ill. On the eve of the appointed day, however, the doctor pronounced

her too feeble to endure the fatigue. What was to be done? The trophies of many loyal hearts were ready to be laid at the feet of the queen. Spirit hands seemed dispensing blessings, and guardian angels extending their wings over these healthful, happy girls as they diligently wrought sparkling wreaths and arranged beautiful bouquets.

The banners were prepared, the white dresses were trimmed with evergreen. The Seasons, the maids of honor, and all the officials were in waiting, but "_Hamlet_" could not be left out of the play. One modest little girl, after listening in silence to the suggestions of the others, raised her eyes to my face and said hesitatingly:

"Can't Emma Maxwell be queen in Fanny's place?"

"Oh, no!" said another; "she could not possibly learn the speech in time."

"No, indeed!" exclaimed several voices at once, "that would be impossible; but she might read it."

"Yes, yes! let her read it; the queen's speeches are read in Parliament!"

"Will you accept the proposition?" said I, turning to Emma.

"I think I can learn it," she replied, "and will try if you wish it."

The coronation was to take place the next morning at ten o'clock. A previous rehearsal would be impossible; but what Emma proudly determined to do was generously accomplished.

The evening star looked out bright and clear in the blue deep, thrilling the hearts of these young girls with the prospect of a pleasant morrow.

Most of them were stirring before sunrise. "Is it clear?" "Are we going?" And from every room issued the sound of cheerful voices; and then such shouts, such hurrying and bathing and dressing as was seldom known before.

Ten o'clock came, and the yard, where the temporary throne was erected, was soon filled with spectators and invited guests, mingling with the children and participating in their pleasure. The proxy queen bore her blushing honors meekly, going through all the coronation ceremonies with a charming dignity. She stood Calypso-like among her train of attendants in full view of the audience who listened in breathless silence to her address. I watched her closely; she seemed to plant her feet firmly, as if to still the beatings of her heart; no gesture except a gentle motion of the right arm as she swayed her scepter majestically around, her eyes steadily fixed upon some object beyond, with which she seemed completely absorbed. Not a word was misplaced, not a sentence omitted, of a speech long enough for a Parliamentary harangue. No one prompted, nor did she once turn her eyes toward the scroll she held in her left hand. Enthusiastic and excessive were the rejoicings of her juvenile auditors.

Fanny witnessed the whole ceremony through a convenient window which framed for her a living picture of ineffable beauty, and on this clear day, with only a few white Spring clouds floating over the bluest of skies, it was a sight of earth that makes one understand heaven.

The Seasons followed in quick succession, proffering homage to the queen; then came the "rosy Hours" with their sweet-toned voices, and the ceremony was completed by a few words from "Fashion and Modesty," the latter gently pushing the former aside, and casting a veil over the burning blushes of the queen. The address being finished, queen and attendants walked in procession to a grove that skirted the town, where beauty filled the eye, and singing birds warbled sweet music. When tired of play, a more substantial entertainment was provided. Group after group spread the white cloth on the soft green turf, and surrounded the plentiful repast, gratefully acknowledging the Hand that supplies our wants from day to day. He who called our attention to the "lilies of the field," stamps a warrant of sacredness upon our rejoicings, in all that he has made.

There was something very remarkable in the quickness and facility with which Emma Maxwell memorized the queen's speech. She was a girl of more than ordinary vivacity, of a highly imaginative, impressionable nature, and seemed to have the gift of bewitching all who knew her. She occupied a commanding position in her class as a good reciter, but I had not hitherto noticed any great facility in memorizing. I called her the next day, and asked her to recite the piece to me alone. She stared rather vacantly at me, and said:

"I can not remember a sentence of it."

"What! when you repeated it with so much facility yesterday! explain yourself."

"I do not know how it is," she replied, "that though I can learn with the utmost precision, mechanically, whatever I choose, in a short time, yet under such circumstances my memory has not the power of retention. If my train of repetition had been interrupted for one moment yesterday, I should have failed utterly."

"What were you looking at so intently the whole time?"

"I was looking at certain objects about the yard and house in connection with which I had studied the speech the evening before."

"Yes; but you certainly can repeat some portion of it to me?"

"Not one sentence connectedly; it has all passed from my mind like a shadow on the wall."

Yet she was a girl of good judgment, read much, talked well, and possessed in an eminent degree the indispensable requisite of a good memory--power of attention.

ROBERT J. BRECKINRIDGE

Robert Jefferson Breckinridge, LL.D., one of Kentucky's most prolific writers for the public prints, was born at Cabell's Dale, near Lexington, Kentucky, March 8, 1800. He was the son of John Breckinridge, President Jefferson's Attorney-General. He studied at Princeton and Yale, and was graduated from Union College in 1819. Breckinridge then read law and was admitted to the Lexington, Kentucky, bar in 1823. He practiced law for eight years, during part of which time he was a member of the Kentucky legislature. Realizing that Kentucky would oppose the emancipation of the slaves, in which he heartily believed, Breckinridge decided to quit the law and politics for the church. He studied theology and became pastor of the Second Presbyterian church in Baltimore, which pastorate he held for thirteen years. In 1845 Dr. Breckinridge was elected president of Jefferson College (now Washington and Jefferson College), at Washington, Pennsylvania, but two years later he resigned the presidency of the college in order to accept the pastorate of the First Presbyterian church of Lexington, Kentucky. In 1848 Dr. Breckinridge was elected superintendent of public instruction of Kentucky; and in 1853 he became professor of theology in the Danville Theological Seminary, which position he held until his death. He was chairman of the Baltimore national convention of 1864 which nominated Abraham Lincoln for the presidency. Dr. Breckinridge's writings include _Travels in France, Germany_, etc. (Philadelphia, 1839); _Popery in the XIX. Century in the United States_ (1841); _Memoranda of Foreign Travel_ (Baltimore, 1845); _The Internal Evidence of Christianity_ (1852); _The Knowledge of God Objectively Considered_ (New York, 1858); and _The Knowledge of God Subjectively Considered_ (New York, 1859). These two last named works, of enormous proportions, are Dr. Breckinridge's greatest theological and literary productions. He also published _Kentucky School Reports_ (1848-1853). While a resident of Baltimore he was one of the editors of _The Literary and Religious Magazine_, and of its successor, _The Spirit of the Nineteenth Century_, in both of which publications he carried on many bitter and never-ending discussions with the Roman Catholics concerning theological and historical questions. He was also editor of _The Danville Quarterly Review_ for several years. A complete collection of Dr. Breckinridge's books, debates, articles, and pamphlets, upon slavery, temperance, Popery, Universalism, Presbyterianism, education, agriculture, and politics, would form a five-foot shelf of books.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _History of Kentucky_, by R. H. Collins (Covington, Kentucky, 1882); Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1887, v. i).

