One of the great orators in 1838, was Rev. J. N. Maffett. He was much in demand for lectures and speeches, and was one of the most extraordinary men of the age. It is said that for imagery, enunciation, intonation and a deep knowledge of the human heart, Mr. Maffett stood without a peer. About 1843, Mr. Thomas Fletcher, of the Natchez bar, was quite a favorite public speaker. His style was said to be smooth, musical and polished. Mississippians, in the years that are gone, were as generous and open-hearted as they are today. They gave presents, not valued by dollars and cents, but into which they put time, labor and love, as the following letter proves. It was sent with the cradle to a friend in Charleston, S. C. "The body or frame of the cradle, is manufactured out of the shell of what we call the snapping turtle, that weighed 135 pounds caught by myself out of my own waters. The railing is constructed out of the horns of bucks, killed with my own rifle by my own hands. The rockers were made from a walnut tree that grew on my sister's plantation adjoining mine. The spring mattress, or lining, is stuffed with wool from my own sheep. The loose mattress is also filled with domestic wool, manufactured and lined by my own wife. The pillows are filled with feathers from our own wild geese, and have also been manufactured by my own hands, after having been slain by my own steady aim. The pavilion, which you will perceive is to be thrown over the canopy, was fabricated, fitted and contrived by my own right thrifty, ingenious and very industrious 'better half.' Accompanying the cradle is a whistle which was made by a friend residing with me, and out of a tusk of an alligator, slain by my own hand, as well as a fan, made also by the same friend out of the tail of a wild turkey killed by me; accompanying the whole is the hide of a panther, dressed after the fashion of the Chamois, the animal having been slain by my own hands, and with my trusty rifle. This is for the stranger to loll and roll upon when tired of his cradle." It is to be hoped that these unique gifts into which the Mississippi planter, his wife, and friend, put hours of love-labor, are today the cherished heir-looms of some old South Carolina family. So in a minor key I have told of the past. As I read these old files I lived over the lives of our ancestors. I could see the crowds and hear them cheering some favorite speaker--the audiences gathered to hear the words of eloquence from gifted tongues--the Indians stepped for me his "sun dance," I discussed with famous housewives the value of the articles made by deft fingers, and sat with the planter by his fireside, forgetting that "the tender grace of a day that is dead" will never come back. And may love for Mississippi,--her Past, Present, and Future grow ever in our hearts.