mrs. Selma Saurie, died Mar. 3, 1895; 83 years, 9 months. "I have fought a good fight; I have finished my course; I have kept the faith." Richard E. Saurie, died Feb. 13, 1850; 34 years. Mrs. Selma Saurie was a member of the Methodist church and lived near the present home of Mrs. Naomi P. Bale.

David Rounsaville, son of David and S. Rounsaville, born Nov 16, 1802, died Nov. 22, 1845. Sarah Ann Rounsaville, wife of David Rounsaville, born Mar. 12, 1818, died Feb. 4. 1867.

A Glimpse Of The Abandoned Cemetery

This property belongs to the city and holds the sacred dust of many old Romans famed in song and story. A movement has been started to preserve it like Colonial Park in Sa^ vannah, and to connect it with the city's extensive tract on Ft. Jackson Hill. Land in this neighborhood can now be had at a reasonable price, and it is in the direct path of the city's logical growth.

Margaret L., wife of Allan A. Williams and eldest daughter of Jno. M. Berrien, born Sept. 15, 1804, at Savannah, died Dec. 5, 1851, at her residence in Cass county.

Thos. S. Wright, son of Augustus R. and A. E. Wright, born Feb. 14. 1850, died Feb. 23, 1866; son of Judge Wright and Mrs. Wright; said to have been a brilliant speaker, though only 16; brother of Seaborn and Moses Wright.

The following inscriptions are on the monument of Dr. Hendricks : "Thus he sleeps, like one who draws the drapery of his couch about him and lies down to pleasant dreams." "He was lovely and pleasant in his life and his body rests beneath this memorial. This monument is reared by his beloved widow and orphan children as a testimonial of a servant of Jesus Christ, who like Enoch, walked with God, like Abraham attained the righteousness of faith, and like Paul finished his course with joy."

Mrs. Rebecca Mann, died Feb. 7, 1837; at 74 years; grandmother of Mrs. Hiram Hill and ancestor of her descendants. "She died as she had lived, a Chirstian. Let this slab protect her dust. God shall bid her arise."

Thomas Hamilton, M. D., born Mar. 18, 1790, died Oct. 9, 1859. A Mason and a Quaker; grandfather of Mrs. Annie Freeman Johnson and Mrs. Julian Gumming; moved from near Cartersville, Cass county, to Rome. His wife, a Miss Glower, was a Methodist. Grandfather of Telemon Cruger Smith- Cuyler, who lives on Glower place at Wayside, Ga. Ancestor of Rome Hamilton s.

Mrs. Malinda Hamilton (nee Malinda Glower), born June 4, 1803, died June 27, 1882. Was mother of Mrs. D. Mack Hood, mother of Mrs. Joel Branham.

Rosa Hardin Helm, died Apr. 21, 1900; aged 45 years. Thomas Jefferson Helm, born April 17, 1840; died May 17, 1904. Was from Columbia, Tenn., and friend of J. W. Ewing; kin to Spullocks.

The Joseph Watters Burial Ground

THE JOSEPH WATTERS BURIAL GROUND. On the Calhoun Road, six miles north of Rome, in Ridge Valley, Watters District, is the resting place of the rugged pioneer, Joseph Watters, and most of his descendants who have gone to their reward. It is near the Watters and Rush homes and Floyd County Model School. Eight of the graves are located by small rock markers, and the other stones bear the following inscriptions: Joseph Watters, born Feb. 24, 1792, 1839, died Aug. 13, 1811; Sarah Cordied Mar. 1, 1866; Elizabeth Watters, (his wife), born June 23, 1779, died Feb. 19, 1881; William Watters, born Mar. 20, 1820, died Sept. 7, 1886; Susan Antoinette Watters, born Nov. 12,

Hebrew Cemetery Interments Langley Raps Snobbery

These be evil days for snobs and snobbery. Practically all the authors of the late popular books have turned the X-ray on the warped and festering torso of the snob, and the public has first laughed at his puny soul, and then grieved over his misfortune.

His neighbors, at the risk of giving offense, are courageously trying to purge the community of him. During the past week George Battey took a well-aimed shot at his nest, as did likewise my conservative friend. Editor Ciair Rowell. Mr. Battey called the practice of snobbery the "old order" of things, and declared we must abandon it. Editor Rowell called it provincialism, and said we must modernize with the times.

