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Taylor's Letter About the Presidency
t
ELMO SCOTT WATSON
PEAK of "Virginia, the Mother of
Presidents,” and the average Amer
ican thinks immediately of the
famous “Virginia Dynasty”—
George Washington, Thomas Jef
ferson, Janies Madison and James
Monroe—which ruled the nation
In the early days of the Republic.
And yet these four were only half
of the number of Presidents which
the Old Dominion gave to the nation, even
though the average American does not remember
so readily that William Henry Harrison, John
Tyler, Zachary Taylor and Woodrow Wilson
were also born In Virginia.
Perhaps one reason for this Is because the
outstanding events In the careers of at least
three of them took place In other parts of the
country and that they lie buried elsewhere than
in the soli of their native state. In the case of
Zachary Taylor, for instance, Kentucky has quite
as much claim upon him as has Virginia Hnd we
commonly think of him as a Kentuckian rather
than as a Virginian. There Is justification for
that In the fact that he was taken to Kentucky
(then a part of Virginia) as a baby, grew up
with that state, from It started on the military
career whlcli was to lead him to the White
House and found Ills lust resting place there.
But recently Virginia lias begun to assert her
claims to Taylor as one of her sons. A year or
so ago a bust of him was unveiled In the old
House of Delegates In the state capltol at Rich
mond and this year finds Virginia observing the
sesqul-centenuial of Ids birth with the celebra
tion coming to a climax oil the unulversary of
his birthday.
Born in Orange county, Va., November 27,1784,
he was the son of Richard Taylor who fought In
the Continental army during the Revolution and
came out of the war as a lieutenant-colonel, a
fact which undoubtedly Influenced the careers of
two of Ills three sons and more particularly that
of the second, known In Ills youth as Zuclmrlnh.
Taken to Kentucky at the uge of six months
young Zachariah grew up on a frontier fnrm
and was largely self-educated. At the age of
twenty-four his elder brother, then a lieutenant
In the regular army, died and President Jeffer
son appointed the younger brother a lieutenant
in the Seventh Infantry in his place.
The next year he was sent to New Orleans,
then under the command of Gen. James Wilkin
son, who had been deeply Involved In the Aaron
Burr conspiracy but who had succeeded In es
caping with a coat of whitewash. In 1810 Taylor
was promoted to captain and celebrated this ad
vancement by marrying Margaret Smith of
Maryland. Then the threat of an Indian uprising
In the Ohio valley and of an Impending war with
Great Britain took the young captain to what is
now the state of Indiana. There he had his first
baptism of fire. Placed In command of Fort Har
rison, built on the Wabash river to protect the
romantic old • vn of Vincennes, which had fig
ured so largely In the exploits of that other Vir
ginian, George Itogers Clark, Taylor with a gar
rison of only 50 men successfully heat off an at
tack by several hundred of Tecumseh’s warriors
and won for himself the brevet of major.
At the close of the War of 1812 congress re
duced the army and Taylor was cut to the grade
of captain. Disgusted at this, lie resigned from
tlie army and went hack to Kentucky "to raise
a crop of corn." But friends Interceded for him
and he was reinstated as a major and In 1810
advanced to lieutenant-colonel.
His first coinmnnd as lieutenant-colonel was
Fort Snelllng in Minnesota, then the most ad
vanced outpost in the Old Northwest, and in
July, 1821), he took command at Prairie du Chien
In Wisconsin. While there the new Fort Craw
ford was completed under his direction and the
old fort abandoned because the Mississippi was
inundating it. He was there in 1832 at the out
break of the Sac and Foxe Indians, known as
the Black Hawk war, and took part In the cam
paign which ended in the defeat and capture of
that ill-fated chieftain.
It was during Taylor's service at Fort Craw
ford that there occurred an Incident which has
been the subject of much romantic writing, not
all of it strictly accurate. One of Taylor’s sub
alterns was a young Mlsslsslpplan fresli from
West Point, IJeut. Jefferson Davis, who fell in
love with Sara Knox Taylor, the daughter of
his commander. But when the subject of mar
riage was broached, Taylor refused to give his
consent.
