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Following the Civil War musical interests took quite an upward tendency. Two men who played the violin well together were J. M. Allen and Tom Christian. These men were very obliging and gave their services on many occasions. They really enjoye d playing and were unexcelled in the up-country. Jim Tubb became skilled in flute playing and added much to the ensemble. Whit Monroe became a noted banjoist and his services were in great demand. He sang well and his repertory was extensive. Quite a number of younger men became fine performers on various instruments: Tom Shields, violin, George Givens, violin, Kire Maxwell, banjo. A favorite piece played by all these was "Cheatham's Jig", another "Fisher's Hornpipe", also "College Horn-pipe", "Devi l's Dream", and by Tom Christian, "Bonaparte's retreat". Strange, but I have never heard the first or last mentioned piece played by any fiddler outside Smithville. Speaking of banjoists, I wonder how many of my readers know that the man reputed to be t he greatest banjoist in the world visited Smithville at about this time and played on many occasions! Well, I have always been glad that I heard him. I refer to Joe Sweeny of Texas. I cannot make out at this distance whether or not he was Bill Sweeny's brother--however, he was a kinsman, I feel sure.

At the close of the war I do not recall a piano being in any home but Wm. H. Magness's-- I feel sure however others were there. Possibly my being invited with my sister Sarah to a musical function in this home just before 1870 accounts for my me mory's exclusiveness. All were sad over the havoc of war and the absence of so many noble young fellows -- an absence never to be relieved. I recall as though yesterday the ballad, "Tenting on the Old Campground", so sweetly sung by Miss Delia. Most of us were in tears. I do not vividly recall many of the persons who attended that night. I can not however, get M. D. Smallman out of my mental group -- he must have been there. The singer of this classic of the war, later became as most of you know, th e wife of this splendid and rising young attorney. I hope he is living and that if so, I may see him this summer. Judge Smallman read law in Col Savage's office, and thus I was his closest neighbor and errand boy when he needed me. In the past fifty ye ars I have had several hearty laughs over a practical joke that he perpetrated on me when I was about fifteen years old. I was an aspiring lad and became the Smithville correspondent of the "McMinnville New Era". M. D. got a tip that I was the writer, s o he took issue with some of my "learned deliverance's", in the form of an attack upon my articles with great consternation--I was mad, that is, angry. I tried to feel like Sir Robert Walpole with Junius after him and tried to imagine if Walpole felt as bad as I did. Well, several issues of the paper waxed sulphurous--a word duel--one of the principals flourishing what he thought was a very keen rapier hunting for blood, the other with what to the first looked like the sword of Goliath but in the end it proved to be padded! The future judge owned up finally and he laughed heartily--I tried to do so.

It was about 1872 that a Mr. Rudd -- I think he was from Iowa or may be New England--any how he was a genuine yankee--came to Smithville and organized a singing school. He was far away the ablest teacher of such a school that had ever appeared i n the town. It is a safe wager that his equal has never been there since. Tall, bearded, big-footed, broad-shouldered, in love with his work, possessed of inexaustible energy, he taught that large class as no class in that town had ever been taught. Wi ley Carnes and I were his two youngest fellows, perhaps to young to comprehend and appreciate what an opportunity was offered us--really a great one. Willey was a newcomer in town, a hearty laughter, rightly enjoying my absurdities, and the result was th at I appointed myself to be his buffoon, my performances being altogether as amusing to myself as they were to him. That two weeks or more were no doubt, the most completely laughed away of any in our lives. He was a lovable boy and my good friend even to his latest years we wrote to each other. I was sad when I received a copy of the paper announcing his passing.

How many of my readers can see old Nath and Steve Shaw sitting under a locust tree in the courthouse yard, in court week, a large crowd around them, while the banjo and fiddle are resounding with old-time melodies? Fine old negroes the were.