Edith Wharton's book, "The Age of Innocence,'' took the Pulitzer prize of $1,000 for the best book of 1920 portraying American character and tradi- Thos. Jackson Davis, born July 9, Innocence" says of the snob:

"Culture! Yes, if you only had it! But there are just a few little local patches, dying out here and there for lack of - well, hoeing and cross fertilizing; the last remnants of the old European traditions that your forebears brought with them. But you're in a pitiful little minority. You've got no center, no competition, no audience. You're like the pictures on the walls of a deserted house; the portrait of a gentleman. You'll never amount to anything, any of you, till you roll up your sleeves and get right down into the muck. That, or emigrate."

Snobbery cost Chas. Evans Hughes, now Secretary of State, the presidency of the United States. California was safe for Hughes, but against the advice of his friends, Hughes went to California. When he got there he closeted himself with the silk hat and kid gloved crowd and refused to receive the "wool hat'' boys. The wool hatters openly swore vengeance, and Hughes lost California, which alone cost him the presidency. His campaign manager, Mr. Wilcox, was an icicle personified.

Correspondents say that this taught Mr. Hughes a lesson, and that today he is the most amiable, approachable and most democratic official in Washington, except the president.

Snobbery cost the late A. O. Bacon the governorship of Georgia. At a political speaking at Jug Tavern, now Winder, a farmer's wife asked Mr. Bacon to buy four pairs of wool socks for $1, which she had knit herself. Mr. Bacon frowned and asked her what on earth she thought he wanted with that kind of sock, - that he wore only silk socks. That settled Bacon's chances of election. Mr. Bacon heard of his snobbish "bust" when it was too late. This taught him a- lesson - he reformed and a few years later was elected to the United States Senate and made Georgia one of the greatest Senators in her history.

It gives me genuine pleasure here to pay high tribute to the character, statesmanship and intellect of the late Senator Bacon; he simply made the mistake in his early career of being snobbish, or appearing so, and paid the penalty that some mighty good men with political ambitions living not a thousand miles from Rome must pay, unless they reform.

It never offends me for a fellow to make it known that he thinks he is too good to associate with me; it only makes me laugh. It would not offend me if he should come out and tell me so. I would laugh all the more.

I've got a trap set for whatever there may be of snobbery in Rome. I'm going to catch it in whichever direction it moves, and if it assays up to any appreciable standard, three or four of us are going to plan a snipe party for the snob victims, either political, social, financial or commercial, according to the particular turn the snobbery takes, and then there will be another story to tell.

Snipe Hunt Plans

_ That must depend on conditions and circumstances, George. I haven't got my snob covey rounded up yet. I have a little bunch of about a half dozen real nice juicy ones nibbling around rny trap, but they are a little chary of my bait. I've got a slow and rather new delivery and they are not quite certain just when and where my release will cut the plate. I ran across what appeared to be a fine specimen of the breed the other day and he looked sick and sort of locoed, but when I got him square in the eye he gave me a belligerent and defiant stare.

I have been hoping, and am hoping yet, that the lonesome little school of the tribe we have here will reform and sign up for life in the HE-man league, challenge success and fortune on their own merits and add luster and renown to the family names and connections instead of swashbuckling around in a circle and trying to collect dividends enough to live off the capital of the good name left them by twofisted, fighting and successful fathers.

Considerable preliminary preparation will have to be made before we can stage the first snipe pai'ty. I have heretofore said that snobbery is a n'ental disease, and there are several types of it, and each case demands a different treatment.

There is the political snob who believes that by reason of his inherited preferment, or superior ability and qualifications, he is entitled to all the political honors in sight. This chap is afraid to let anybody else advance or advantage in any place or position fcr fear it would in some way interfere with himself. He quietly stabs his most promising neighbor on every occasion.

To handle this bird we would have to get some of my pals in Washington to wire him to come on to the capitol and sign a receipt for the Rome postoffice or take a place as assistant to Charles Evans Hughes, Secretary of State. We would have to give him a big torchlight parade before he left, and otherwise in a most pu"blic manner show our appreciation of his greatness. Also we would have a mighty big reception committee meet him at the Union station, as well as a bunch of correspondents to tell the world how it all came out.

Then we have in some unfortunate spots in this big world the financial snobs who get themselves attached to a little 2x4 bank of some kind, with about enough capital to finance a good Chinese laundry and woi-k themselves up into the conviction that they are Napoleons of finance. These are the beauty boys.

For this kind we would have some of the bunch in New York wire them that their distinction as bank executives and renewed financial abilities had attracted the attention of Wall Street and that they had been elected president of the National City Bank (the New York National City Bank) to succeed Jim Stillman and that they were requested to report as early as possible to take charge of "the biggest bank in America."

Now we would have to give this bug a big banquet where he could hear his praises sung as he has murmured them to himself since his first infection, and appoint a committee to go with him and see him at last enter upon his own; also to rescue him from the observation ward of Bellevue hospital following the close of his argument with the bank officers.