The only thing wrong with that story is that
it Isn't true. Old letters in the possession of de
scendants of Taylor, now living in Kansas City,
Mo., prove that, contrary to the legend, ttiere
was no elopement. Sara Knox Taylor was sent
to the home of the colonel's sister, Mrs. John
Gibson Tnylor, in Louisville, Ky„ aud a year
later, when Taylor learned that the young cou
ple still wnnted to get married, he wrote to his
sister that he would no longer withhold his con
sent. They were married in Louisville in June,
1835, and went Immediately to Mississippi where
Davis had a cotton plantation. In September
both were stricken with malaria and Davis'
young bride died.
But to return to the career of Taylor himself
—after the Black Hawk war, Taylor's next aerv
lce was against the Seminoies in Florida and In
1836 he won a victory over them at the Battle of
Okechobee which won for him the brevet of brig
aKW-x-wa" uw u.i—————r'
Gen. Taylor at Monterey
adler general. In 1838 he was given the chief
cuuimuiid In Florida and two years later he was
put In charge of the southern division of the
western department of the regular army and
transferred his family home from Louisville to
llaton Rouge, I-a.
Then came the Mexican war and with It Tay
lor’s chance for winning the glory that was to
make him President of the United States.
His victories at Palo Alto, Itesaca de la Palma,
Monterey and Buena Vista made hint a national
hero, even though most of the credit for those
victories belong to some of his subordinates—
West Pointers mostly, who were destined for
future fame ns generals In the Union and Con
federate armies during the War Between the
States. So the nation which had sent Jackson
and Hnrrison to the White House because of
their fighting records began talking of another
military hero President. At first Taylor would
have none of it. When a visitor to his camp ven
tured to toast him ns the next President, the
bluff old general exclaimed “Stop your nonsense
and drink your whiskey!”
More than thnt, when a friend, General Young
of Newcastle, Del., wrote to him urging him to
accept the honor If It were offered him, Taylor
replied In part:
“Y’our remarks In relation to ray being a can
didate for the President are tery flattering, but
1 think you will know without the necessity of
saying so to you, that I am not and shall never
be an aspirant for thnt honor. My opinion has
always been against the elevation of a military
chief to thnt position. We must choose a stntes
mnn able to control the people at home and ele
vate the credit of the country abroad. The Ill
advised manner In which my name has been
used In New York In reference to this matter I
fear will do me Injury and embarrass me In my
military capacity. M.v best energies I shall,
however, devote to the prosecution of this cam
paign and which I sincerely hope will tend to
peace.”
uut despite tins altitude, tne taiK persisted
mid Taylor seems to have become receptive to
ward the Idea. The Whigs, anxious to regain
power from the Democrats by using the prestige
of Taylor’s militnry record, nominated him with
out knowing where he stood on any political
questions and to cap that formulated no plat
form for him. In fact, for some time after the
nomination they did not know whether or not
he would accept. Lly a curious mistake he had
not received his letter of notification. They had
forgotten to prepay the postage on the letter and
at that time the post office carried letters and
collected from the receiver. Taylor, on his plan- >
tatlon In Louisiana, to which he had retired
after the Mexican war, not knowing the contents !
of the letter which came to him, refused to ac
cept the letter and pay the postage on It.
Hut eventually he learned that he was the
nominee and somewhat to the amusement of the
country stated that “he was n Whig, but not an
Ultra Whig." Whether he was or not didn’t seem
to make much difference and In the election of
1849 he was the victor over Lewis Cass of Michi
gan. the Democratic cundldate. He was inaugu
rated In March, 1850, but he did not live long to
enjoy the highest honor that had been conferred
upon him. On the Fourth of July he took part
In the ceremonies connected with laying the cor
nerstone of the Washington monument In the Na
tional Capital. It was a hot day and In an effort
to cool ofT the President drank a great deal of
cold water and Iced milk followed by a substan
tial dinner. An hour later he fell violently 111
and five days later, July 9, 1850, he died.
© by Western Newspaper Union
Howe About:
Conversation
On Quitting Worl:
The Country
©. Hell Syndicate.—WNIJ Service.
