Our Old Acquaintance, Bob

By Grant Davies

On this night in 1787, people in Scotland got together, lifted a glass, and sang a song. "Big deal" you say! They do that in Ireland every darn night. Come to think of it, if the joint is open long enough, they do that everywhere a glass of intoxicating beverage is to be lifted. So what makes this night special enough to make note of it?

Well, that was the year the above referenced song was first published. The guy who is credited with writing it, Rab Mossgiel, was rather famous among his fellow Scotsmen for writing other poetry. Rab was just his pseudonym. I guess he liked it better than his real name, Bob. More on that in a moment.

Anyway, the guy actually admitted that he didn't compose it himself, but merely wrote it down after hearing it from "an old man." It's pretty certain that the old man didn't write it either.

The poet's actual name was Robert Burns. And it seems the song was initially sung on January 25th - also known as "Burns Night"-  to celebrate his life and works. But it's normally sung to wave goodbye to the old year and welcome in the new, hopefully better, year.

The song has a rather weird title that is translated from old Scottish English into modern English as "Old Long Since." I guess it made more sense back then. The rest of the words are almost as difficult to piece together too. But most people over a certain age (my age) recognize them well enough.

The song asks the question, should we just forget about our old friends? Well, I guess not. So then, shall we raise a glass and toast them and all the good times we have had with them? Hell, yes!

By now you have probably guessed that the song is the well known New Year's Eve standard, Auld Lang Syne. And the "cup of kindness" is some sort of booze that is being used to toast good fellowship and not forgetting our friends no matter what happens in the new year.

To celebrate the song, go down to the "Auld Neighborhood Inn" with some friends and order "a cup of kindness" from the bartender. Just make sure "it comes to mind" to tip him well. After all, a bartender is a man's best friend and definitely should not be forgot.


  Auld Lang Syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,
And surely I'll be mine!
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans fine;
But we've wandered mony a weary fit
Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidled i' the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roared
Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie's a hand o' thine!
And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught

For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.



Most of the information for this post was gleaned from Carols.org.

A Visit From Clem

By Art Cashin

On this day in 1823, a New York publisher issued a poem by a professor of Oriental and Greek literature.

Now, if that wasn't enough to scare most people off, the guy was also a clergyman. Several people who knew poetry told the publisher it was a terrible waste of paper and ink. Such a little trifle as Clem's poem wouldn't be remembered days later let alone years later.

But this flimsy verse which began "Twas the Night Before Christmas...." tended to hang on. And, after its author, Clement Clark Moore, died it was illustrated with drawings by Thomas Nast. Now it really took off. Not only did we know the legend of Santa, now we knew what he looked like.

To celebrate the birth of a classic, have an eggnog or two. Tell the red-faced guy, with a beard, on the next stool he can make extra Christmas money betting people they don't know the real name of the poem. ("A visit from St. Nicholas".)


Many thanks to Mr. Cashin and UBS Financial Services who graciously allow his historical musings to be republished on this site. To enjoy more of Art's posts simply click on "Cashin's Comments" in the label section on the sidebar.

LETTER FROM A FREEDMAN TO HIS OLD MASTER

Editors note:
I haven't written anything for this blog in quite some time so I thought I would write about the letter found below. It's a perfect fit for this site because it's great history written with tongue firmly in cheek. I decided not to write about it because I could never improve upon what the author wrote.

The source for the letter is The Freedmen's Book, by Lydia Maria Child. It is republished here under the terms of The Project Gutenberg.* Special thanks to Letters of Note blog.
Grant Davies

LETTER FROM A FREEDMAN TO HIS OLD MASTER.

[Written just as he dictated it.]

Dayton, Ohio, August 7, 1865.


To my old Master, Colonel P. H. Anderson, Big Spring, Tennessee.

Sir: I got your letter, and was glad to find that you had not forgotten Jourdon, and that you wanted me to come back and live with you again, promising to do better for me than anybody else can.

I have often felt uneasy about you. I thought the Yankees would have hung you long before this, for harboring Rebs they found at your house. I suppose they never heard about your going to Colonel Martin's to kill the Union soldier that was left by his company in their stable.