The social snob is of course the catch-as-catch-can champion of all the snobs on earth. He has been one of the chief nuisances of civilization ever since the Mayflower bumped its nose against Plymouth Rock. He has added to the gaiety of all nations, and we have a very few specimens of him left, the age of social democracy notwithstanding.

He has a brain about as big as a hummingbird's and the nerve of a Fatty Arbuckle. He is a third or fourth sprout sprung from a good strong original stock that went to seed in the last generation and left only this fibrous sprig that is not strong enough or hardy enough to ever reach maturity.

We would have to tip the boys off down in Atlanta, or Athens, to recognize his social position and superiority by giving a big reception in his honor to which would be invited all the exclusive social queens and raging social lions of the state. Would he fall? Say, will a hobo take chicken pie?

Also we have the church snob. The sleek, smiling, pawing and parading hypocrite who wants to pose as the one big, controlling church leader. He arrays himself in his cutaway or Prince Albert, gets to church before anybody else, takes charge and gives general directions to all comers. He can't be comfortable in a seat where he will not hold the spotlight all the tmie; he stands around' the walls, goes from one department of the services to another, frowns on some things and smiles his approval on others. His ambition is to have the world recognize and acknowledge him as the leader of some big influential church and congregation.

This class of snob is as jealous and envious of every possible competitor for church honors as a first violinist is of the orchestra leader. He would murder the best Christian on earth for getting in his way if he just dared to.

But, George, be patient; this campaign is on to stay. There is no room in the good old world for anybody these days except real men, working men, accomplishing men and unselfish men, and if there are others they must reform or emigrate. - Sept. 20," 1921.

Town Analysis

TOWN ANALYSIS. By Roht. H. Clagett. Whenever anybody residing in a town or city undertakes the analysis of the characteristics and peculiarities of the place, he is sure to create considerable comment. Such analyses provide the focus for a subject of conversation that almost everybody delights in - a subject in which they themselves are the characters to be talked about. Lee Langley, ex-newspaper man and clever writer, has started such conversation in Rome by his recent articles in which he undertook to reveal some of the characteristics of Rome and Romans, neither shunning the bad nor withholding the good.

In our opinion Lee Langley's articles have been good for Rome, because they have set many people to talking about their town and analyzing their relationship to it. Anything that causes such retrospection is healthful. Romans who have read his articles may or may not agree with them. He does not seem to care about that. We cannot agree with all that he has written, if he intended to leave the impression that some of the things he said are applicable to Rome alone, because it has been our observation that the worst characteristics he attributed to this town are with equal verity applicable to all Southern towns of sim-

In substance Mr. Langley said in a grood natured way that to become a Roman it is necessary for a person either to be born into that high estate, marry into it or buy himself into it. To a certain extent the same thing may be said of any other city, North or South - if he meant by that to rank high in social, political or business circles one must achieve his position through the good will of the inhabitants of the place in which he dwells. It has been our experience that it is very easy to become just any kind of Roman one has the desire to become, provided he has sufficient intelligence, social grace, business ability and individual personality to deserve the position or recognition that he aspires to.

Rome is not a Utopia. Nor is there a Utopia anywhere in the United States or any other country on the face of the earth. We have our objectionable characteristics, which in most instances are the same as the objections that may be pointed out in any other town in this section of the United States. Likewise, we have our admirable features, some of which, it is pleasing to contemplate, are not to be found in all other places. If we have any criticism to make of the town that we have chosen as our future abode, it is that it is too much like other towns in which we have dwelt. What we would like to see happen is that Rome become so distinctly different from other towns either in good or bad qualities, if you please, that she will attract extraordinary attention.

As was said at the outset of this editorial, Lee Langley has done a good service by setting us to thinking about ourselves. He did it in a good natured way, and if there was anything written that offended anybody we feel that he did not intend to do that or care whether he did or not. What we would like to see transpire here is that all inhabitants of this town - old-timers and new-comers, men and women, boys and girls, merchants and tradesmen, professional men and manufacturers alike - consider themselves Romans in every sense of the word and deport themselves in the manner that they think Romans should act.

The manner, then, in which the majority deport themselves, will be acceputed as the Rome Spirit and all who do not conform thereto will be aliens, because have we not the classic admonition that when in Rome one should do as Rome does? If there be anyone among us who can change our ways sufficiently to cause a majority to conform to his idea of what is the proper way, that new way will become the Rome way for better or for worse. If there be any immediate improvement in prospect, it lies in an endeavor to make Rome different from any other small city in the South. - July 12, 1921.