SANCTIFICATION

[From _The Knowledge of God Subjectively Considered_ (New York, 1859)]

The completeness of the Plan of Salvation seems to be absolute. The adaptedness of all its parts to each other, and to their own special end--and the adaptedness of the whole and of every part, to the great end of all, the eradication of sin and misery; exhibits a subject, the greatest, the most intricate, and the most remote of all in a manner so precise and clear; that the sacred Scriptures, even if they had no grace and no mercy to offer to us personally, might justly challenge the very highest place as the most stupendous monument of sublime and successful thought. What then ought we to think of them, when all this glorious intelligence is merely tributary to our salvation? The end of this infinite completeness, only to pour into our polluted and thoughtless hearts, inexhaustible supplies of grace--that we may be extricated from a condition utterly hopeless without that grace ... and be brought to a condition unspeakably blessed to us and glorious to God? Yet this is the overwhelming conclusion to which every just consideration of them forces us to come; the conclusion to which the imperfect disclosure which has now been attempted, of a single point in this divine system, wholly compels us. In this deep conviction, therefore, and as the conclusion of all that has now been advanced, I venture to define, that Sanctification is a benefit of the Covenant of Redemption--being a work of grace, on the part of the triune God, wherein the elect who have been Effectually Called, Regenerated, Justified, and Adopted, are, through the virtue of the death and resurrection of Christ, by the indwelling of the Word and Spirit, through the use of the divine ordinances, and by the power of God with them, enabled more and more to die unto sin, to be renewed in the spirit of their mind, and to live unto righteousness, in an increasing conformity to the image of God, to his great Glory, and their growth in holiness.

CAROLINE L. HENTZ

Mrs. Caroline Lee Hentz, novelist, was born at Lancaster, Massachusetts, June 1, 1800. When twenty-four years of age she was married to N. M. Hentz, a Frenchman, then associated with George Bancroft in conducting the Round Hill School at Northampton, Massachusetts. Two years after her marriage her husband was elected to the chair of modern languages in the University of North Carolina, and this position he held until 1830, when he removed to Covington, Kentucky, where he and his wife conducted a private school. Covington was the birthplace of Mrs. Hentz's first literary work. The directors of the Arch Street theatre, Philadelphia, had offered a prize of five hundred dollars for the best original tragedy founded on the conquest of the Moors in Spain, and Mrs. Hentz submitted _De Lara, or, the Moorish Bride_, which was awarded first place, but the prize was never paid the author. _De Lara_ was later published and successfully produced on the stage. This encouraged Mrs. Hentz to write another tragedy, entitled _Lamorah, or, the Western Wild_, a tragedy of Indian life, which was staged in Cincinnati and published at Columbus, Georgia. Her _Constance of Werdenberg_ was written at Covington. After two years at Covington, Mrs. Hentz crossed the Ohio river and opened a school at Cincinnati. Her novel, _Lovell's Folly_, was written there. In 1834 she removed to Alabama, and this State was her home for the subsequent fourteen years. Her first widely successful novel, _Aunt Patty's Scrap-Bag_ (Philadelphia, 1846) was followed by her generally accepted masterpiece, _Linda, or, the Young Pilot of the Belle Creole_ (1850). Now came in rapid succession her other works: _Rena, or, the Snow Bird_ (1851); _Marcus Warland_ (1852); _Eoline_; _Wild Jack_; _Helen and Arthur_; _Ugly Effie_; _The Planter's Northern Bride_ (1854); _Love after Marriage_ (1854); _The Banished Son; Robert Graham_ (1856); and _Ernest Lynwood_ (1856), her last book and by some critics regarded as her best. Mrs. Hentz began her literary work in Kentucky, as indicated above, and, though the claim of Kentucky is rather slender upon her it is, nevertheless, legitimate. She died at Marianna, Florida, February 11, 1856.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1888, v. iii); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, Georgia, 1909, v. vi).

BESIDE THE LONG MOSS SPRING

[From _Marcus Warland_ (1852)]

Marcus sat beside the Long Moss Spring, the morning sun-beams glancing through the broad leaves of the magnolia and the brilliant foliage of the holly, and playing on his golden hair. He held in his hand a fishing-rod, whose long line floated on the water; and though his eye was fixed on the buoyant cork, there was no hope or excitement in its gaze. His face was pale and wore a severe expression, very different from the usual joyousness and thoughtlessness of childhood. Even when the silvery trout and shining perch, lured by the bait, hung quivering on the hook, and were thrown, fluttering like wounded birds through the air, to fall panting, then pulseless, at his side, he showed no consciousness of success, no elation at the number of his scaly victims. Tears, even, large and slowly gathering tears, rolled gradually and reluctantly down his fair oval cheeks; they were not like the sudden, drenching shower, that leaves the air purer and the sky bluer, but the drops that issue from the wounded bark formed of the life-blood of the tree.

Beautiful was the spot where the boy sat, and beautiful the vernal morning that awakened Nature to the joy and the beauty of youth. The fountain, over whose basin he was leaning, was one of those clear, deep, pellucid springs, that gush up in the green wilds of southern Georgia, forming a feature of such exquisite loveliness in the landscape, that the traveler pauses on the margin, feeling as if he had found one of those enchanted springs of which we read in fairy land, whose waters are too bright, too pure, too serene for earth.

The stone which formed the basin of the fountain was smooth and calcareous, hollowed out by the friction of the waters, and gleaming white and cold through their diaphanous drapery. In the centre of this basin, where the spring gushed in all its depth and strength, it was so dark it looked like an opaque body, impervious to the eye, whence it flowed over the edge of its rocky receptacle in a full, rejoicing current, sweeping over its mossy bed, and bearing its sounding tribute to the Chattahoochee, "rolling rapidly." The mossy bed to which we have alluded was not the verdant velvet that covers with a short, curling nap the ancient rock and the gray old tree, but long, slender, emerald-green plumes, waving under the water, and assuming through its mirror a tinge of deep and irradiant blue. Nothing can be imagined more rich and graceful than this carpet for the fountain's silvery tread, and which seems to bend beneath it, as the light spray rustling in the breeze. The golden water-lily gleamed up through the crystal, and floated along the margin on its long and undulating stems.

JOHN P. DURBIN

John Price Durbin, Seventh President of Dickinson College, was born near Paris, Kentucky, October 10, 1800. He was apprenticed to a cabinet-maker in Paris, and the meager wages he received were invested in books. In 1819 Durbin became a Methodist circuit-rider. He afterwards studied at Miami University, Oxford, Ohio, and was graduated from Cincinnati College in 1825. In the fall of that year he became professor of languages in Augusta College, Augusta, Kentucky, and he occupied the chair until 1831, when he was elected chaplain of the United States Senate. In the next year Dr. Durbin was elected professor of natural sciences in Wesleyan University, Middletown, Connecticut, He remained at Wesleyan but one year, when he was chosen editor of the New York _Christian Advocate and Journal_. In 1834 Editor Durbin became President Durbin of Dickinson College, Carlisle, Pennsylvania. He is regarded as the greatest head the college has ever known. During vacations Dr. Durbin traveled extensively in Europe and the Orient, and these journeys are best preserved in his books. In the 1844 General Conference of the Methodist church he was in the thickest of the great fight over the slavery question; and in the following year he resigned as president of Dickinson, after more than ten years of distinguished success in the management of the ancient college. He now returned to the active pastorate, taking charge of the Union Methodist church in Philadelphia. From 1850 to 1872 Dr. Durbin was secretary of the Methodist Missionary Society, in the interest of which he visited Europe in 1867. He raised many millions of dollars for foreign missions while he was in charge of the society. He was the founder of foreign missions in Bulgaria. Dr. Durbin was an eloquent and persuasive preacher, an able administrator, and during the latter years of his life he wielded a wonderful influence in the Methodist church. He died at New York City, October 17, 1876. His works include _Observations in Europe_ (New York, 1844, 2 vols.); _Observations in Egypt, Palestine, Syria, and Asia Minor_ (New York, 1845, 2 vols.); and he edited the American edition of Wood's _Mosaic History of the Creation_ (New York, 1831). Dr. Durbin was a rather prolific contributor to religious and secular periodicals. His _Observations in Europe_ is the best literary work he did.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _History of Kentucky_, by R. H. Collins (Covington, Kentucky, 1882); Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1888, v. ii).