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SMITHVILLE REVIEW
Smithville, Tennessee

July 21, 1927

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REMINISCENCE No. 17

by W.T. Foster

Accepting the invitation of the editor or the Review that I add a few more reminiscences to the sixteen already published, which was the original number sent in, I am to devote this paper to peculiar people seen in Smithville around the seventies

Possibly it was in the late sixties that a professor wildman came to Smithville calling himself a horse trainer. He stayed around the James hotel a day or so giving publicity to his proposed feats of driving which would be publicly demonstrated on t he town square. The advertising flew about the country like fire in a stubble and on the day appointed the town was full of people. The afternoon hour drew on when the show would begin. The world likes to get something for nothing. This show was free. Wildman - he certainly had the right name - pranced out with his horse, a fine spirited fellow, put him through many revolutions aside from driving - just the naked horse! Such as lying down at command, standing on hind feet, etc. He had advertised to drive without bridle or reins! So to the buggy he harnessed the horse, jumped into the buggy, stood up, waved his long, keen whip, commanded his horse to go, which he certainly did! Around and around the square he went at a great rate. It soon became evident to the crowd that two kinds of spirits were in the buggy - Capshaw's bourbon or Robinson County and Wildman. He now concluded that chasing around the square was getting too tame, so with a fog-horn announcement as the buggy flew past he called ev erybody to witness how close he could come to a locust tree and still not touch it! Waving his whip like a dashing steed, nearer and nearer he drew to the tree - alas, too near - smash went the buggy, the horse ran away with the shafts, Wildman was dug o ut of the debris by his admiring spectators who were perfectly satisfied that they had been repaid for coming -- Wildman, battered and bruised, but love of excitement unabated! Smithville had no incorporation then, hence no mayor or police to prevent cru elty to animals -- two of them in this case. Wildman recovered, Jim Hayes rejuvenated his buggy, Wash Cameron returned to his whittling and Smithville settled down to the usual routine.

It was a typical fall day in seventy when a curious looking rig hove over the Jim Allen hill and sauntered on down to the Bob West corner. The lone occupant of the vehicle dropped his reins, the tired horse took an adjustment throwing his weight on three legs while he rested the fourth one, and the long, lank, nondescript stood up in his buggy holding high an instrument much resembling an accordion. He struck up a lively air which went round the square and soon the magnetism of his music, for he co uld really make music on an accordion, had gathered quite a crowd. The free concert over, he inquired for a hotel. He drove to the old tavern east of the courthouse followed by all the urchins in town, the writer included - regular Pied Piper fashion! Here he regaled us with other tunes, then went in for the evening. A number of us rose earlier than usual, the next morning and planted ourselves in front of the hotel, anxious for our peculiar visitor's appearance, Suddenly out from his room he came to the accompaniment of a lively air on his strange weird instrument, and he proceeded playing and marching around the square, followed by as admiring a group of boys as ever filled the streets of Hamelin! Down at Bob's corner - a favorite place for crowds to gather - he laughed at the people and spread himself in a superlative way, closing by offering to sell each of us an instrument. As quiet a man as ever lived in Smithville and as peaceable one, Jim Hayes, was sitting on Bob's horse block listening to the music. Suddenly ceasing to play, he turned and walked up to Jim, said: "My name is Pascal B. Peterson, sir, and what is yours?" "my name is Hayes." "A son of the soil it is to whom I speak? Ah, I wonder! Timothy, or blue grass? what is your--but- - your business is your business and my business is my business, Mr. Hayes." "Yes," replied Jim Hayes very quietly. Peterson had imbibed freely in his room before coming out, and was getting livelier every minute. "Yes, your business is your business a nd my business is my business", said he again to Jim. "Yes," said Jim with emphasis. Then Peterson drew up closer to Jim and weaving to and fro said, "by the jing jangs to the jing jang nation, your business is your business and my business is my busine ss." "Shut up your mouth," said Jim. The Peterson inflated himself for a supreme effort and almost shouted his strange jingle again. Jim arose, "Say that again and I'll whip you!" Peterson left town.

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Last update: February 2, 1997