When asked to take your hostess out to dinner, were you ever penalized with a cold glance for being off side? Did you ever invite two young ladies to the same party and find yourself playing doubles, when you had meant it to be only a single court? Did you ever play all the courses at a formal dinner and find you had the wrong iron left for the last shot? Have you ever tried to steal home with your wife on second floor and your motherin-law on third? If so, you will appreciate these few random but important rules, and use them as an amateur in good standing, says a writer in the Kansas City Times.

1. Approach a formal dinner party as you would a railroad track, with its "Stop, Look and Listen," sign. You stop eating, look hungry and listen to the conversation of the experienced lady next to you who ate at home first.

2. To save embarrassment, never attend the wrong party or the wrong funeral. Imagine looking into the face of the host or the corpse, as the case may be, and finding him a perfect stranger.

3. Caution your wife ahead of time to avoid dwelling on your ordinarily huge appetite. Your hostess may insist on your taking a second helping of the pickled turnips or some such dish.

4. When seated uncomfortably against the leg of a table at one of these narrow apartment house festive boards, never kick irritably against what you believe to be the obstruction. It is just possible the leg may be that of the lady opposite.

5. The sport of seating ladies at a dinner party is the most hazardous of all. The procedure urgently requires the detailed instructions which follow.

The whole matter might be simplified and accidents avoided, if custom were not so fixed. For instance, the show method of seating the performers would be splendid. The butler, serving as interlocutor, should move to the piano, directly all the guests are in the dining room and at their chairs. Then he should call out in a loud, clear voice: "Ladies, be seated!" (Chord). All then would sink into their chairs with pleasing unanimity, the hostess would give friend husband the cue for that humorous little monologue of his, after which he, in turn, should address a guest with, "And where were you last night, Mr. Bones?" and all would go rattlingly.

Then there is the military method. Guests form in column of twos and troop in to the tune of a stirring march on the phonograph. Reaching a position in rear of their chairs the host commands, "In place, halt!'' The following commands then are given in quick succession: "Chair with the right hand grab!" "One pace to the left, march!" "Chairs to the rear, march!" "Take seats" and "Come and get it!"

The alert gentleman will not always seat the lady on his right, not if he is a judge of weights. Pick the lighter lady. Then, if the chair and the lady miss connection, the resulting crash will not be so noisy and even may be drowned with a loud guffaw.

The lady to be seated maneuvers the chair behind her. If she insists on standing too long, waiting for the hostess to sit or counting to see if there are thirteen at the table, the time has come for action. Drawing the chair still farther back to gain a start, rush it toward the lady, striking her at the bend of the knees with the chair and taking her by surprise. That IS a most important factor, the surprise element. It avoids that possibility, already mentioned, of her getting out of control and crashing.

With the lady once in the chair, the clever gentleman will propel it instantly toward the festive board. Some of the sex is just tricky enough to attempt to rise again if given an opportunity. Speed foils 'em. Don't cut down the momentum for fear of pushing the lady's chair too far forward. She will rebound from the edge of the table nicely.

If the gentleman has followed instructions thus far faithfully, he will find the lady safely parked at her place and undoubtedly somewhat winded from caroming off the table. Before she can regain the power of speech, the alert gentleman will have an opportunity of making most lusty inroads on the soup, relishes and even part of the fish course, unhindered by the demands of conversation. - Tribune-Herald, Jan. 16, 1921.

A Monkey Does His Bit

A MONKEY DOES HIS BIT. By W. S. Rowell. As a result of a very unusual injury - particularly for a ruling sovereign - he King of Greece is dead from the bite of a pet money. King Alexander had ruled but a short while, - about three years, in fact. He was placejd on the throne when former King Constantine was deposed by the allies, on account of his pro-German activities. He had been a mere figurehead, possessing no real power, and there is, therefore, no reason for any disturbance in Greece on that account.

King Alexander was the nephew of the former German Emperor, as are, of course, his brothers, one of whom. Prince Paul, has just been elected his successor by the Greek parliament. The new sovereign is the third son of Constantine, and is a man of about the same calibre as Alexander, and will be just about as much of a king, which will be very little. - Tribune-Herald, Oct. 27, 1920.

When Women Go To Vote

Well, won't it be worth going miles to see - when women stalk up to the courthouse to vote! In the first place, lack of experience will embarrass them to some extent. They won't know where to go nor what to do. But the average woman is quick to catch on and we don't anticipate much trouble in this regard.