IMPRESSIONS OF LONDON

[From _Observations in Europe_ (New York, 1844, v. ii)]

The first impression of London is usually wonder at its _immensity_. I received this impression in its full force, as the reader will have already perceived, in coming up the Thames. Nor did it diminish in the course of my rambles through the great metropolis, subsequently. When the stranger first leaves the river, and plunges into the thronged streets, he absolutely becomes dizzy in the whirl of busy life around him. Men sweep by him in _masses_; at times the way seems wedged with them: wagons, carts, omnibuses, hacks, and coaches block up the avenues, and make it quite an enterprise to cross them. Every day my amazement increased at the extent, the activity, the wealth of London. The impression was totally different from that of Paris. The French capital strikes you as the seat of human enjoyment. You find the art of life, so far as mere physical good is concerned, in perfection there. No wish need be ungratified. Your taste may be gratified with the finest music, the most fascinating spectacles, the most splendid works of art in the world. You may eat and drink when and where you please; in half an hour, almost any delicacy that earth has produced or art invented is set before you. You may spend days and weeks in visiting her museums, her hospitals, her gardens, her cemeteries, her libraries, her palaces, and yet remain unsatisfied. In London everything is different. Men are active, but it is in pursuit of wealth. In general they do not seem to enjoy life. The arts are cultivated to a small extent by a small class of society; the mass seem hardly to know that arts exist. No splendid collections are open, without fee or reward, to the public, or to you. You can purchase gratification, but of a lower order than in Paris, and at a higher price. Except a few _lions_--the Docks, the Tunnel, Westminster Abbey, _&c._--nearly everything that the city has to show to a stranger can be seen as you ride along the streets. When you leave Paris you have just begun to enjoy it, and desire to return again; you leave London convinced, indeed, of its vastness and wealth, but tired of gazing at dingy buildings and thronged streets, and are satisfied without another visit. Such, at least, were my own impressions. Apart from private friendships and professional interests, I have no care to see London again.

FORTUNATUS COSBY, Jr.

Fortunatus Cosby, Junior, poet and editor, the son of a distinguished lawyer, was born near Louisville, Kentucky, May 2, 1801. He was educated at Yale and Transylvania, then studied law, but, like so many literary men have done, never practiced. Cosby was a passionate lover of books, and most of his life was spent among his collection. He was wealthy and well able to indulge his taste to any extreme. His kinsman, President Thomas Jefferson, offered to make him secretary of the legation at London, but he declined. Cosby was some years later superintendent of the Philadelphia public schools, and a contributor to _Graham's Magazine_, as well as to other high-class periodicals. In 1846 he was editor of the Louisville _Examiner_, the first Kentucky paper devoted to emancipation of the slaves. In 1860 Cosby was appointed consul to Geneva, and the next eight years of his life were devoted to his diplomatic duties and to traveling. He returned to the United States in 1868, and to his old home near Louisville. There death found him in June, 1871. Several of his friends, which included William Cullen Bryant, Rufus W. Griswold, and George D. Prentice, often urged Cosby to collect his verse and bring it together in a volume, but he was "too careless of his fame to do it;" and "many waifs he from time to time contributed to the periodicals," are now lost to the general public. He is, of course, well represented in all of the anthologies of American poetry, but a collection of his writings should be made. Cosby's best work is to be seen in his _Fireside Fancies_, _Ode to the Mocking Bird_, _The Traveler in the Desert_, and _A Dream of Long Ago_. He has often been pronounced the best song writer this country has produced; and that he was a man of fine culture, an ardent lover of books and Nature, and a maker of charming and exquisite verse can be readily proved.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Poets and Poetry of the West_, by W. T. Coggeshall (Columbus, Ohio, 1860); _Blades o' Bluegrass_, by Fannie P. Dickey (Louisville, Kentucky, 1892).

FIRESIDE FANCIES

[From _The Poets and Poetry of the West_, edited by W. T. Coggeshall (Columbus, Ohio, 1860)]

By the dim and fitful firelight Musing all alone, Memories of old companions Dead, or strangers grown;-- Books that we have read together, Rambles in sweet summer weather, Thoughts released from earthly tether-- Fancy made my own.

In my cushioned arm-chair sitting Far into the night, Sleep, with leaden wings extinguished All the flickering light; But, the thoughts that soothed me waking, Care, and grief, and pain forsaking, Still the self-same path were taking-- Pilgrims, still in sight.

Indistinct and shadowy phantoms Of the sacred dead, Absent faces bending fondly O'er my drooping head, In my dreams were woven quaintly, Dim at first, but calm and saintly, As the stars that glimmer faintly From their misty bed.

Presently a lustrous brightness Eye could scarce behold, Gave to my enchanted vision Looks no longer cold, Features that no clouds encumber, Forms refreshed by sweetest slumber, And, of all that blessed number, Only one was old.

Graceful were they as the willow By the zephyr stirred! Bright as childhood when expecting An approving word! Fair as when from earth they faded, Ere the burnished brow was shaded, Or, the hair with silver braided, Or lament was heard.

Roundabout in silence moving Slowly to and fro-- Life-like as I knew and loved them In their spring-time glow;-- Beaming with a loving luster, Close, and closer still they cluster Round my chair that radiant muster, Just as long ago.

Once, the aged, breathing comfort O'er my fainting cheek, Whispered words of precious meaning Only she could speak; Scarce could I my rapture smother, For I knew it was my mother, And to me there was no other Saint-like and so meek!

Then the pent-up fount of feeling Stirred its inmost deep-- Brimming o'er its frozen surface From its guarded keep, On my heart its drops descending, And for one glad moment lending Dreams of Joy's ecstatic blending, Blessed my charmèd sleep.

Bright and brighter grew the vision With each gathering tear, Till the past was all before me In its radiance clear; And again we read at even-- Hoped, beneath the summer heaven, Hopes that had no bitter leaven, No disturbing fear.

All so real seemed each presence, That one word I spoke-- Only one of old endearment That dead silence broke. But the angels who were keeping Stillest watch while I was sleeping, Left me o'er the embers weeping-- Fled when I awoke.

But, as ivy clings the greenest On abandoned walls; And as echo lingers sweetest In deserted halls:-- Thus, the sunlight that we borrow From the past to gild our sorrow, On the dark and dreaded morrow Like a blessing falls.

