We all fall down at times,
Though we have nerve and grit;
You’re worth a bet, but don’t forget
To lay down means to quit.

“Columbus, Ohio, is a long ways out west and I don’t hope tu ever git tu see you all agin but I hope you won’t fergit me, kase I’ll never fergit you. I’d go with you all but I’m ’bliged tu keep my promise. I hope my married life will turn out all right but you kan’t never guess whar you’re goin’ tu land when yu sail on the sea of matermony.

“They say the reason men don’t practis what they preach is bekase they need the money. Well, if he practices what he preaches, he’ll be a good pervider and that’s all I’ll ask of him.

“I hope John will do better when you git settled in Columbus an’ I know he will. Alfred’s mos’ a man grown an’ he’ll be a big help to his pap if ye’ll jes’ take him right. I jes’ told John day afore yisterday I ses, ses I ’Alfurd’s no child enny more and you ought not tu treat him like a boy.’ I want you all to write me and tell me how yu like it. I s’pose when yu git out in Ohio you’ll all git the ager. Uncle Wilse’s folks did and they shook thar teeth loose. They moved to Tuscarrarus County. Newcomerstown was thar post office. They wrote us they wanted to kum back home afore they was there a month.

“It’s bad fur olé peepul to change their hums. Hits all right fur young folks kase they’re not settled an’ they soon fergit the old love fur the new, but I hope you’ll like hit. John says the railroads kum into Columbus from both ways an’ the cars are comin’ an’ goin’ all the time. If you live close tu the depot you won’t sleep much kase you hain’t used tu hit.”

Lin’s fears were not realized. Alfred’s home was far from the depot. It was in the South End, in fact, the South End was Columbus in those days.

Those who guided the destinies of railroads were as wise in those days as these of the present. The site of Coony Born’s father’s brewery was selected as the most desirable location for a passenger depot. The good people of Columbus (the South End) were more jealous of their rights than the people of today when a railroad is supposed to be encroaching upon them; therefore when it was proposed to locate a depot where the noise would disturb their slumbers and their setting hens, the opposition of not the few, but many, was aroused. To locate the depot in their midst was an invasion of their rights. Not only would it disturb the quietude of their homes but it would be a menace to their business inasmuch as it would attract undesirable strangers. The business men of the South End had their regular customers and did not care to take chances with strangers. They admitted a depot was a necessity a sort of nuisance to be tolerated, but not approved.

Railroad people of those days were as inconsistent as those of today. They were spiteful. They built a depot outside the city limits, as near the line of demarcation as possible.

North Public Lane, now Naghten Street, was the north city limits. The South End had won. They celebrated their victory over the railroads by a public demonstration. Hessenauer’s Garden was crowded. The principal speaker, in eloquent Low Dutch, congratulated the citizens on the preservation of their rights and slumbers. He highly complimented them over the fact that they had forced the railroads to locate their depot as far from the South End as the law and the city limits would permit.

The new depot was connected with the city by a cinder path, nor could the city compel the builders of the new depot to lay a sidewalk. The depot people claimed the land thereunder would revert to the city. Therefore, in the rainy seasons incoming travelers carried such quantities of the cinder walk on their feet that the sidewalks of High Street appeared to strangers in mourning for the sad mistake of those who platted the town in confining the city forever to one street.

Every incoming locomotive deposited its ashes on the cinder path. The city could not remove the ashes as rapidly as they accumulated. The task was abandoned and to this day no continuous efforts are made to keep the streets of Columbus clean. Like the good fraus of the South End cleaning house, the streets are cleaned once a year near election time.

There was no population north of Naghten Street until after the erection of the depot. It is true there were a few North of Ireland folks living in the old Todd Barracks, and many of their descendants to this day can be found on Neil Avenue; yet they had no political power at that time; in fact the South End people, with that supreme indifference which characterizes those who have possession by right of inheritance, did not even note the invasion of the city by the Yankees and Puritans from Worthington and Westerville. It was not until Pat Egan was elected coroner that the residents of the South End realized a candidate of theirs could be laid out by a foreigner.