By ED HOWE
I HAVE met some opposition In
my contention that n man may
learn much from convocation bo
Ing on around him; that he may
thus acquire education ns uncon
sciously ns he eats his meals, at
tends to his work, or otherwise
meets life's Incidents.
I have known a telegraph opera
tor to sit Idly for hours In a room
full of clattering Instruments, and
suddenly grasp a key when his call
come out of the confusion. So a
man constantly In the babble of
conversation may pay little atten
tion to it until something of Interest
attracts him; a bit of wisdom,
news, or a Jest he has not heard.
Oscar Wilde left In honks as
great a number of bright sayings
as any Englishman. All of them
were suggested from mingling with
men. first used In conversation, ami
the heat of them Inter transferred
to print. Men nequire education
laboriously from books they arc
compelled to study as a duty, hut
easily out in the world, where
every one has a little, and Is busy
distributing It.
“Because a man loses Ills Job,” I
read somewhere, “it does not fol
low he should quit work."
That Is good sense. I know a
man who lost his Job ns R maker
of radio parts. This morning I
bought vegetables of him; he con
tinued work on some land a neigh
hor let him use, and he has not suf
fered the humiliation of calling on
file Salvation army, the Bed Cross,
the county commissioners, or con
gress.
I have another neighbor who lost
his Job In a machine shop. He did
not quit work, either; he Is now
operating a laundry In his home. In
case I nm able to change shirts this
week, I shall certainly arrange
with this man to wash my old one.
Some of my other neighbors are
getting $15 a month from the coun
ty, and regularly their names ap
pear in the papers, under the bead
ing of “Disbursements to the Conn
ty Poor.” I shall make a hard
struggle to keep my name out of
the list. I know most of the peo
ple read It, and make ugly com
ments.
• • •
If the people are starving, what
Is to be done about It, since nature
has no more to give? I once lived
on a farm, and while I am able to
recall some discomforts, 1 always
had enough to eat. Frequently, we
used parched rye for coffee, and
sorghum molasses for sweetening.
The other day bfound sorghum mo
lasses on the table, bought from an
old-fashioned farmer, anil though!
it still very good.
We grated corn meal for bread,
and always down In the feed lot
were pigs coming on to supply
meat when the smoke house began
to show signs of emptiness. We
had cattle for plowing, and to sup
ply milk. Chickens almost took
care of themselves about the place,
and supplied eggs In addition to a
surplus of old roosters which, when
boiled long enough, made fairly
good eating. We had wild plums,
blackberries, and preserved them
for winter use. There was plenty
of fuel In the woods, and one man
In the neighborhood tanned beef
hides, from which another made
shoes. In almost every house there
was n loom, for the manufacture of
a cloth called llnsey woolsey, and
this supplied clothing.
It was a poor start, but we were
never hungry or naked while wait
ing for times to get better. And
limes never did get much better;
indeed. I think they are harder now
than I ever knew them to he on Illg
Creek.
The big-headed town people
should remember there Is a place
where they can at least always get
enough to eat, and move out Into
l he country. Pretty much all the
land will soon he owned by the gov
ernment through tax sales, and al
most anyone free to file on It.
• * •
In one of the periods of depres
sion in Home, Sllerius called the
poor together. "In your meetings,”
lie sniil, "you make very severe
charges against those who are feed
ing you. It Is not usual to criticize
the poor, hut many of you linve
very bad habits, and are- not doing
your part. In an emergency all
should help. Some of the rioting
you have Indulged In has only re
sulted In destroying such food sup
plies as we linve. I give you frank
notice tills will not he submitted
to ngain. If any of you have not
henrd of It, 1 announce I am head
of the army, nnd will not join you
In unnecessary destruction."
* • •
The world bus agreed for thou
sands of years that the most dan
gerous period In the life of men Is
that of wild oats—from sixteen to
twenty-six. ... So of course an au
thor appears to say the dangerous
age Is between forty-five and sixty
five. ... I believe we are all bet
ter behaved as adults than we were
ns savage children; and probably
the most dangerous age of savage
children Is between twelve and sev
enteen
OuadalaJumy
Public Latter Writer* In Guadalajara.