Although you shot at me twice before I left you, I did not want to hear of your being hurt, and am glad you are still living. It would do me good to go back to the dear old home again, and see Miss Mary and Miss Martha and Allen, Esther, Green, and Lee. Give my love to them all, and tell them I hope we will meet in the better world, if not in this. I would have gone back to see you all when I was working in the Nashville Hospital, but one of the neighbors told me that Henry intended to shoot me if he ever got a chance.

I want to know particularly what the good chance is you propose to give me. I am doing tolerably well here. I get twenty-five dollars a month, with victuals and clothing; have a comfortable home for Mandy,—the[266] folks call her Mrs. Anderson,—and the children—Milly, Jane, and Grundy—go to school and are learning well. The teacher says Grundy has a head for a preacher. They go to Sunday school, and Mandy and me attend church regularly. We are kindly treated. Sometimes we overhear others saying, "Them colored people were slaves" down in Tennessee. The children feel hurt when they hear such remarks; but I tell them it was no disgrace in Tennessee to belong to Colonel Anderson. Many darkeys would have been proud, as I used to be, to call you master. Now if you will write and say what wages you will give me, I will be better able to decide whether it would be to my advantage to move back again.

As to my freedom, which you say I can have, there is nothing to be gained on that score, as I got my free papers in 1864 from the Provost-Marshal-General of the Department of Nashville. Mandy says she would be afraid to go back without some proof that you were disposed to treat us justly and kindly; and we have concluded to test your sincerity by asking you to send us our wages for the time we served you. This will make us forget and forgive old scores, and rely on your justice and friendship in the future. I served you faithfully for thirty-two years, and Mandy twenty years. At twenty-five dollars a month for me, and two dollars a week for Mandy, our earnings would amount to eleven thousand six hundred and eighty dollars. Add to this the interest for the time our wages have been kept back, and deduct what you paid for our clothing, and three doctor's visits to me, and pulling a tooth for Mandy, and the balance will show what we are in justice entitled to. Please send the money by Adams's Express, in care of V. Winters, Esq.,[267] Dayton, Ohio. If you fail to pay us for faithful labors in the past, we can have little faith in your promises in the future. We trust the good Maker has opened your eyes to the wrongs which you and your fathers have done to me and my fathers, in making us toil for you for generations without recompense. Here I draw my wages every Saturday night; but in Tennessee there was never any pay-day for the negroes any more than for the horses and cows. Surely there will be a day of reckoning for those who defraud the laborer of his hire.

In answering this letter, please state if there would be any safety for my Milly and Jane, who are now grown up, and both good-looking girls. You know how it was with poor Matilda and Catherine. I would rather stay here and starve—and die, if it come to that—than have my girls brought to shame by the violence and wickedness of their young masters. You will also please state if there has been any schools opened for the colored children in your neighborhood. The great desire of my life now is to give my children an education, and have them form virtuous habits.

Say howdy to George Carter, and thank him for taking the pistol from you when you were shooting at me.

From your old servant,
Jourdon Anderson.



Congratulations to Dave McGovern for winning the 15 Seconds of Fame Award given to contributors of ideas for Cheeky History blog-posts. Thanks Dave! Keep 'em coming.

*This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org

Nothing More than a Poem

By Grant Davies

On this day in 1845, a very troubled man had his very troubled poem published in the New York Evening Mirror, a very troubled newspaper. In fact, he was employed by the paper at the time but left that job within the next month, perhaps because he was paid only $9 for the effort. It made him famous but he may have preferred more money at the time. Since those are only my speculations, and I'm too lazy to do the research to find out why he left, you can be sure they will never end up in any credible account of his life.

The poem was of course, The Raven. And the poe was Edgar Allen Poet. (Based on that line alone, he wasn't the only writer with problems.) Anyway, the poem was a hit at the time and seems to be doing fairly well even 168 years later so, all in all, it was worth more than a measly 9 bucks.

Poe had a lot of well documented problems, and if you want to be as depressed as he seemed, you can look them up yourself. I don't want to be the one to drive anyone to drink since it might discourage them from driving me somewhere so I can have a drink.