THOMAS F. MARSHALL

Thomas Francis Marshall, the famous Kentucky orator and advocate, was born at Frankfort, Kentucky, June 7, 1801. He was the son of Dr. Louis Marshall, a brother of the great chief justice, and sometime president of Washington College (Washington and Lee University). "Tom" Marshall, to give him the name by which he was known throughout the South and West, was educated by private tutors, studied law under John J. Crittenden, and began the practice at Versailles, Kentucky. From 1832 to 1836 he was a member of the Kentucky legislature, and his speeches in that body, as well as in other places, brought him a great reputation as a brilliant and witty orator. The habit of drink was fastening itself upon him, however, and this retarded his progress in the world. Marshall was elected to Congress from the old Ashland district in 1840, and in that body he always bitterly opposed most measures proposed by Henry Clay, whom he afterwards eloquently eulogized. In 1841 his distinguished friend, Richard H. Menefee, the Kentucky orator, died, and Marshall delivered his celebrated eulogy upon him. This address, given before the Law Society of Transylvania University, was the greatest effort of his life. It has been pronounced the finest speech of its character yet made in America. Marshall served in the Mexican War with no great degree of gallantry; and in 1850 he opposed the third Kentucky Constitution, then in the making, through a paper which he edited and called the _Old Guard_. "Tom" Marshall joined many temperance societies, and delivered many temperance speeches, but he always violated his pledge and returned to the old paths of drink. He was the great wit of his day and generation in Kentucky, if not, indeed, in the whole country. His stories are related to-day by persons who think them of recent origin. Marshall was counsel in many noted trials in the South and West, and his arguments to the jury were logical and eloquent. His speech in the famous Matt. Ward trial is, perhaps, his master effort before a jury. In 1856 Marshall removed to Chicago, but he shortly afterwards returned to Kentucky. In 1858-1859 he delivered lectures upon historical subjects in various cities of the United States. The Civil War failed to interest him at all, but he was broken in health at the time, and preparing himself for the long journey which was fast pressing upon him. "Tom" Marshall died near Versailles, Kentucky, September 22, 1864. To-day he sleeps amid a clump of trees in a Blue Grass meadow near the little town of his triumphs and of his failures--Versailles.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Speeches and Writings of Thomas F. Marshall_, edited by W. L. Barre (Cincinnati, 1858); _Thomas F. Marshall_, by Charles Fennell (_The Green Bag_, Boston, July, 1907).

TEMPERANCE: AN ADDRESS

[From _Speeches and Writings of Hon. Thomas F. Marshall_, edited by W. L. Barre (Cincinnati, 1858)]

Mr. President, we of the "Total Abstinence and Vigilance Society," in our meetings at the other end of the city [Washington] are so much in the habit of "telling experiences," that I myself have somewhat fallen into it, and am guilty occasionally of the egotism of making some small confessions (as small as I can possibly make them). Mine, then, sir, was a different case. I had earned a most unenviable notoriety by excesses which, though bad enough, did not half reach the reputation they won for me. I never was an habitual drunkard. I was one of your spreeing gentry. My sprees, however, began to crowd each other and my best friends feared that they would soon run together. Perhaps my long intervals of entire abstinence--perhaps something peculiar in my form, constitution, or complexion--may have prevented the physical indications, so usual, of that terrible disease, which, till temperance societies arose, was deemed incurable and resistless. Perhaps I had nourished the vanity to believe that nature had endowed me with a versatility which enabled me to throw down and take up at pleasure any pursuit, and I chose to sport with the gift. If so, I was brought to the very verge of a fearful punishment. Physicians tell us that intemperance at last becomes, of itself, not a habit voluntarily indulged, but a disease which its victim cannot resist. I had not become fully the subject of that fiendish thirst, that horrible yearning after the distillation "from the alembick of hell," which is said to scorch in the throat, and consume the vitals of the confirmed drunkard, with fires kindled for eternity. I did become alarmed, and for the first time, no matter from what cause, lest the demon's fangs were fastening upon me, and I was approaching that line which separates the man who frolics, and can quit, from the lost inebriate, whose appetite is disease, and whose will is dead. I joined the society on my own account, and felt that I must encounter the title of "reformed drunkard," annoying enough to me, I assure you. I judged, from the cruel publicity given through the press to my frolics, what I had to bear and brave. But I did brave it all; and I would have dared anything to break the chain which I at last discovered was riveting my soul, to unclasp the folds of that serpent-habit whose full embrace is death. Letters from people I never had heard of, newspaper paragraphs from Boston to New Orleans were mailed, and are still mailing to me, by which I am very distinctly, and in the most friendly and agreeable manner, apprised that I enjoyed all over the delectable reputation of a sot, with one foot in the grave, and understanding almost totally overthrown. I doubt not, sir, that the societies who have invited me to address them at different places in the Union, will expect to find me with an unhealed carbuncle on my nose, and my body of the graceful and manly shape and proportion of a demijohn. I have dared all these annoyances, all this celebrity. I have not shrunk from being a text for temperance preachers, and a case for the outpouring of the sympathies of people who have more philanthropy than politeness, more temperance than taste. I signed the pledge on my own account, sir, and my heart leaped to find that I was free. The chain has fallen from my freeborn limbs; not a link or fragment remains to tell I ever wore the badge of servitude.

JEFFERSON J. POLK

Jefferson J. Polk, an eccentric clergyman, physician, and writer, was born near Georgetown, Kentucky, March 10, 1802. He spent his young manhood as a printer on the _Georgetown Patriot_, and the _Kentucky Gazette_. In 1822 Polk joined the Lexington Temperance Society, and he continued steadfast in the cause until his death. He subsequently united with the Methodist church of Lexington, and married; but he continued to work as a journeyman-printer until 1826, when he removed to Danville, Kentucky, where he purchased and became editor of _The Olive Branch_, a weekly newspaper. This he conducted for several years, when he disposed of it in order to become an agent for the American Colonization Society. Polk held that emancipation with colonization in Liberia or elsewhere was the only proper and just solution of the slavery question. The awful Asiatic cholera reached Danville in 1833--as it did nearly a dozen other Kentucky towns--and Polk played his part in the battle which was waged against it. A short time later he became a Methodist circuit-rider, but, in 1839, he went to Lexington to study medicine at Transylvania Medical School. In the following year Dr. Polk removed to Perryville, Kentucky, some miles from Danville, and this was his future home. Here he practiced medicine and preached the Gospel for the next twenty years. In 1860 he supported John Bell of Tennessee for president, but, when Lincoln was elected, he became a strong Union man. The battle of Perryville (October 8, 1862), the greatest battle ever fought upon Kentucky soil, was waged before the good doctor's very door. He converted his house into a hospital, and himself acted as surgeon of a field hospital. After the war he was postmaster of Perryville and claim agent for Union soldiers. At the age of sixty-five years, this eccentric old man published one of the literary curiosities of Kentucky literature, yet withal a work of real interest and much first-hand information. The little volume was entitled _Autobiography of Dr. J. J. Polk, to which is added his occasional writings and biographies of worthy men and women of Boyle County, Kentucky_ (Louisville, 1867). From the frontispiece portrait the author looks fiercely out at the reader, a real son of thunder. Besides the autobiography of Dr. Polk the volume contains sketches of men, women, and places, fables, proverbs, sermons, woman's rights, a ghost story, "love powders," reflections of an old man, biographies of a group of the doctor's parishioners--all crowded into the 254 pages of this book. Dr. Polk died at Perryville, Kentucky, May 23, 1881.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. The chief authority for the facts of Dr. Polk's life is, of course, his _Autobiography_; _History of Kentucky_, by R. H. Collins (Covington, Kentucky, 1882).

THE BATTLE OF THE BOARDS

[From _Autobiography of Dr. J. J. Polk_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1867)]

In the early settlement of Kentucky, when the Indians still roved through our dense forests, plundering and murdering the white inhabitants, three men left Harrod's Station to search for their horses that had strayed off. They pursued their trail through the rich pea-vine and cane, that everywhere abounded, for many miles. Frequently on their route they saw signs that a party of Indians were in their vicinity, hence they took every step cautiously. Thus they traveled all day. Toward night they were many miles from home, but they continued their search until darkness and a cold rain that began to fall drove them to take shelter in an old deserted log cabin, thickly surrounded by cane and matted over with grape-vines. After they had gained this pleasant retreat they held a consultation, and agreed not to strike a fire, as the Indians, if any in the neighborhood, knew the location of the cabin, and, like themselves, might take shelter in it, and murder or expel the white intruders. Finally, the three now in possession, concluded to ascend into the loft of the cabin, the floor of which was clap-boards, resting upon round poles. In their novel position they lay down quietly side by side, each man holding his trusty rifle in his arms. Thus arranged, they awaited the results of the night.

