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8THE SUNCHARCOALSKETCHES.BT JIARV E. BETAS.siTTx.shore. Round the brown trunk of a tall I palm tree wind the scaly coils of an immense snake; its head is drawn back, its fangs menace the woman who has fled to the man for protection. With one arm he clasps herlu a City Jail - The to his breast, the other holds a pistol which i•Merry Moonshiners”- How the CSoverament may Sap-press them.Soft and spring-like shines the sun:blue and tender is the mountain outline against the sky: the white clouds lying lazily in the west, the faint green coloring on the distant hills are suggestive of spring and make one involuntarily listen to catch the twitter of swallows and the riotous warble of the thrush.Down on the streets aU is bustle and gayety: drays rattle merrily, carriages dash past the lines of lumbering country wagons loaded with fat cotton bales; well-dros ed women and children fill the side walks with a stream of color. But our way does rot lie along the thoroughfare; past the centres of trade and fashion into a lower and more squalid quarter of the city. There, a handsome brick edifice of stone and granite looks incot gruous to its surroundings; but before you have time to wonder,the grated windows tell you it is Uncle Sam's free hotel—the cage wherein men shut those of their fellows whom they have branded as unfit to be at large—shut them and forget them—forget that they have souls like their own to hur.gir for sympathy and to grew starved orbiuialized for the lack of kindness and of humanizing influences. Forget, too, that ti mptation comes to all, and that a man may yii Id to it in a weak moment, may be overcome by force of circumstances or of frenzied possion, and lie “a man for all that.”But we do not stop to moralize at the j risen door. We enter the ante room and are courteously met by the keeper. Quitea character is Captain Anderson—a man with a record for nerve and firmness that fits him for his place. Kind hearted with all, as the prisoners testify, but “watchful as a weasil,”says one of them; “catch him nap ping; he may have as much whisky alioard as would muddle the brains of an ordinary man; it doesn’t phase him. He keeps eye and ear open for anything suspicious, and if it comes, he's ready for it.”The navy six in the Captain’s belt looks ready for it. Its twin lies on the table. Something else is on the table-a large waiter full of empty flasks which we have just seen set down with a strong suspicion that they were brought from the prisoners' compartment, whence comes a hubbub of talking, singing and laughter.“Just the boys' usual little drop, says our guide, smiling grimly at our apprehensive look. “Nobody ought to grudge the poor fellows that little encouragement, 'Taint done them any harm, You’ll find them well mannered as a Sunday-school.”So we do—almost—as we squeeze through the heavy grated door, just opened wide enough to admit us, and find ourselves in the midst of the prisoners—a motly collection-old men, young men, boys, children to the number of sixty-five. They stand back promptly to let us pass; several bow and sjieak to ns; they stare curiously but resiiect-fully, and the noise of loud voices stops iu-- “f *■'“ have been having ansome (of the darkey ]iersnasion) are perform iiig a double shuffle in the corner, while s number of the boys scantier like monkeys up and down the stairs that lead into the upper passage, lined like this lower cells on either side. A few of the prisoners stand apart in gloomy abstraction or walk back and forth with hands behind them.The door of a cell opens, a well-dressed, broad-shouldered, rather thickly-set man with a large head, high broad forehead and cheerful brown eyes comes to the door and invites us in. It is Mr. Cox, who has l»een sentenced to imprisonment for life for killing Col. Alston last spring. His cell is neat, almost con fortable: the pallet bed is clean and nicely made: there is a table, a shelf holding a looking glass and other tojlet arrangements. Geranium leaves and hyacinths do their best to freshen the stale air. They are brought by the prisoner s wife—who is sitting beside him now. She comes nearly every day, though she lives in Decatur, six miles away, and has several young children. Often she brings the little things with her, and their prattle no doubt sounds strangely within these sombre walls.Mr. Cox seems cheerful; he takes a half humorous interest in the other prisoners and mixes freely with them. Not so with the cupant of the adjoining cell. He seldom comes out of his room. And what a strange looking interior it is for a prison cell—this one in which stands the romantic and melodramatic Hill. It? white-washed walls are frescoed by his own hand in strange, wierd figures and scenes of various colors; there are Latin mottoes in large, fantastic, colored letters, there are holiday decorations of cedar and mistletoe:and “Merry Christmas” in elaborate design still greets your eye over the top of the long, narrow grating that admits the ]artial light into this singular cell. Did a prisoner ever before so ornament his cell—one, who had never painted a picture till then ! These allegorical designs that cover the wallaimed at the open mouth of the serpent. At the foot of the palm stands a hideous and fa-miliar shape. It is that of the devil-“nuldReekie” himself—horns, hoofs, tail and nil. A grin of malignant triumph is on the Satanic face; looking to find its source, we Fee a court-house—a stately temple of justice-crowning a lofty height in the back-ground, but Justice has taken her flight from its cupola, ties ring her scales with her-heaven-ward. Justice deserts her profaned temple therefore, the mirth of auld Reekie. To those who know Mr. Hill's story (and who does not?) the significance he attaches to hispicture is plainly apparent. A wreath of ivyleaves forms the painted border of each picture; and this also has reference to his wife.