It was in those days that Alfred was introduced to Columbus. They were the good old days, when all thrifty people made their kraut on All Hallowe’en and the celebration of Schiller’s birthday was only overshadowed by that of Washington’s; when the first woods were away out in the country and quail shooting good anywhere this side of Alum Creek. The State Fair grounds (Franklin Park) were in the city.

The State House, the Court House, Born’s Brewery, the City Hall, and Hessenauer’s Garden, all in the South End, were all the public improvements the city could boast of. Others were not desired.

Those days only live in the memory of the good people who enjoyed them the good old days when every lawn in the South End was a social center on Sundays; where every tree shaded a happy, contented gathering whose songs of the Fatherland were in harmony with the laws of the land, touching a responsive chord in the breasts of those who not only enjoyed the benefits and blessings of the best and most liberal government on earth, but appreciated them.

The statesmen of those days, the men who made laws and upheld them, chosen as rulers by a majority of their fellow citizens, were respected by all. It was not necessary for an official to stand guard between the rabble and the administration. Office holders stood upon the dignity of their offices. Demagogues had not instilled in the minds of the ignorant that to be governed was to be oppressed. Those unfitted by nature and education to administer public affairs did not aspire to do so nor to embarrass those who were competent.

In the good old days of Columbus, in the days of “Rise Up” William Allen, Allen W. Thurman, Sunset Cox and others, that fact that has been recognized in republic, kingdom and empire, namely: That that government is least popular that is most open to public access and interference.

The office holders of those days were strong and self-reliant. They formulated and promulgated their policies. They had faith in themselves. The voters had faith in them and faith is as necessary in politics as in religion.

The glories of the South End began to wane. South End people in the simplicity of their minds felt they were entitled to their customs, liberties and enjoyments.

Sober and law abiding, they only asked to be permitted to live in their own way as they had always lived. But the interlopers objected. The Yankees interfered in private and public affairs, legislation was distorted, and still more aggravating, the descendants of the Puritans demanded that at all public celebrations pumpkin pie and sweet cider be substituted for lager beer, head and limburger cheese.

A German lends dignity to any business or calling he may engage in. Honest and industrious, he succeeds in his undertakings. In the old days all that was required to establish a paying business in the South End was a keg of beer, a picture of Prince Bismarck and a urinal. Patronized by his neighbors, his place was always quiet and orderly. But little whiskey was consumed, hence there was but little drunkenness.

When William Wall invited George Schoedinger into John Corrodi’s, George called for beer. Wall, with a shrug of his shoulders to evidence his disgust, said: “Oh, shucks! Beer! Beer! Take whiskey, mon, beer’s too damn bulky.” As there was no prohibition territory in those days there was no bottled beer. Whether keg beer was too bulky or not relished, brewery wagons seldom invaded the sections wherein the interlopers dwelt. The grocery wagons of George Wheeler and Wm. Taylor were often in evidence. Both of these groceries in the North End did a thriving jug and bottle trade. The Germans bought and imbibed their beer openly. The grocery wagons were a cloak to the secretiveness of those whom they served, therefore those who patronized the grocery wagons were greatly grieved and rudely shocked at the sight of the beer wagons and the knowledge that their fellow citizens drank beer in their homes or on their lawns.

This became an issue in politics and religion. Many went to church seeking consolation and were forced to listen to political speeches. Preachers forgot their calling; instead of preaching love, they advocated hatred. The German saloon, being lowly and harmless, must go. In their stead came the mirrored bar with its greater influence for the spread of intemperance but clothed with more respectability outwardly. Public officials were embarrassed, cajoled and threatened. The malcontent, the meddler, the demagogue, had injected their baneful innovations into the political life of Columbus.

It is related the Indians would not live as the Puritan fathers desired they should. They would not accept the dogmas and beliefs of the whites. At Thanksgiving time, a period of fasting and prayer, the Puritan fathers held a business meeting and these resolutions were adopted:

First, resolved, that the earth and the fullness thereof belong to God.

Second, that God gave the earth to his chosen people.

Third, that we are those.

They then adjourned, went out and slew every redskin in sight. Politically, the same fate was meted out to the peaceful citizens of the South End. The sceptre had passed from the hands of the sturdy old burghers of the South End. In their stead came a crop of office holders who, striving for personal popularity, catering to the meddler and busybody a class who had no business of their own, but ever ready to attend to that of others. From a willing-to-be governed and peaceful city, discontent and confusion came. Every tinker, tailor or candle stick maker, every busybody in the city took it upon themselves, although without training, ability or experience, to advise how the city should be governed.