They had not been in their perilous position long when six well-armed Indians entered the cabin, placed their guns and other implements of warfare in one corner of the house, struck a light, and began to make the usual demonstrations of joy on such occasions. One of our heroes wished to know the number of the Indians--he was the middle man of the three, and was lying on his back--and, as hilarity and mirth "grew thick and fast" among the Indians, he attempted to turn over and get a peep at things below. His comrades caught him on each side to keep him from turning over, and, in the struggle, one of the poles broke, and with a tremendous crash the clap-boards and the three men fell in the midst of the Indians, who with a loud yell of terror fled from the house, leaving their guns, and never returned.

The three men who had thus made a miraculous escape from the savage foe, remained all night in quiet possession of the cabin, and in the morning returned to the station with their trophies. Whenever the three heroes met in after life they laughed over their strange deliverance, and what they called "The Battle of the Boards."

GEORGE D. PRENTICE

George Dennison Prentice, poet, editor, wit, and founder of the _Journal School of Female Poets_, was born at Preston, Connecticut, December 18, 1802. In the fall of 1820 Prentice entered the Sophomore class of Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island, where one of his instructors was Horace Mann, and among his classmates was Samuel G. Howe. At college he was famous for his prodigious memory. Prentice was graduated from Brown in 1823, after which he taught school for some time. He next turned to the law, but this he also abandoned to enter upon his life work--journalism. In 1827 he became editor of a paper in New London, Connecticut, but in the following year he went to Hartford to take charge of the _New England Review_, which "was the Louisville _Journal_, born in Connecticut." In 1830 the Connecticut Whigs requested Prentice to journey to Kentucky and prepare a campaign life of Henry Clay. He finally decided to do this, naming John Greenleaf Whittier, the good Quaker poet, as his successor in the editorial chair of _The Review_, and setting out at once upon his long pilgrimage to Lexington. He dashed off his biography of the statesman in a few months, and it greatly pleased the Whigs of his State, but Prentice had decided to remain in Kentucky. He went to Louisville, and on November 24, 1830, the first issue of the _Louisville Journal_ appeared, and George D. Prentice had at last come into his very own. His pungent paragraphs made the "Yankee schoolmaster" feared by editors in the remotest corners of the country, but more especially by Shadrach Penn, editor of the _Louisville Advertiser_, the Democratic organ, as the _Journal_ was the Whig organ. After a constant warfare of more than ten years, poor Penn capitulated, and removed to Missouri. Prentice found another foe worthy of his steel in John H. Harney, editor of the Louisville _Daily Democrat_, but the battle of the wits between them was not as keen as it was between him and Penn. Prentice survived both editors and wrote exquisite eulogies upon them! He also had many personal encounters, which his biographer, Mr. John James Piatt, the Ohio poet, declines to dignify with the term of "duel." His pistol "brush" with Col Reuben T. Durrett, the Kentucky historical writer and collector, was, perhaps, his most serious affair. And the colonel lived to write a fine tribute to him, which was turning the tables upon him just a bit! Prentice's home in Louisville was the center of the city's literary life for many years. His wife was a charming and cultured woman, in every way fitted to assist him. A volume of his witty paragraphs, called by the publishers, _Prenticeana_ (New York, 1859), attracted attention in London and Paris, and in all parts of the United States. Next to Whig politics, the _Journal_ was the literary newspaper of the country. All Western and Southern poets were welcomed to its columns, particularly were female poets "featured," and upon them all Prentice poured out indiscriminate praise, which may or may not have been good for them or for the public. At any rate, he never failed to send a kindly letter to each new "discovery," in which their work already submitted was extravagantly valued, and in which they were urged to flood the office with more of the same kind. His praise of Amelia B. Welby, the sentimental singer of the long ago, seems indefensible to-day. As a poet himself Prentice was a master of blank verse forms. Mr. Piatt put him next to Bryant among American poets in the handling of this difficult measure. _The Closing Year_, written in 1835, is undoubtedly his finest poem; and _At My Mother's Grave_ is usually set beside it. Although his sons, wife, and most of his friends sympathized with the South in the war of Sections, Prentice was always an ardent advocate of the Union cause. He died near Louisville, on the banks of the Ohio river, January 22, 1870. Henry Watterson delivered an eulogy upon him, and snugly adjusted his mantle about his own shoulders.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Poems of George D. Prentice_, edited by John J. Piatt (Cincinnati, 1878); _The Pioneer Press of Kentucky_, by W. H. Perrin (Louisville, 1888).

THE CLOSING YEAR

[From _The Poems of George D. Prentice, edited with a Biographical Sketch_, by John J. Piatt (Cincinnati, 1878, 4th Edition)]

'Tis midnight's holy hour--and silence now Is brooding, like a gentle spirit, o'er The still and pulseless world. Hark! on the winds The bell's deep notes are swelling. 'Tis the knell Of the departed Year.

No funeral train Is sweeping past; yet on the stream and wood, With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest, Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred, As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud, That floats so still and placidly through heaven, The spirits of the seasons seem to stand-- Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form, And Winter with his aged locks--and breathe In mournful cadences, that come abroad Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, A melancholy dirge o'er the dead Year, Gone from the earth forever.

'Tis a time For memory and for tears. Within the deep, Still chambers of the heart, a specter dim, Whose tones are like the wizard voice of Time, Heard from the tomb of ages, points its cold And solemn finger to the beautiful And holy visions that have passed away And left no shadow of their loveliness On the dead waste of life. That specter lifts The coffin-lid of hope, and joy, and love, And, bending mournfully above the pale Sweet forms that slumber there, scatters dead flowers O'er what has passed to nothingness.

The Year Has gone, and, with it, many a glorious throng Of happy dreams. Its mark is on each brow, Its shadow in each heart. In its swift course, It waved its scepter o'er the beautiful, And they are not. It laid its pallid hand Upon the strong man, and the haughty form Is fallen, and the flashing eye is dim. It trod the hall of revelry, where thronged The bright and joyous, and the tearful wail Of stricken ones is heard, where erst the song And reckless shout resounded. It passed o'er The battle-plain, where sword and spear and shield Flashed in the light of midday--and the strength Of serried hosts is shivered, and the grass, Green from the soil of carnage, waves above The crushed and mouldering skeleton. It came And faded like a wreath of mist at eve; Yet, ere it melted in the viewless air, It heralded its millions to their home In the dim land of dreams.

Remorseless Time!-- Fierce spirit of the glass and scythe!--what power Can stay him in his silent course, or melt His iron heart to pity? On, still on He presses, and forever. The proud bird, The condor of the Andes, that can soar Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave The fury of the northern hurricane And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down To rest upon his mountain-crag--but Time Knows not the weight of sleep or weariness, And night's deep darkness has no chain to bind His rushing pinion. Revolutions sweep O'er earth, like troubled visions o'er the breast Of dreaming sorrow; cities rise and sink, Like bubbles on the water; fiery isles Spring, blazing, from the ocean, and go back To their mysterious caverns; mountains rear To heaven their bald and blackened cliffs, and bow Their tall heads to the plain; new empires rise, Gathering the strength of hoary centuries, And rush down like the Alpine avalanche, Startling the nations; and the very stars, Yon bright and burning blazonry of God, Glitter awhile in their eternal depths, And, like the Pleiad, loveliest of their train, Shoot from their glorious spheres, and pass away, To darkle in the trackless void: yet Time, Time the tomb-builder, holds his fierce career, Dark, stern, all-pitiless, and pauses not Amid the mighty wrecks that strew his path, To sit and muse, like other conquerors, Upon the fearful ruin he has wrought.