“The ivy is like her; it clings closest in the storm,” says this strange man. She has certainly clung to her husband during his imprisonment. She is with him every day. “Her parents,” he says, “to please us, have have moved rear the jail. The windows of her room command a view of my cell and at night we converse by signals. Ono or more candles at my grating up there signify different questions-such as ‘are you quite well tonight (’ ‘Will you come to see me early tomorrow S’ and lights in her window answer! in a way I understand.” While he tellsthis in his melodramatic yet earnest way, she sits by on the footstool, a slender, pale, girlish-looking woman, in a neat, brown dress and white musliiibib apron—so quiet-looking you would not guess her to lie the motive cause—“the woman in the case”—of a notorious tragedy. Her face is much more refined than her picture showed it a year ago. Grief and regret have done some chis-ing there.“Let me introduce to you a couple of originals,” says our cicerone, “the most unique and interesting characters inside these walls. He leads the way to a cell clean as a Dutch wife's kitchen. The floors are scrubbed to spotless purity, the white-washed walls are immaculate, and some garments that bang drying on a line across the farther end of the washed as nicely as though manipulated at a star laundry. Our guide has signalled the two occupants of the cell and they enter and are presented as “ the mountaineer brothers, you’ve heard about—Tom and Ayres Jones—moonshiners you know—that got into this box on account of the revem officer that was killed up in the mountains year ago, while the blue coats were i there smelling out the secret distilleries.”The two men listen to the introduction with grave mouths, but a comical, amused twinkle in their expressive eyes. They bend their heads with a certain native grace anil stand looking at us, with no bravado in their attitude, but with a sturdy independence that like their limbe and their movements, smacks of the wild woods and the free heights. Certainly two more remarkable looking figures never met onr eyes before. Spare, sinewy frames, heads set firmly upon broad shoulders, keen eyes with a yellow gleam under the hazle, andjhair and beard of extraordinary ..™ia.,,.l thickness.as straight and black as a Sioux Indian. And thongh these men assure us that they have children and grand children, thick as leaves in Vallumbrosa, in the mountains, yet, there is not one silver thread among the jet— in the hair and beard of either. “Long hair runs in our family, says Ayres. “I have t sister with hair seven feet long. His broth er confirms this statement and promises that the sister shall send as a lock of this marvelous hair. “Is it black!” we ask. “No, red a wood-hammerV’says Ayres, and the gentler Tom adds, “But it is a nice-looking, yellowish-red, and shines like fox-fire. She’i lieen offered twelve dollars for it.Doubtless it is the much prized red-gold hair that Eugenie bniught in fashion, and many a queen of the foot lights would give small fortune to jiossessit, even at second-hand.Fancy this mountain Godiva, scantily clad as to garments, but clothed about with this shining mantle of hair, standing in the gray of the early morning on a rocky peak blowing the horn as a signal for the “moonshiners to gather and be ready for the rescue: as did a sister damsel of the mountains not long since, whoslipped at day break from the house where her father was held prisoner, and blew her signal horn that echoed from height to height till the mountain clan gathered like the followers of Roderic Dhu from bush, and rock, and brier, keen to waylay “them Revenues and rescue their brother moonshiner.Labge Ladt—Oh ! them horrid thing Small Boy —Don't be frightened, m]“Are not you, asks onr lady eompanion, looking at Ayres Jones, “the man the Constitution reporter said had never seen a loco-her “lav; the admission “yes me and th chillun is mity ni naked and clean barefool but don’t you wurry. we shant perrish, an we don’t ask nuthing but to have you bac with us; all this is sorrowful enough and w say impulsively.“Ohl why did you ever meddle with thlt; wretched distillery!” Then we find that the earnestly defend their right to turn the surplus corn into whiskey, and honestly ho! it a rank injustice on the part of the goven ment to interfere.“It's clothes and shoes to the mount* folks and their children,” says Ayers wil the red spark striking out in his eyes. “Wb they to do up there among the roc where they was born and can't git awi from ! The mountain sides is so steep ai close together in some places, a squirrel a jump from one side to tother. There’s b of land, and they can raise com to bread ’e and more. What’r they to do with wha No call to feed it; ther meat’s in twoods. They can't carry the com to mark, no wagons nor fit roads. If they makes itinto a little ‘old John’ why there’s plentj buy it on the sly—caBin’ themselves good la abiding citizens too. The mountain fo don’t meddle with nohody, all they ask is i to be meddled with. If Revenues will hit fere, they git theirselves into trouble. I unfortunit.”“There are not many secret distilleries lc I should think,” says my companion.A side look up and a twinkle in the k« eye is the answer.