In the new order of things, representatives were elected noted only for their talking talents, the consequence of which was that every official considered that he was entitled to talk and talk on every subject whether he understood it or not.

There was a custom among the warriors of Rome that when one fell in battle, each soldier in his command cast a shovelful of earth on the corpse. Thus a mighty mound was formed.

And so it was in the new order of things in Columbus. When a question of moment came, every official endeavored to shower his eloquence upon it until it was buried under a mass of words. The busybodies who so greatly interfered with public matters were from the grocery wagon sections and were addicted to chewing cloves. Those from the West Side chewed tobacco. All ate peanuts. Special appropriations were requested by John Ward, city hall janitor, to remove the peanut hulls after each talk fest. And thus it was that peanut politics and peanut politicians came to be known in Columbus. Peanut politics like all infections, spread until the whole political system became affected. If the depot had been located in the South End there would be no North End today.

Do you remember the North End before the depot was located there? Do you remember Wesley Chapel on the site of the present Wesley and Nicholas block. Worship was never disturbed by the hum of business. In the North End in those days there was Tom Marshall’s Red Bird Saloon, Jack Moore’s barber shop, and that old frame building, Hickory Alley and High Street, N, a floor space of twenty-five by forty feet. They turned out one hundred and fifty buggies a year. Later, as the Columbus Buggy Company, a buggy every eight minutes was the output. That was the beginning of the largest concern of its kind in the world.

The Columbus Buggy Company and Doctor Hartman, the foremost citizen of Columbus, have done more to bring fame and business to Columbus than all other concerns combined. Their advertising matter, the most expensive ever used, is distributed to all parts of the world; hence, the man abroad hailing from Columbus is not compelled to carry a map to verify his statement that Columbus is on it.

The Columbus of that day had more street railways than the Columbus of today. In fact, every man that had a pull had a street of his own. Columbus has more streets than any city in the world, comparatively. It is true some of them are not as long as the names they bear, yet they are on the town plat. Probably it was this ambition to own a street that influenced others to own street railways. We always spoke of “Old Man” Miller owning the two-horse High Street line. Luther Donaldson owned the one-horse line on State Street. Doctor Hawkes owned the one-horse line on West Broad Street. Doctor Hawkes owned several stage lines diverging from Columbus. He was the most serious of men. Alfred was in his employ. His duties called him to towns on the various stage routes. Hunting was good anywhere in those days. Alfred was provided with a rickety buggy and a spavined horse. He provided himself with a shot gun and a dog.

Returning from Mt. Sterling one raw autumn day, the game had been plentiful. The old Doctor met Alfred near where the Hawkes Hospital (now Mt. Carmel) stands. The Doctor driving a nettled horse, hurriedly advised Alfred that business of importance demanded he return to Washington C. H. There was a fine bag of game under the seat in the buggy, also a double barreled shot gun and a hunting suit. How to explain their presence to the Doctor was perplexing, although he had not neglected the business entrusted to him; in fact, he was an hour ahead of the time. Alfred feared the Doctor would be displeased.

The Doctor, quickly alighting, ordered Alfred into his rig.

“Doctor, I have a bunch of quail under the seat. Just let me get my gun out and you can have the quail if you want them; if not, send them out to father’s.” The old Doctor knitted his brow but said nothing. However, the quail were sent to the father’s house.

Another day, starting on a trip to the country, the Doctor standing on the steps of the office, looked at Alfred and asked if he had forgotten anything.

“No, sir, nothing. I have everything I usually take with me.”

“Where’s your gun?” asked the Doctor.

“Out home,” replied Alfred. “Now Doctor, I have done a little hunting but I always start early and I never neglect your business.”

The Doctor muttered something about hunting being a frivolous sport and it should not be engaged in on your employer’s time.

He never permitted anyone to waste time. The Hawkes’ farm, embracing all the land on the West Side near where the Mt. Carmel Hospital is now located, was covered with stones. It was a fad of the Doctor’s to pass an afternoon on the farm, gathering stones.