The woman will start upstairs to the voting place, and be as mad as pepper if some man should perchance be in front of her, for naturally all women feel that they should go in front of the men. Then, by the time she gets fairly started, an election manager will call her back, and tell her that she must first find out if she is registered. If she IS, she will be given a ticket with a number on it and if she is not, th^re will be the dickens to play in explaining to her

The woman will then take the ticket handed her by the manager and go on up stairs. When stopped by another manager at the top, she will protest against giving up the ticket she has in order to receive another that she knows nothing about. But after argument this will be settled.

Then she won't want to go into the booth to fix her ticket, and she is not going to let any mere man fix it, because it's no man's business how she votes, and she don't want them to know anyway.

After having fixed her own ticket in her own way (probably having scratched the candidates she wanted to vote for), she looks around and sees the ballot box. After some discussion she will hand the ticket to the manager, who will call out her name and a number. This will bring on more talk; she will want to know why hej- name is called out without her consent and what the number is for.

This having been satisfactorily explained, she will start out the way she came and when barred by a police officer, there'll be another long discussion coupled with protests. Finding: that she cannot go out the way she came in she will follow the advice of the officer and go out the way pointed out. All of which she will consider totally unnecessary, and something of an insult.

It is our opinion that woinen will go to the polls in twos or threes, dressed in the height of fashion, in order to create an impression on the men standing around the polls. Of course, the men will be duly impressed.

When the returns come in and they find that their candidates are defeated, a mighty howl will go up, fraud, cheating, bribing and swindling will be cliarged. They will declare that they will never go to the polls again, to be cheated out of their rights by unfair counters, and they won't go again until another elections rolls around. - Oct. 30, 1920.

Women Like Winners

WOMEN LIKE WINNERS. By W. S. Rowell. It is a natural factor in the feminine make-up that women like winners, and it is well that they do - it acts as an additional incentive to men to put things over.

course; they'll stand by an unfortunate man, one who is in real trouble, be he husband, brother or friend, to the last extremity - they are always the friend of the disabled or oppressed, but among men possessing all their faculties, they want winners.

We do not believe this is due to selfishness or hard-heartedness. We believe that it is implanted in the woman nature to make men work harder and fight fiercer. Take a sti-ong, healthy man, in possession of all his faculties, he had better succeed in his undertakings if he expects to win the favor of women. They think he's got no business losing, and he has not.

We are not criticizing women for liking winners; in fact, we rather admire their perspicacity, and as stated above, this quality in their natures frequently acts as an incentive for men, stirring their energies and ambitions to greater and higher things.

There are some old-fashioned customs that do not fit into the modern scheme of things - they are out of date, and apparently silly. One of these is the custom of beginning all letters with "dear sir" or "dear madam." It is true that this is polite, and people should always be polite. But when a man or woman writes to his or her deadly enemy, and uses the pronoun "dear," it is inconsistent, to say the least.

We don't know bow this custom started; it was probably in the dark ages, when language had a different nieaning from that of the present. In some instances it may have been intended as sarcasm; it certainly has that eff'ect in a great many instances. We have often wondered why this particular form of address is used. It would have been just as reasonable to say "gentle sir," "kind sir" or "hated sir" as the circumstances seemed to warrant. But just why men started the fashion of always addressing each other as "dear sir" and stuck to it whether appropriate or not we have never been able to understand.

In a great many instances, for a man to address another as "dear sir" amounts to about the same thing as two rivals kissing each other when they meet. They hate each other to such an extent that their lips should burn on touching, yet they kiss and smile most sweetly. This is equally

We don't know any reason why you should not say ''miserable sir" if that should fit the occasion, or "fat sir" or "lean sir." Why not address each person you write to under an appropriate designation? What is the use in calling a man "dear" when you hate him like a fish? - Dec. 3, 1920'.

At Home-Coming, Oct. 14, 1920

"Rome's Who's Who contains everybody, with one man as good as another. There are roses in Rome whose petals wave a welcome of pink and white and red to our distinguished visitors. Out in the Flat Woods there are sweet potato patches containing the same 'possum tracks which long ago beckoned us to the hunt, and the whippoorwills call not today 'Whip-poorwil' but 'Welcome Home.' Everybody is happy at your coming, and only the skies are blue."

"When I think of Rome I recall the dearest period of my existence. Once a Roman, always a Roman. It is better to be a Roman than a king. This is the land of the Indians and the pioneer pale-face, the land of memory and dreams. I learned to ride a horse in Rome; I learned to ride a bicycle in Rome; I have taken a header from all the hills of Rome into the purling waters of the Etowah, the Oostanaula and the Coosa."