‘I should imagine they could nof *smoke of his pipe even. Why, I know— He stops short, bites his mustache, glan at his brother and drops the subject of “mo shining.” glancing off to that of hunting a giving a graphic sketch of a certain b. hunt, where bruin, closely pursued by dlt; actually jumped into his arms as he sfcr around a point of rock. The bear was much astonished as himself; they grappli the bear was young, not grown, and 1 hnnter finally got the better of him, captui him alive, tied him anil carried him home “He was the beat Itehaved pet I ever hi and I hated to sell him, but I had to.”The Jones brothers are an interesti “study,” but our hour is overpast, and deel ing our cicerone’s invitation to go up sta and see the female prisoners, we say good b moonshiners, md followed byjthe wi ful looks of the various inmates pass outsi the grated door into the free air and brig sunlight that makes us blink after the pris gloom.Walking slowlyJioine we revolve the qm tion that puzzles Uncle Sam; what to do wi the illicit distillers of the mountains. have an idea that the solution of the proble lies in grape and chestnut culture upon the mountain slopes so favorable to their growt through this will take time. But why will 11 the government concern itself in trying i understand the real nature and needs of i poverty-stricken, uninformed children thi dwell upon the isolated, half barren height Why not get- them to cultivate somethin more marketable than corn ? Those mowntai sides might be clothed with fruitful vines c Italy and Switzerland, and tife chestni;motive nor been twenty miles from where Plaltatio,ls 60 cultivated as in Tuscany an you were born until you were brought here ?* Luc^ anlt;1 80 many other sections of Soutl Mr. Jones nodded affirmation.show an unskilled hand, a vivid but untrained i at ^a't“And had never been inside a schoolroom, nor seen a jail nor a court house ?”“That alout covers the facts,” says Ayres, ‘ ‘and I don’t find I’m better off for Seeingimagination. They are in colored crayon, the ground sky blue, the figui-es and foliage yellow, brown and green with occasional dashes of gold and silver tinsel—in the stars, the angel's wings, etc., giving the look of an illuminated missal. The central idea is, of course, the prisoner's wife—it is the centre around which all his thoughts revolve. Her kneeling figure and profiled face are best fin ished of any in this strange group of men, angels, gods and demons. On her turn the pitying looks of the winged angels; on her gaze the saints from their cloudy nimbus, and the eyes of Christ, whose head, larger than life, forms the centre of the picture. To her, rather than to the Christ, looks the prisoner (Hill) who kneels in the left lower corner of the picture. There is another group over the door. The prisoner and his w fe clasp hands, and look heavenward, watched by smiling guardian angels. Over their heads runs the legend: “We have left it ^ with tiod.” But the most curious, the latest and best executed of these queer pictures, on white washed prison wall, is the oneIt comes out that he cannot read or write but communicates with his family in the mountains by means of a kind of picture-writ ing of which they hold the key; such employed by the Tezcucans and other aboriginal tribes of America. We are promised a specimen of this quaint picture writing. The elder brother Tom can write and is very fond of reading. He has taught his wife after a fashion “She was thirty yarn old before she knew A from apple pie,” hi says, “now she writes to me all the time. Would you like to see her hand write r He goes down on his knees and unlocks a queer-shaped box. In it are his writing materials and the precious letters. He handles them carefully and exhibits them with pride. The chirography is very fair, but there is an utter absence of capital letters and the spelling is more phonetic and “reformed” than even the Home Journal would sanction. Glancing down the yellow foolscap page of one he has given us leave to read, we are alternately amused and saddened. The fear expressed that “tom” has not written thehead. The figures are almost life-size, the I troth about his health, as his hand seems coloring vivid. The scene is a tropical sea- | “kinder shaky”; the dollar she has workedern Europe where the use of corn meal an wheat flour is superseded by the more noui ishing, richer and cheaper chestnut flout Mr. Schuyler onr consul at Florence has late ly proposed to our State Deimrtmeut to in. port the Spanish chestnut, and graft it on on indigenous variety, with a view to extendin, the food products of onr country. “A care ful study of the subject, he says in his re port, “has convinced me that the chestnut so largely cultivated here, may become . source of wealth and profit in the Unite. States especially in certain mountainous die triets where it is a most impossible to raise cereals owing to the nature of the soil anil the steepness of the mountain sides, and where transportation is so difficult and labor so high and scarce.”Iiistead then of the breech loader and the chain gang, may not the gra,ie and the chestnut (together with the schoolmaster, 1 be the solution of the problem “how shall moon-shining be done away withT’it. is a well established fact that a healthy anrenmres abonta pint of air at a breath; that he breathes about a thousand times an hour; and that, as a^ matter beyond dispute, he requires about fifty-seven hogsheads of air twenty-four hours._ It has recently been shown that if dynamite is poured into water, the sand falls to the bottom and the nitroglycerine floats on the surface and explodes with its usual violence is i'«^-k.nder shaky”; the dollar she has worked irtoas exnlSfi. th,.'„™“se of many ot the “teeth and toe nail ’ to get andsends him with ta wrt hoiw dynamite when used
Newspaper Details
Atlanta Sunny South
Atlanta, Georgia, US
Sat, Jan 31, 1880
Page 8
Full Page
Clipped by
Andrew W.
USA 03 Mar 2025
Other Publications Near Atlanta, Georgia
Atlanta Weekly Intelligencer and Cherokee Advocate
Atlanta Presbyterian of the South
Atlanta University Center Light
Atlanta Crogman Cycle
Atlanta Daily Constitution