ON REVISITING BROWN UNIVERSITY

[From the same]

It is the noon of night. On this calm spot, Where passed my boyhood's years, I sit me down To wander through the dim world of the Past.

The Past! the silent Past! pale Memory kneels Beside her shadowy urn, and with a deep And voiceless sorrow weeps above the grave Of beautiful affections. Her lone harp Lies broken at her feet, and as the wind Goes o'er its moldering chords, a dirge-like sound Rises upon the air, and all again Is an unbreathing silence.

Oh, the Past! Its spirit as a mournful presence lives In every ray that gilds those ancient spires, And like a low and melancholy wind Comes o'er yon distant wood, and faintly breathes Upon my fevered spirit. Here I roved Ere I had fancied aught of life beyond The poet's twilight imaging. Those years Come o'er me like the breath of fading flowers, And tones I loved fall on my heart as dew Upon the withered rose-leaf. They were years When the rich sunlight blossomed in the air, And fancy, like a blessed rainbow, spanned The waves of Time, and joyous thoughts went off Upon its beautiful unpillared arch To revel there in cloud, and sun, and sky.

Within yon silent domes, how many hearts Are beating high with glorious dreams. 'Tis well; The rosy sunlight of the morn should not Be darkened by the portents of the storm That may not burst till eve. Those youthful ones Whose thoughts are woven of the hues of heaven, May see their visions fading tint by tint, Till naught is left upon the darkened air Save the gray winter cloud; the brilliant star That glitters now upon their happy lives May redden to a scorching flame and burn Their every hope to dust; yet why should thoughts Of coming sorrows cloud their hearts' bright depths With an untimely shade? Dream on--dream on, Ye thoughtless ones--dream on while yet ye may! When life is but a shadow, tear, and sigh, Ye will turn back to linger round these hours Like stricken pilgrims, and their music sweet Will be a dear though melancholy tone In Memory's ear, sounding forever more.

PRENTICE PARAGRAPHS

[From _Prenticeana_ (New York, 1859)]

James Ray and John Parr have started a locofoco paper in Maine, called the _Democrat_. Parr, in all that pertains to decency, is below zero; and Ray is below Parr.

The editor of the ---- speaks of his "lying curled up in bed these cold mornings." This verifies what we said of him some time ago--"he lies like a dog."

A young widow has established a pistol gallery in New Orleans. Her qualifications as a teacher of the art of duelling are of course undoubted; she has killed her man.

Wild rye and wild wheat grow in some regions spontaneously. We believe that wild oats are always sown.

"What would you do, madam, if you were a gentleman?" "Sir, what would you do if you were one?"

Whatever Midas touched was turned into gold; in these days, touch a man with gold and he'll turn into anything.

ROBERT M. BIRD

Robert Montgomery Bird, creator of _Nick of the Woods_, was born at Newcastle, Delaware, in 1803. He early abandoned the practice of medicine in Philadelphia in order to devote his entire attention to literature. His first works were three tragedies, entitled _The Gladiator_, _Oraloosa_, and _The Broker of Bogota_, the first of which was very popular on the stage. In 1834 Dr. Bird published his first novel, _Calavar_, a romance of Mexico that was highly praised by William H. Prescott. In the following year _The Infidel_, sequel to _Calavar_, appeared. _The Hawks_ _of Hawk Hollow_, and _Sheppard Lee_ followed fast upon the heels of _The Infidel_. Then came _Nick of the Woods, or the Jibbenainosay_ (Philadelphia, 1837, 2 vols.), the author's masterpiece. The background of this fine old romance was set against the Kentucky of 1782. Dr. Bird's Kentucky pioneers and Indians are drawn to the life, the silly sentimentalism of Cooper and Chateaubriand concerning the Indian character was avoided and indirectly proved untrue. _Nick of the Woods_ was dramatized and produced upon the stage with great success. A collection of Dr. Bird's periodical papers was made, in 1838, and published under the title of _Peter Pilgrim, or a Rambler's Recollections_. This work included the first adequate description of Mammoth Cave, in Edmonson county, Kentucky. The author was one of the cave's earliest explorers, and his account of it heralded its wonders to the world in a manner that had never been done before. Just how long Dr. Bird remained in Kentucky is not known, as no comprehensive biography of him has been issued, but he must have been in this State for several years prior to the publication of _Nick of the Woods_, and _Peter Pilgrim_. His last novel was _Robin Day_ (1839). After the publication of this tale, Dr. Bird became a Delaware farmer. In 1847 he returned to Philadelphia and became joint editor of the _North American Gazette_. He died at Philadelphia, January 22, 1854, of brain fever. Morton McMichael, with whom he was associated in conducting the _Gazette_, wrote an eloquent tribute to his memory. Dr. Bird's poem, _The Beech Tree_, is remembered today by many readers. But it is as the creator of _Nick of the Woods_, a new edition of which appeared in 1905, that his fame is firmly fixed.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Prose Writers of America_, by R. W. Griswold (Philadelphia, 1847); Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1888, v. i).

NICK OF THE WOODS

[From _Nick of the Woods_ (New York, 1853, revised edition)]

"What's the matter, Tom Bruce?" said the father, eyeing him with surprise.

"Matter enough," responded the young giant, with a grin of mingled awe and delight; "the Jibbenainosay is up again!"

"Whar?" cried the senior, eagerly,--"not in our limits?"

"No, by Jehosaphat!" replied Tom; "but nigh enough to be neighborly,--on the north bank of Kentuck, whar he has left his mark right in the middle of the road, as fresh as though it war but the work of the morning!"

"And a clear mark, Tom?--no mistake in it?"

"Right to an iota!" said the young man;--"a reggelar cross on the breast, and a good tomahawk dig right through the skull; and a long-legg'd fellow, too, that looked as though he might have fou't old Sattan himself!"

"It's the Jibbenainosay, sure enough; and so good luck to him!" cried the commander: "thar's a harricane coming!"

"Who is the Jibbenainosay?" demanded Forrester.

"Who?" cried Tom Bruce: "Why, Nick,--Nick of the Woods."

"And who, if you please, is Nick of the Woods?"

"Thar," replied the junior, with another grin, "thar, stranger, you're too hard for me. Some think one thing, and some another; but thar's many reckon he's the devil."

"And his mark, that you were talking of in such mysterious terms,--what is that?"

"Why, a dead Injun, to be sure, with Nick's mark on him,--a knife-cut, or a brace of 'em, over the ribs in the shape of a cross. That's the way the Jibbenainosay marks all the meat of his killing. It has been a whole year now since we h'ard of him."

"Captain," said the elder Bruce, "you don't seem to understand the affa'r altogether; but if you were to ask Tom about the Jibbenainosay till doomsday, he could tell you no more than he has told already. You must know, thar's a creatur' of some sort or other that ranges the woods round about our station h'yar, keeping a sort of guard over us like, and killing all the brute Injuns that ar' onlucky enough to come in his way, besides scalping them and marking them with his mark. The Injuns call him _Jibbenainosay_, or a word of that natur', which them that know more about the Injun gabble that I do, say means the _Spirit-that-walks_; and if we can believe any such lying devils as Injuns (which I am loath to do, for the truth ar'nt in 'em), he is neither man nor beast, but a great ghost or devil that knife cannot harm nor bullet touch; and they have always had an idea that our fort h'yar in partickelar, and the country round about, war under his protection--many thanks to him, whether he be a devil or not; for that war the reason the savages so soon left off a worrying of us."