The following story, taken from the scrap book of the late John M. Graham, of Tennessee, now in the possession of a good lady of Rome, is reprinted from the Rome News of some date in 1921. Prudish persons should not read beyond these introductory lines; all orhers are cordially invited to wade in :

"Senator Sebastian, of Arkansas, was a native of Hickman County, Tenn. On one occasion a member of Congress was lamenting his own bashfulness and awkwardness. 'Why,' said the Senator from Rackensack, 'you don't know what bashfulness is. Let me tell a story, and when it is through I will stand the bob if you don't agree that you never knew anything about bashfulness and its baneful effects.

" 'I was the most bashful boy west of the Alleghenies. I wouldn't look at a girl, much less speak to a maiden. But for all that I fell desperately in love with a sweet, beautiful, neighbor girl. It was a desirable match on both sides and the folks saw the drift and fixed it up. I thought I should die just thinking of it. I was a gawky, country lout some 19 years old. She was an intelligent, refined and fairly well educated girl in a country and at a time when girls had superior advantages, and were therefore superior in culture to the boys. I fixed the day as far off' as I could have put it. I lay awake in a cold perspiration as the time drew near, and shivered with agony as I thought of the terrible ordeal.

" 'The dreadful day came. I went through with the program somehow in a dazed, confused, mechanical sort of way like an automaton booby thi-ough a supper where I could eat nothing, and thrgugh such games as "possum pie," ''Sister Phoebe" and all that sort of thing. The guests one by one departed and my hair began to stand on end. Beyond the awful curtain of Isis lay the terrible unknown. My blood grew cold and boiled by turns. I v.as in a fever and then an ague, pale and flushed by turns. I felt like fleeing to the woods, spending the night in the barn, or leaving for the West never to come back.

" 'I was deeply devoted to Sally, - loved her harder than a mule can kick, but that dreadful ordeal, I could not, I dared not, stand it. Finally the last guest was gone, the bride retired, the family repaired to bed, and I was left alone, horror of horrors, - alone with the old man. "John," said he. "you can take that candle. You will find your room right over this. Good night, John, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul," and with a mischievous twinkle in his fine gray eyes the old man left the room. I mentally said ''Amen!'" to his "Heaven help you," and when I heard him close a distant door, staggered to my feet and seized the farthing dip with a nervous grasp. I stood for some minutes contemplating my terrible fate and the inevitable and speedy doom about to overwhelm me. I knew that it could not be avoided, and yet I hesitated to meet my fate like a man. I stood so long that three love letters grew on the wick of the tallow dip, and a winding sheet was decorating the sides of the brass candlestick.

hastily climbed the stair, marked the position of the landing and the door of the bridal chamber. I would have died before I would have disrobed in that holy sanctuary, where awaited me a trembling and beautiful girl, a blushing maiden, "clothed upon" with her own beauty and modesty, and her snowy robe de nuit. The thought was that I could make the usual preparations outside in the hall, blow out the light, open the door and friendly night would shield my shrinking modesty and bashfulness, and grateful darkness at least mitigate the horror of the situation. It was soon done. Preparations for retiring were few and simple in Hickman, although consisting of disrobing, and owing to scarcity of cloth in those days man was somewhat near the Adamic state when he was prepared to woo sweet sleep.

" 'The dreaded hour had come. I was ready. I blew out the light, grasped the door knob with a deathly grip and nervous clutch. One moment and it would be over! One moment and it wasn't over, by a darned sight!

" 'I leaped within, slamming the door with a loud noise behind, and at the same time with a sickening gasp uttering the name of my sweetheart.

"There, seated in front of a blazing, glowing hickory log fire, with candles burning brightly on the mantel and bureau, was the blushing bride, surrounded by the six lovely bridesmaids.' "

Too Late To Be Classified

TOO LATE TO BE CLASSIFIED. On the eve of going to press, a good "story" has been received. Mrs. Mabel Washbourne Anderson, of Pryor, Okla., sends a book of poems by her father, the late John Rollin Ridge' (son of John Ridge, grandson of Major Ridge and native_ of the present Floyd County), in which is contained a preface with a highly engrossing narrative by the poet, which carries the reader back to the Indian days at Rome.* This account speaks for itself in the main. It needs explaining with respect to the location of the home of John Ridge. It leaves for the reader to figure out whether Mr. Ridge lived in Ridge Valley (at "Hermitage") or at the old Hume place about two miles north of North Rome, on the Southern railway.