But I will mention a few because they seem to have influenced many of his poems and stories. In addition to his drinking problem, Poe had a few problems with women. The latter almost certainly the result of the former. He failed at his goal of marrying a few different Sarahs, Sarah Elmira Royster, and Sarah Helen Whitman. And while he was married he was embroiled in scandals involving a few different women, Frances Sargent Osgood and Elizabeth F. Ellet. The scandals, it seemed, were a significant cause of his wife's health problems.

Oh, did I forget to mention his wife? Well, Poe seems to have had a peculiar interest in younger women, um, girls actually, since when he married Virginia Eliza Clemm in 1835 she was only thirteen years old. He was twenty-seven, and she was his first cousin. Today, either of those things might land a poet in a quiet place to write, with bars. Poe, it seemed, liked bars, but probably not the iron variety.

Image = Wikipedia

There is only one authenticated image of Virginia known to exist, the one on the right. If she looks a little lifeless it may be because it was painted after she was already dead. The artist used her possibly still warm body as a model a few hours after she died. There doesn't seem to be much in Poe's life that wasn't bizarre, including many of his stories, so a picture of a corpse fits right in.

To celebrate this day, gather some friends and visit The Annabel Lee in Baltimore so you can root for the Ravens to win the Super Bowl next weekend. But after putting in your drink order, when the waitress asks you if she can bring you something else, just answer as Edgar might have, "This it is, and nothing more."

Danny Was a Late Bloomer

By Art Cashin

On this day (-1) in 1703, a crowd jeered as the London Constabulary led a rather motley fellow to the pillory (what we in America called the public stocks - "put your hands and head in the hole in the board please").

We said the guy was motley because of his description in the police report.  In modern English and modern police work it ran something like this - "medium height; bent frame, about 40 years old; swarthy complexion; a crooked nose and a large mole near his mouth."

And, it wasn't just his physical makeup that made him uninspiring.  Even his mom would be hard-pressed to boost his merit.   He failed at selling beer.  He failed at selling wine.  He even failed at selling tobacco, garments, cloth, even oysters.  Sensing he was not a salesman he tried manufacture - bricks: he failed - tile: he failed again - but you get the picture.

So....motley, friendless, and failed (and also in debt), he was locked in the pillory.  The crowd picked up rocks, mud and er...let's just say other odorous items....in preparation of flinging at said felon.  As they moved closer (to get a better shot), the prisoner shouted that he would recite "A Hymn to the Pillory."  He then proceeded to make up a poem - line by line - and the crowd loved it.  He was an instant hero.

Released, he sensed writing could be his destiny. He tried a couple of topics but was happy with none of them.  For nearly twenty years, he remained happy with none of them.  Then he heard about a castaway sailor named Selkirk being rescued from an isolated island after being marooned for years.  That's the stuff, he thought - so Daniel DeFoe wrote something called "Robinson Crusoe" - then "Moll Flanders"; then - oh you get the point....

To mark the day, remember to note to the authorities that sometimes the pen is mightier than da pen....or even the pillory.  (Oh yeah!  Try to convince someone that you too are a late bloomer.)



Many thanks to Mr. Cashin and UBS Financial Services who graciously allow his historical musings to be republished on this site. To enjoy more of Art's posts simply click on "Cashin's Comments" in the label section on the sidebar.

Mary Had a Little Book

By Grant Davies

On this day (-1) in 1818, a 21 year old girl named Mary had her first book published in London, anonymously. One of the book's two titles was "The Modern Prometheus."  Mary's name wouldn't be listed as the author until the second edition was published in Paris some five years later.

It seems that Mary had a life full of tumult and the character she created in her book was no different. She never even gave him a name, but he referred to himself in the story as Adam. It was a weird story for the times. No one had ever written one quite like it before.

Like a lot of the stuff written here, the idea for her story came to Mary in a dream. She actually was inspired to write the book while engaged in a "Let's have a ghost story writing contest" that had only three other contestants, none of whom even finished their stories. So I guess Mary won even though history never tells us what the prize was.

One of the other contestants was a guy named Lord Byron, and another was a guy named Percy, to whom she just happened to be married. It seems that they were staying at Byron's pad in Geneva, Switzerland where they basically had fled in order to avoid paying some debts Percy owed back in jolly old England.

Anyway, he had a woman's first name for his last name, Shelley. Which made her Mary Shelley. Her book's other title, the one we all remember today, was Frankenstein. It became a  monstrous success.