"Is it possible," said Roland, "that any one can believe such an absurd story?"

"Why not?" said Bruce, stoutly. "Thar's the Injuns themselves, Shawnees, Hurons, Delawares, and all,--but partickelarly the Shawnees, for he beats all creation a-killing of Shawnees,--that believe in him, and hold him in such eternal dread, that thar's scarce a brute of 'em has come within ten miles of the station h'yar this three y'ar: because as how, he haunts about our woods h'yar in partickelar, and kills 'em wheresomever he catches 'em,--especially the Shawnees, as I said afore, against which the creatur' has a most butchering spite; and there's them among the other tribes that call him _Shawneewannaween_, or the Howl of the Shawnees, because of his keeping them ever a howling. And thar's his marks, captain,--what do you make of _that_? When you find an Injun lying scalped and tomahawked, it stands to reason thar war something to kill him."

"Ay, truly," said Forrester; "but I think you have human beings enough to give the credit to, without referring it to a supernatural one."

"Strannger," said Big Tom Bruce the younger, with a sagacious nod, "when you kill an Injun yourself, I reckon,--meaning no offense--you will be willing to take all the honor that can come of it, without leaving it to be scrambled after by others. Thar's no man 'arns a scalp in Kentucky, without taking great pains to show it to his neighbors."

"And besides, captain," said the father, very gravely, "thar are men among us who have seen the creatur'!"

"_That_," said Roland, who perceived his new friends were not well pleased with his incredulity, "is an argument I can resist no longer."

JOHN A. McCLUNG

John Alexander McClung, Kentucky's romantic historian and novelist, was born near the ancient town of Washington, Kentucky, September 25, 1804. He was educated at the Buck Pond Academy of his uncle, Dr. Louis Marshall, near Versailles, Kentucky. Having united with the Presbyterian church when he was sixteen years old, McClung entered Princeton Theological Seminary, in 1822, to fit himself for the ministry. He accepted his first pastorate in 1828, but, as his religious views were undergoing a profound change, he withdrew from the church and devoted himself to literature. His first work was a novel, called _Camden_ (Philadelphia, 1830). This was a story of the South during the Revolutionary War. His _Sketches of Western Adventure_ (Maysville, Kentucky, 1832), though almost as fictitious as _Camden_, came to be regarded as history, and it is upon this work that McClung's reputation rests. In a general way the _Sketches_ are "of the most interesting incidents connected with the settlement of the West from 1755 to 1794." Many of them are most certainly figments of the author's imagination, yet they have come to be regarded as literal truth and history. His story of the women at Bryant's Station, who carried water for the defense of the fort while it was besieged by ambushed Indians under Simon Girty, in 1782, is his _piece de resistance_. John Filson, Alexander Fitzroy, Gilbert Imlay, Harry Toulmin, William Littell, Rafinesque, Marshall, and Butler, the Kentucky historians that published their works prior to McClung's, are silent concerning the tripping of the women to the spring for water while the Indians lay upon the banks of Elkhorn with rifles cocked and ready. All Indians have been scalp-hunters, regardless of whatever else they have been, and a woman's scalp dangling from their sticks afforded them as much pleasure as a man's. When the Collinses, both father and son, reached this romance they merely reproduced it "as interesting," allowing it to pass without further comment of any kind. McClung blended romance and history as charmingly as did Judge James Hall, of Cincinnati, whom Mann Butler took to task. The climax of this tale came in the erection of a memorial wall encircling a spring which sprang out of the ground some years prior to the Civil War! McClung began the practice of law in 1835, but in 1849 he returned to the ministry. He subsequently held pastorates at Cincinnati and Indianapolis, but finally settled at Maysville, Kentucky. He declined the presidency of Hanover College, Indiana, in 1856. On August 16, 1859, McClung was drowned in the Niagara river, his body being carried over the falls, but it was later recovered and returned to Kentucky for interment.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _History of Kentucky_, by Z. F. Smith (Louisville, Kentucky, 1892); _Kentucky in the Nation's History_, by R. M. McElroy (New York, 1909).

THE WOMEN OF BRYANT'S STATION

[From _Sketches of Western Adventure_ (Cincinnati, 1838)]

All ran hastily to the picketing, and beheld a small party of Indians, exposed to open view, firing, yelling, and making the most furious gestures. The appearance was so singular, and so different from their usual manner of fighting, that some of the more wary and experienced of the garrison instantly pronounced it a decoy party, and restrained the young men from sallying out and attacking them, as some of them were strongly disposed to do. The opposite side of the fort was instantly manned, and several breaches in the picketing rapidly repaired. Their greatest distress arose from the prospect of suffering for water. The more experienced of the garrison felt satisfied that a powerful party was in ambuscade near the spring, but at the same time they supposed that the Indians would not unmask themselves, until the firing upon the opposite side of the fort was returned with such warmth, as to induce the belief that the feint had succeeded.

Acting upon this impression, and yielding to the urgent necessity of the case, they summoned all the women, without exception, and explaining to them the circumstances in which they were placed, and the improbability that any injury would be offered them, until the firing had been returned from the opposite side of the fort, they urged them to go in a body to the spring, and each bring up a bucket full of water. Some of the ladies, as was natural, had no relish for the undertaking, and asked why the men could not bring water as well as themselves, observing that _they_ were not bullet-proof, and that the Indians made no distinction between male and female scalps!

To this it was answered, that women were in the habit of bringing water every morning to the fort, and that if the Indians saw them engaged as usual, it would induce them to believe that their ambuscade was undiscovered, and that they would not unmask themselves for the sake of firing at a few women, when they hoped, by remaining concealed a few moments longer, to obtain complete possession of the fort. That if men should go down to the spring, the Indians would immediately suspect that something was wrong, would despair of succeeding by ambuscade, and would instantly rush upon them, follow them into the fort, or shoot them down at the spring. The decision was soon over.

A few of the boldest declared their readiness to brave the danger, and the younger and more timid rallying in the rear of these veterans, they all marched down in a body to the spring, within point blank shot of more than five hundred Indian warriors! Some of the girls could not help betraying symptoms of terror, but the married women, in general, moved with a steadiness and composure, which completely deceived the Indians. Not a shot was fired. The party were permitted to fill their buckets, one after another, without interruption, and although their steps became quicker and quicker, on their return, and when near the gate of the fort, degenerated into a rather unmilitary celerity, attended with some little crowding in passing the gate, yet not more than one-fifth of the water was spilled, and the eyes of the youngest had not dilated to more than double their ordinary size.

JAMES O. PATTIE

James Ohio Pattie, an early Western traveler, was born near Brooksville, Kentucky, in 1804. His father, Sylvester Pattie (1782-1828), emigrated to Missouri in 1812, and settled at St. Charles. He served in the War of 1812, at the conclusion of which he built a saw-mill on the Gasconade river, sending down pine lumber in rafts to St. Louis. Several years later his wife died, leaving nine young children, of whom James O. Pattie was the eldest. In 1824 Sylvester Pattie became dissatisfied with his lumber business and decided to dispose of it and undertake an expedition into New Mexico, which was one of the first from this country into that territory. The route pursued by his party was quite new. James O. Pattie was at school, but he prevailed upon his father to permit him to accompany the expedition. It remained for him to write a most interesting account of their remarkable journey, in which Indians who had never seen white men before were encountered, his own capture described, together with the sufferings and death of his father in New Mexico. On his return to the United States Pattie passed through Cincinnati, where he met Timothy Flint, one of the pioneers of Western letters, who edited his journal under the title of _The Personal Narrative of James O. Pattie, of Kentucky, during an Expedition from St. Louis, through the Vast Regions between that Place and the Pacific Ocean, and thence Back through the City of Mexico to Vera Cruz, during Journeyings of Six Years; in which_ _he and his Father, who accompanied him, suffered Unheard of Hardships and Dangers, and Various Conflicts with the Indians, and were made Captives, in which Captivity his Father Died; together with a description of the Country and the Various Nations through which they Passed_ (Cincinnati, 1831). "One sees in [Pattie's] pages the beginnings of the drama to be fought out in the Mexican War." The date and place of his death are unknown.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1888, v. iv); Pattie's _Narrative_ has been carefully re-edited with notes and introduction by Reuben Gold Thwaites, and published in his famous _Early Western Travels Series_ (Cleveland, 1905, v. xviii).