John Rollin Ridge mentions his father's house "on a high hill, with a large spring at the foot of it," and another nearby hill, 200 yards away. The Rush place is on an elevation, at the foot of which, in Ridge Valley, is a

But to the article by the poet. It is contained in a book called "Poems," published in 1868 by Henry Payot & Co., and printed by Edward Bosqui & Co., at 517 Clay St., San Francisco, Cal. The book has been out of print so many years that copies of it are rare. The publisher's prefatory note precedes the Ridge account, and both now follow :

"Most of the poems in this little volume are the productions of boyhood; very few of them were written after the author had reached the age of 20. As his career on the coast, in connection with political and literary journalism, is familiar to all readers, we will add nothing to this letter."

" 'I was born in the Cherokee Nation, east of the Mississippi River, on the 19th of Mar., 1827.** My earliest recollections are of such things as are pleasing to childhood, the fondness of a kind father, and the smiles of an affectionate mother. My father, the late John Ridge, as you know, was one of the chiefs of the tribe, and son of the warrior and orator distinguished in Cherokee councils and battles, who was known among the whites as Major Ridge, and amongst his own people as Ka-nun-ta-cla-ge. My father grew up until he was twelve or fifteen years of age, as any untutored Indian, and he used well to remember the time when his greatest delight was to strip himself of his Indian costume, and with aboriginal cane-gig in hand, while away the long summer days in wading up and down creeks in search of crawfish.

" 'At the age which I have mentioned before, a missionary station sprang into existence, and Major Ridge sent his son John, who could not speak a word of English, to school at this station, placing him under the instruction of a venerable missionary named Gambol.*** Here he learned

**John Rollin Ridge died in 1867 at Grass Valley, Cal., and was there buried under a stunted tree which he had planted years before while engaged in placer mining. His wife died about 1910 at Berkeley, Cal., and was laid to rest at that place, which is the site of the University of California. Mrs. Ridge got together the choicest of her husband's poems and had them published a year after his death. Among his best serious efforts are "Mt. Shasta" and "The Atlantic Cable." He was often called upon to read his verses at public meetings and college commencements.

" 'Major Ridge had become fully impressed with the importance of civilization. He had built him a log cabin, in imitation of the border whites, and opened him a farm. The missionary. Gambol, told him of an institution built up in a distant land especially for the education of Indian youths (Cornwall, Conn.), and here he concluded to send his son. After hearing some stern advice from his father, with respect to the manner in which he should conduct himself among the "palefaces,'' John left for the Cornwall school, in charge of a friendly missionary. He remained there until his education was completed. During his attendance at this institution, he fell in love with a young white girl of the place, daughter of Mr. Northrup.*

*' 'His love was reciprocated. He returned home to his father, gained his consent, though with much difficulty (for the old Major wished him to marry a chief's daughter amongst his own people), went back again to Corn- -Wall, and shortly brought his "palefaced bride to the wild country of the Cherokees. In due course of time, I, John Rollin, came into the world. I was called by my grandfather "Chees-quat-a-law-ny," which, interpreted, means "Yellow Bird.' Thus you have a knowledge of my parentage and how it happened that I am an Indian.

" 'Things had now changed with the Cherokees. They had a written Constitution and laws. They had legislative halls, houses and farms, courts and juries. The general mass, it is true, were ignorant, but happy under the administration of a few simple, just and wholesome laws. Major Ridge had become wealthy by trading with the whites and by prudent management. He had built him an elegant house on the banks of the "Ooste-nar-ly River," on which now stands the thriving town of Rome, Ga.

" 'Many a time in my buoyant boyhood have I strayed along its summershaded shores and glided in a light canoe over its swiftly-rolling bosom, and beneath its ever-hanging willows. Alas for the beautiful scene! The Indian's form haunts it no more!

mem;ber it well, - a large two-story house, on a high hill, crowned with a fine grove of oak and hickory, a large clear spring at the foot of the hill, and an extensive farm stretching away down into the valley, with a fine orchard on the left. On another hill some 200 yards distant stood the school house, built at my father's expense, for the use of a missionary, Miss Sophie Sawyer, who made her home v;ith our family and taught my father's children and all who chose to come for her instruction. I went to this school until I was ten years of age - which was in 1837. Then another change had come over the Cherokee Nation. A demon spell had fallen upon it. The white man had become covetous of the soil. The unhappy Indian was driven from his house, - not one, but thousands - and the wh|ite man's ploughshare turned up the acres which he had called his own. Wherever the Indian built his cabin and planted his corn, tliere was the spot which the white man craved. Convicted on suspicion, they were sentenced to death by laws whose authority they could not acknowledge, and hanged on the white man's gallows. Oppression became intolerable, and forced by extreme necessity, they at last gave up their homes, yielded their beloved country to the rapacity of the Georgians, and wended their way in silence and sorrow to the forests of the far west. In 1837 my father moved his family to his new home. He built his houses and opened his farm; gave encouragement to the rising neighborhood and fed many a naked and hungry Indian whom oppression had prostrated to the dust.