Prepared by National Geographic Society,
WashlnKton, I>. C.-WNU Service.
r DAWN comes the clang and
peal of countless bells. The
din Is startling la Its unex
pectedness. It sounds like a battle
call—or an alarm that Guadalajara
Is burning.
Hurriedly you get up and go out
on the hotel balcony.
"All these churches," says a voice
at your elbow, "and every bell with
a different tone.” It Is the man
from the room next' to yours, a
Spanish friend from the sugar plan
tations, In pajamas and straw san
dals.
“I first came here more than
forty years ago, from Spain," he
adds. “We made the last stretch
In a four-mile stagecoach on leather
springs, after a night battle with
bandits. We got In just at dawn,
with these same bells ringing.
Nothing here has changed much—
the same people, habits, churches,
and bells. Even the bats are still
here. Read at night, and your
light draws the moths; turn out the
light, and the bats fly In to eat the
moths. Rut they don't eat their
wings—next morning moth wings
are all over your floor."
In the street below now black
garbed women, their heads covered,
are walking quietly to mass—wom
en of all classes, peon and aristo
crat, but hardly any men. Rattling
heavily, a water cart turns the cor
ner, sprinkling the streets and
rnlsing that ammonia smell of old
adobe towns where humans and
beasts have long crowded the ab
sorbent soil too closely. You meet
that same smell, mixed with the
scent of roasting coffee, when at
early morning men wet the dusty
streets of Aden or Rnghdad.
"lee!” "Ilrend I" "Morning pa
per!” All voices of the awakening
city as truly as cackles, crows,
grunts, and squeals are the alarm
clocks of the farmer. Before the
doorway halts an old man on a
mule, carrying two big cans. A
sleepy girl, with a clay Jar. comes
out and buys some milk. And the
man rides nn, calling his singsong
“I.eche, leche,” milk, milk. In a de
spairing wall, more like a cry of
pain than an invitation to buy.
lurKeys tor oaie.
Now a country boy In a ragged
straw hat comes driving a flock of
turkeys. He carries a long stick,
with a whlp-Ilke piece of string on
one end, for (licking any errant tur
key on the neck. He urges them on
by hissing sounds, his tongue
against his upper teeth, in the fa
millar Indian warning. They mar
ket thousands of turkeys on foot
here, as In parts of Texas, the In
quisitive, shapely birds marching
with quick, graceful strides, necks
jerking sharply with each step. One
strutting gobbler, with pendent red
wattles long ns a prophet’s beard,
ruffled his bronze plumage and
dragged his wings.
By the time you dress, clap your
hands for colTee, and rend a Mex
ican paper still damp and smelling
of fresh Ink, nil Guadalajara Is
swarming. Tramcars are crowded ;
so are busses.
Bobbed-hnlred senorltns, In
bright organdie, silk hose, and high
heels, chatter and giggle their
cheerful way to work In stores,
beauty and curio shops, at switch
hoards or typewriters. Many are
pure Andalusian types with blue
eyes and blond hair, small shapely
hands and feet. The ease and Joy
with which man mny look upon ,
womankind In Gundalajnra are pro
verbial. “In all Mexico, no others
are so fair.”
“Surely St. I’eter must have
opened the gates of heaven to let
down such a beautiful damsel,” i
Mexicans say when a maid of pul- i
chrltude Is passing.
Along with the crowd, ogling the
girls, come sleek young bank clerks, I
bookkeepers In the brewery, the I
factories, motorcar and other ngen- ;
cies, spick and span In flannels of i
Hollywood cut, earylng sticks, i
smoking pungent native cigarettes, i
The sidewalks of Guadalajara! 1
Wnlk them at this hour and you t
see the city eye-high and close up. t
Workmen Idly dig up the pave- 1
ments, as always; traffic police In c
white gloves blow whistles and r
wave cars to stop. And they do v
stop; for one dispute with an alert
Guadalajara traffic cop and the big ti
jail yawns for you. On an open v
space soldiers are drilling and e
women wait before the colossal "
prison to get In at visiting hours, v
“They built the jail big enough to b
hold everybody In town, as a warn
ing," Is a local saying.