Preparing to leave for Aetna one morning, Alfred called at the office to receive instructions. It was late when the old gentleman put in an appearance. He had had a bad night and desired Alfred to accompany him to the farm.

Arriving at the farm, it was not long until he had Alfred picking up stones. The greater part of the day was thus spent. Alfred’s back ached. He thought it the most peculiar fad a sane man ever indulged in. The Doctor was as deeply interested as though engaged in some great undertaking. A dozen boulders were placed in the buggy, as heavy a load as the old vehicle would stand up under. Driving to a point where the Doctor had quite a pile, the stones were unloaded and another load collected.

Rabbits were numerous. The next visit to the farm Alfred carried his gun. It was but a few moments until a cotton-tail jumped up in the path of the buggy. Alfred killed the rabbit. It was not long until four of the big-eared bunnies were dead on the buggy floor. The old Doctor began to show interest in the sport. When Alfred made a move to lay away his gun, the Doctor requested that he continue the hunt. Nor was it long until he advised Alfred that he would accompany him to Mt. Sterling and requested that the gun and dog be taken along. The Doctor without expressing himself as being at all interested, followed Alfred in the field. The only interest he seemed to take in the sport was when the hunter missed; then, knitting his brows, he would follow the birds with his eyes as they flew away.

Dr. Hawkes was the most unimpressionable of men. He had no conception of humor. He rarely smiled and never laughed outright. He assured Alfred that he would employ a man who had been in the penitentiary in preference to one who had traveled with a circus. The prejudiced old doctor was not aware that Alfred formerly followed the “red wagons.”

A contract had been entered into to convey a number of young school girls to their homes in the country. The driver failed to report. An hour passed. The old doctor was greatly worried. The team was the best in the barn and more than anxious to answer to the driver’s command. Alfred climbed to the seat. Old Miles, the barn boss, was in doubt as to entrusting the horses to a driver who was not familiar with them.

“Hol’ on, boy. Everybody kan’t handle dis team.”

“Turn them loose, Miles, I’m on my way,” Alfred shouting “All-aboard.”

The Doctor looked on in doubt. Gazing up at Alfred he began questioning him as to where he had learned to drive four horses.

“Oh, when I was with a circus,” replied Alfred. “I reined six better ones than these.”

“You have a precious load. I’m really afraid to trust them to you. It would be an awful thing if you should not be able to handle the team. I’ll send old Joe with you.”

“It’s not necessary,” Alfred replied.

The young ladies aboard, the whip cracked, they were off; around the State House square, up High Street on a lively trot. The old Doctor stood on the corner with as near a smile on his face as Alfred ever noticed.

In the evening he complimented Alfred meagerly on his proficiency as a whip. Alfred laughingly reminded him that they did not teach you stage driving over at the “pen”. Uncle Henry, a blacksmith who shod the Doctor’s stage horses, asserted the reason the Doctor preferred those from the “pen” was that he could hire them cheaper.

James Clahane was facetiously dubbed “The Duke of Middletown” by his friends, and that meant everybody who was intimate with the good-natured Irishman.

There must be something ennobling in the blacksmith calling. It not only strengthens the muscles but the nature of a man.

When Doctor Hawkes projected the horse car line on West Broad Street, he solicited Clahane to buy stock. The old blacksmith had his hard-earned savings invested in West Broad Street building lots. The Doctor argued the street car line would not only pay handsome dividends but greatly enhance the value of abutting property. Clahane, very much against his judgment, invested considerable money in the street car line. The cars were not operated a month until Clahane questioned the Doctor as to when the road would strike a dividend. It was considered a good joke by all, save the Doctor.

Burglars cracked the street car safe, securing over four hundred dollars of the company’s money. The news spread quickly. Clahane, minus coat, with plug hat in hand, (it was a hot morning), approached the office. Several gentlemen, including the Doctor, stood on the steps viewing the wreck within. Clahane, while yet the width of Broad Street away, shouted at the top of his voice: “Egad, Dhoctur, yese hev got yere divident.” If the old Doctor realized the humor of this dig he never evidenced it.

The world declared the Doctor cold and uncharitable, but Alfred never enters Mt. Carmel Hospital that he does not lift his hat in reverence as he halts in front of the marble bust that so faithfully portrays the serious face of Doctor Hawkes.