*' 'A second time he built a schoolhouse, and iMiss Sawyer again instructed his own children and the children of his neighbors. Two years rolled away in quietude, but the spring of '39 brought in a terrible train of events. Parties had arisen in the Nation. The removal west had fomented discontents of the darkest and deadliest nature. The ignorant Indians, unable to vent their rage on the whites, turned their wrath toward their own chiefs, and chose toehold them responsible for what had happened. John Ross made use of these prejudices to establish his own power. He held a secret council and plotted the death of my father and grandfather, and Boudinot and others who were friendly to the interests of these men. John Ridge was at this time the most powerftil man in the Nation, and it was necessary for Ross, in order to realize his ambitious scheme for ruling the whole Nation, not only to put the Ridges out of the way, but those who most prominently supported them, lest they might cause trouble afterwards.*

" 'These bloody deeds were perpetrated under circumstances of peculiar aggravation. On the morning of the 22nd of June, 1839, about daybreak, our family was aroused from sleep by a violent noise. The doors were broken down and the house was full of armed men. I saw my father in the hands of assassins. He endeavored to speak to them, but they shouted and drowned his voice, for they were instructed not to listen to him for a moment, for fear they would be persuaded not to kill him. They dragged him into the yard and prepared to murder him. Two men held him by the arms, and others by the body, while another stabbed him deliberately with a dirk 29 times. My mother rushed ou< to the door, but they pushed her back with their guns into the house, and prevented her egress until their act was finished. My father fell to the earth, but did not immediately expire. My mother ran out to him. He raised himself on his elbow and tried to speak, but the blood flowed into his mouth and prevented him. In a few moments more he died, without speaking that last word which he wished to say.

" 'Then succeeded a scene of agony the sight of which might make one regret that the human race had ever been created. It has darkened my mind with an eternal shadow. In a room -^rerared for the purpose lay pale in death the man whose voice had been listened to with awe and admiration in the councils of his Nation, and whose fame had passed to the remotest of the United States, the blood oozing through his winding sheet and falling drop by drop on the floor. By his side sat my mother, with hands clasped and in speechless agony - she who had given him her heart in the days of her youth and beauty, left the home of her parents and followed the husband of her choice to a wild and distant land. And bending over him was his own afflicted mother, with her long, white hair flung loose over her shoulders and bosom, crying to the Great Spirit to sustain her in that dreadful hour. And in addition to all these, the wife, the mother and the little children, who scarcely knew their loss, were the dark faces of those who had been the murdered man's friends, and possibly some who had been privy to the assas-.

" 'There was yet another blow to be dealt. Major Ridge had started on a journey the day before to Van Buren, a town on the Arkansas River, in Arkansas. He was traveling down what was called the Line Road, in the direction of Evansville. A runner was sent with all possible speed to inform him of what had happened. The runner returned with the news that Major Ridge himself was killed. It is useless to lengthen description. It would fall short, far short, of the theme.**

" 'These events happened when I was twelve years old. Great excitement existed in the Nation, and my mother, thinking her children unsafe in the country of their father's murderers, and unwilling to remain longer where all that she saw reminded her of her dreadful bereavement, removed to the state of Arkansas and settled in the town of Fayetteville. In that place I went to school until I was 14 years of age, when my mother sent me to New England to finish my education. There it was that I became acquainted with you, and you know all about my history during my attendance at the Great Barrington School as well as I do myself. Owing to the rigor of the climate, my health failed me about the time I was ready to enter college, and I returned to my mother in Arkansas. Here I read Latin and Greek and pursued my studies with the Rev. Cephas Washbourne (who had formerly been a missionary in the Cherokee Nation) till the summer of 1845, when the difficulties which had existed in the Nation ever since my father's death, more or less, had drawn to a crisis.'

" 'Thus have I briefly and hurriedly complied with your request and given you a sketch of my life. I shall not return to the Nation now until circumstances are materially changed. I shall cast my fortunes for some time with the whites. I am 23 years old, married and have an infant daughter. I will still devote my life to my people, though not amongst them, and before I die I hope to see the Cherokee Nation, in conjunction with the Choctaws, admitted into the Confederacy of the United States.' "

**The reader should bear in mind that Ross disclaimed any personal responsibility in the plot and its execution, and that the culprits were never apprehended. The new Indian country was not amenable to such laws at that time as would cause a strict reckoning to be had in the circumstances.