Through the suburbs you meet
more groups coming to work. In a
flower garden a sandal-footed man
Is setting out young plants to make
a fancy pattern of birds nnd flags.
Workers in Clay.
From the tall of his big black
dog, asleep beside him, an old In
dian artist plucks a few hairs,
twists them deftly Into his tiny,
frayed brush, nnd resumes painting
eyebrows on a clay head of Pancho
Villa, master outlaw.
Other heads, new nnd shiny,
stand on a board: Ohregon, Carran
za, George Washington, Henry
Ford—nnd an American Shrlner In
a red fez.
I’ose for yonr own bust, If you
like, and watch your nose and ears
form swiftly from the mud. In half
an hour old Pandura (Hard Rread),
famed Indian sculptor, makes a
fair likeness.
‘Tills Guadalajara clny art Is
fragile and hard to ship," says a
buyer from the States. “Rut it
sells well. Not the busts so much
hut these urns, vases, and water
bottles. In old Aztec patterns. These
dancing girls are good, ton, In their
wide skirts nnd big sombreros."
Around Tonnla village nnd the
suburb of San Pedro Tlaquepaque,
Indians have worked In clay from
time Immemorial. The Spaniards
found them at It, making dishes
for domestic uses, making Idols.
Images, and figurines of men and
beasts.
Untaught, and working far from
the patter of studios and tnlks on
art, these Indians produce excel
lent sculpture. Tiny pack mules,
street hawkers, market women
with chickens nnd baskets of fruit,
raqueros on rearing horses—all are
formed and painted with fidelity to
life. Sophisticated and erotic
pieces also appenr, with minintures,
ornaments, and vessels carrying a
raised fretwork of deer, rabbits,
ferns or palms. A fat clay pig, hol
low, with a slit In Ills back through
which coins can pnss, Is much sold
as a child's savings bank. Happily
ror the child, these figures break
family; all you have to do Is drop
them.
San Pedro Tlaquepaque, once the
retreat of Spanish wealth and fash
ion, Is linked with the city proper
j.v tram, through nn old customs
jatewny. Country people taking
things into town to sell had to pay
i tax In the old days to pass this
;ate.
A tiny, bright-eyed nurse girl, cer
tainly not more than ten, conies by,
■arrylng a big fat baby. You feel
the baby should get down, for a
■hange, nnd carry the tired little
rlrl.
Gambling Is Prevalent.
On the curb’s edge, three soldiers
ire playing cards with a greasy
leek. One man deals, calling "Ocho
le espadas,” eight of spades, and
ither faces as they turn up.
Onmbllng Is not thought a vice.
Hen accost you, holding up ynrd
ong strips of colored lottery tick
ets. You can buy a whole or part
leket. Such peddlers work on a
commission for the official lottery,
vhich holds regular drawings. Is
■un In a strictly business manner,
ind devotes net profits to charities.
Police appear dragging two dis
orderly men, one badly cut in n
itreet tight. Certain knives here
ire made to fight with. Any hattle
icarred mining or cow-ranch vet
eran will tell you he’d rather face
i gun fighter than a Mexican
mined with the knife.
After the knlfemen comes a boy
ending a very skinny horse. “Play
is a tune on your harp,” shouts a
lerk, a Mexican witticism Implying
hat the horse Is so bony his ribs
onk like harp strings!
Up the street past your hotel,
nte In the night, comes a squeul
ng orchestra, preceded by three
oung men. One of this trio Is
elebratlng his birthday. Hiring
nuslclans to piny In one's honor Is
ood form, In keeping with estab
shed social practice. If you write
poem, win a horse race, or van
ulsh a rival. It Is customary to
Ire a band and stroll from one
antlna, or saloon, to another, or
ast the homes of your friends,
’ith the music playing.
Here music seldom ceases, and
lost of It Is good. This makes you
onder how the many organ-grind
rs earn a living, till one explains:
rhey are subsidized by a fund
tiled to the city to Insure free
ind-organ music In perpetuity.1*