In those days Heitman was Mayor, Sam Thompson Chief of Police, Lott Smith was the ’Squire of the town, and ’Squire Doney in the township. Chief Heinmiller ran the Fire Department and ran it right. Oliver Evans had the exclusive oyster trade of the city, handling it personally with a one horse wagon. The postoffice was near the Neil House. The canal boats unloaded at Broad Street, and Columbus had a Fourth of July celebration every year.

Alfred was one of a committee of young men laboring, to demonstrate to the world that the birth of this nation was an event, and incidently, to attract attention to a section of the city that had been overlooked in the way of street improvements. The large vacant field opposite the Blind Asylum was selected as the proper location for the Fourth of July celebration. The fact that the brass band, lately organized by the officers of the Blind Asylum, would be available for the exercises, had great weight with the committee, in selecting the location. Parsons Avenue, then East Public Lane, was the muddiest street in the city. Those who drove their cows home via East Public Lane will verify this statement.

The city council had been appealed to personally and by petition. Finally, to partially appease public outcry, a very narrow sidewalk was constructed from Friend, now Main Street, to Mound, one short square. This very narrow sidewalk aroused those of the neighborhood as never before, excepting when the pound was established and citizens prevented pasturing their live stock on the public streets.

Among the attractions of the Fourth of July celebration were Lon Worthington, tight-rope walker; Billy Wyatt, in fire-eating exercises; a greased pig; Ed DeLany, who was to read the Declaration of Independence and Alfred a burlesque oration.

There was universal dissatisfaction over the narrow sidewalk and many independent citizens refused to walk upon it. They waded in mud to their knees, and proudly boasted of their independence as citizens. Even ladies refused to use the sidewalk, asserting it was so narrow two persons could not pass without embracing.

There was an old soldier who bore the scars of numerous battles and was looking for more. On the glorious Fourth, to more strongly emphasize his disdain for the narrow sidewalk, he rigged himself out in the uniform he had worn throughout the war. Although it was excessively hot he wore not only his fatigue uniform but his heavy blue double-caped overcoat. He paraded up and down along the side of the detested sidewalk, never stepping foot upon it. When his feet became too heavy with mud he scraped it off on the edge of the walk as he cursed the city council. He consigned them to , where there are no Fourth of Julys or sidewalks.

Strains of music foretold the coming of the grand parade, headed by the Blind Band, marching in the middle of the street, their movement guided by a Drum Major blessed with the sight of one eye. On they came, four abreast, taking up the narrow street from field fence line to narrow sidewalk line. From the opposite direction came the Son of Mars. He was large enough to be the father of that mythical warrior. The four slide trombone players leading the van were rapidly nearing the violent soldier who was taking up as much street as the four musicians; in fact, after his last visit to Ed Turner’s saloon, the old soldier actually required the full width of the street. As the band and soldiers neared each other, it was evident there would be a collision. On the old “vet” marched, oblivious of everything on earth excepting the sidewalk. People yelled at him. One man who knew something of military tactics shouted “Halt!” The old veteran shouting back, to go to where he had consigned the city council and their sidewalk. “Get out of the way; let the band by!” Waving his mace as an emblem of authority, Jack Nagle, the policeman, ran towards the old soldier. “Get out of the way! Get out of the street! Get on the sidewalk! Can’t you walk on the sidewalk?” “Walk on the sidewalk,” shouted the old soldier, “Walk on the sidewalk? Huh, what in hell do you take me for, the tight-rope walker?”

The Fourth of July celebration was successful. In obtaining street improvements, East Public Lane was paved with brick twenty years afterwards, thus Alfred gained a reputation as a politician.

Years later, George J. Karb, a candidate for sheriff, requested Alfred and several of his friends to make a tour of the northern part of the county in his interest a section noted for its piety and respectability. There were Mayor George Pagels and Bill Parks and Jewett of Worthington, Fred Butler of Dublin, Tom Hanson of Linworth, and numerous other deacons and elders to be seen. Karb requested that Alfred select the right people to accompany him. W. E. Joseph, Charley Wheeler and Gig Osborn, made up the committee that was to present the merits of the candidate for sheriff to the voters of the Linwood and Plain City section. Karb was furious when he learned that Fred Atcherson had volunteered to carry the party in his big Packard machine. He swore they would lose him more votes than he could ever hope to regain; an automobile was the detestation of every farmer. To complete the campaign organization the committee decided to wear the largest goggles, caps and automobile coats procurable. The first farmer’s team they met shied off the road, upsetting the wagon, breaking the tongue and crushing one wheel. The committee gave the farmer an order on Fred Immel to repair the wagon if possible, otherwise deliver a new wagon to the bearer, charging same to George J. Karb.

This experience cautioned the party to be more careful. Another farmer’s team approaching, they halted by the roadside a hundred yards from the passing point. Do what he would the farmer could not urge his team by the automobile. Charley Wheeler became impatient and sarcastic. “What’s the matter? You going to hold us here all day? Didn’t your crow-baits ever see a gas wagon before?”

“Yes, my team has seed gas wagons and gas houses afore,” sneered the farmer, “but they hain’t used to a hull pack of skeer crows in one crowd. When we put a skeer crow in a corn field, one’s all we make. Some damned fools make a dozen and put ’em all in one automobile. If you’ll all get out and hide, my team will go by your olé benzine tank.”

Hot and dusty, the party halted in front of a hotel. The village was larger and more prosperous than any yet visited.

A number of men were threshing grain a few hundred yards away, the steam threshing machine attracting farmers from all the country about. One a peculiar man, more refined appearing than the others, had once been a college professor; overstudy had partially unbalanced his reason. He was versed in the classics. He took an especial interest in Alfred.

Bill Joseph is the luckiest man that ever tapped a slot machine. When traveling he often steps off the train while it halts at a depot and pulls his expenses out of a slot machine. On this day he was unusually lucky. The hotel had a varied assortment of drop-a-nickle-in-the-slot devices. Joe tapped them in a row. The hotel people looked upon him with suspicion. But when he carried the winnings into the bar, ordering the hotel man to slake the thirsts of the threshers, they were sort of reconciled. The old college professor, unlike the others, demanded something stronger than beer. His neighbors, who evidently had him in charge, endeavored to persuade him to go home.

“Wait! Hold a minute. I want to talk to this man Field. He is a scientific man. His father laid the Atlantic cable. His family is noted the world over. I want to talk to him. The Field family are noted scientists.”

One of those who seemed most intimate with the professor was an old soldier, very deaf.

“What did you say his name was?” he inquired.

“Field,” replied the professor. “F-i-e-l-d.”

“Field,” repeated the old soldier. “Field. Well, I want nuthin’ to do with him. Field was my captain’s name in the army, an’ he was the damnedest beat I ever knowed.”

The old professor stuck to Alfred quoting Latin. He quoted a striking climax from one of Bryan’s speeches, a quotation Bryan has been using in his Chautauqua lectures and political speeches for years. The old professor observed Claudius evolved this idea years ago. Alfred had no idea of who Claudius was, or how long ago he lived. However, when he located him four hundred years back, the old professor said “Huh, four hundred years ago? H-ll! Four thousand years.” Alfred did not delve into the classics further.

Alfred presented the claims of Geo. Karb for the office of Sheriff and concluded his talk by inviting all to call on Karb when they happened in Columbus. “And when election day comes around, I hope you will all see your way clear to cast your votes for him, even though you are opposed to him politically. We must not adhere too strictly to our political prejudices in selecting officers to look after our personal affairs. And that’s what a sheriff should do, and that’s what Geo. Karb will do. Therefore, I ask you to cast your votes for Geo. J. Karb for sheriff of Franklin County.”

The crowd cheered.

The old professor took it upon himself to reply. First, he thanked all for the honor they did his community by visiting them. “We have too few scientists visit us and I hope Mr. Field will come again when he can enlighten us on many scientific matters of which we are in doubt. As to his candidate for Sheriff of Franklin County, we know he is deserving or Mr. Field and the eminent gentlemen would not commend him. And I know that every voter here would be glad to vote for Mr. Karb if we lived in Franklin County.”

The facts are, the committee in their zeal, were electioneering in Milford Center, Union County.

Joe was pryed off the slot machines and a solemn compact entered into that the part of the electioneering tour over the Franklin County line be forever held and guarded as a sealed book.