THE SANTA FE COUNTRY

[From _The Personal Narrative of James O. Pattie, of Kentucky_ (Cincinnati, 1831)]

We set off for Santa Fe on the 1st of November [1824]. Our course for the first day led us over broken ground. We passed the night in a small town, called Callacia, built on a small stream, that empties into the del Norte. The country around this place presents but a small portion of level surface.

The next day our path lay over a point of the mountain. We were the whole day crossing. We killed a grey bear, that was exceedingly fat. It had fattened on a nut of the shape and size of a bean, which grows on a tree resembling the pine, called by the Spanish, _pinion_. We took a great part of the meat with us. We passed the night again in a town called Albukerque.

The following day we passed St. Thomas, a town situated on the bank of the del Norte, which is here a deep and muddy stream, with bottoms from five to six miles wide on both sides. These bottoms sustain numerous herds of cattle. The small huts of the shepherds, who attend to them, were visible here and there. We reached another town called Elgidonis, and stopped for the night. We kept guard around our horses all night, but in the morning four of our mules were gone. We hunted for them until ten o'clock, when two Spaniards came, and asked us what we would give them if they would find our mules? We told them to bring the mules, and we would pay them a dollar. They set off, two of our men following them without their knowledge and went into a thicket, where they had tied the mules, and returned with them to us. As may be supposed, we gave them both a good whipping. It seemed at first that the whole town would rise against us in consequence. But when we related the circumstances fairly to the people, the officer corresponding to our justice of the peace, said, we had done perfectly right, and had the men put in the stocks.

We recommenced our journey, and passed a mission of Indians under the control of an old priest. After crossing a point of the mountain, we reached Santa Fe, on the 5th. This town contains between four and five thousand inhabitants. It is situated on a large plain. A handsome stream runs through it, adding life and beauty to a scene striking and agreeable from the union of amenity and cultivation around, with the distant view of the snow clad mountains. It is pleasant to walk on the flat roofs of the houses in the evening, and look on the town and plain spread below. The houses are low, with flat roofs as I have mentioned. The churches are differently constructed from the other buildings and make a beautiful show. They have a great number of large bells, which, when disturbed, make a noise, that would almost seem sufficient to awaken the dead.

We asked the governor for permission to trap beaver in the river Helay. His reply was that, he did not know if he was allowed by the law to do so; but if upon examination it lay in his power, he would inform us on the morrow, if we would come to his office at 9 o'clock in the morning. According to this request, we went to the place appointed, the succeeding day, which was the 9th of November. We were told by the governor, that he had found nothing that would justify him in giving us the legal permission we desired. We then proposed to him to give us liberty to trap upon the conditions that we paid him five per cent on the beaver we might catch. He said he would consider this proposition, and give us an answer the next day at the same hour. The thoughts of our hearts were not at all favorable to this person, as we left him.

WILLIAM F. MARVIN

William F. Marvin, "the latter-day drunken poet of Danville," was born at Leicestershire, England, in 1804. He emigrated to America when a young man, and made his home in the little town of Danville, Kentucky. Marvin was a shoemaker by trade, but verse-making and bacchanalian nights were his heart's delight and perfect pleasures. He was a well-known character in Danville and the surrounding country, and many are the old wives' tales they tell on the old poet to this day. On one occasion, while in his cups, of course, he attempted suicide, using his shoe knife on his throat, but he was finally persuaded that a shoe knife could be put to far better purposes. Marvin served in the Mexican War, and on his return home, he published his first and only book of verse, _The Battle of Monterey and Other Poems_ (Danville, Kentucky, 1851). The title-poem, _The Battle of Monterey_, is a rather lengthy metrical romance of some forty or more pages; but the "other poems," called also "miscellaneous poems," extend the book to its 219 pages. A few of these are worthy of preservation, especially the shorter lyrics. Marvin's book is now extremely rare. The writer has located not more than six copies, though a large edition was printed by the poet's publisher, Captain A. S. McGrorty, who is still in the land of the living. During the closing years of his life Marvin contributed occasional poems to the old _Kentucky Advocate_, the Danville newspaper, his last poem having appeared in that paper, called _The Beauty, Breadth, and Depth of Love_. William F. Marvin died at Danville, Kentucky, July 12, 1879, and was buried in the cemetery of the town. To-day his grave may be identified, but it is unmarked by a monument. His verse certainly shows decided improvement over the rhymes of Thomas Johnson, but both of them were imperfect forerunners of that celebrated poet and distinguished soldier, who was born at Danville about the time Marvin reached there and set up his shop on Main street--Theodore O'Hara, the highest poetic note in the literature of old Kentucky.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Kentucky Advocate_ (Danville, July 14, 1879); letters from G. W. Doneghy, the Danville poet of to-day, author of _The Old Hanging Fork, and Other Poems_ (Franklin, Ohio, 1897), to the writer.

EPIGRAM

[From _The Battle of Monterey and Other Poems_ (Danville, Kentucky, 1851)]

A bee, while hovering round a lip, Where wit and beauty hung, Mistook its bloom, and flew to sip, But ah, the bee got stung.

THE FIRST ROSES OF SPRING

[From the same]

Ye are come my sad heart to beguile, In the blush of your beautiful hue; The fairest and welcomest flowers that smile, Within the wide arch of the blue.

From Araby odors ye bring, And ye steal the warm tints from the sky, And scatter your pearly bright beauties in spring, As if nature ne'er meant you to die.

The soft crimson blush of each lip, 'Mong the green leaves and buds that abound Seems pouting in richness, and parted to sip The dew that is falling around.

Ye bow to the breath of the Morn, And cover his wings with perfume; And woo the gay bee in the earliest dawn, To rest on your bosoms of bloom.

Ye have brought back the passion of love, For a moment to warm my lone breast, And pointed to undying roses above, That smile through eternity's rest.

SONG

[From the same]

AIR--_Here's a health to One I love dear_.

Here's a bumper brimful for our friends, And a frown and a fig for our foes; And may he who stoops meanly to gain his own ends, Never know the sweets of repose.

Though folly and ignorance join, To blight the young buds of our fame, Their slander a moment may injure the vine, But its fruits will be blushing the same.

Then here is a bumper to truth, May its banners wave wide as the world, And a fig for the mortal in age or in youth Who has not its banner unfurl'd.

ELISHA BARTLETT

Dr. Elisha Bartlett, physician, poet, and politician, was born at Smithfield, Rhode Island, in 1805. He was graduated in medicine from Brown University in 1826, and later practiced at Lowell, Massachusetts, of which city he was the first mayor. Dr. Bartlett lectured at Dartmouth College in 1839; and two years later he became professor of the Theory and Practice of Medicine in the medical school of Transylvania University, Lexington, Kentucky. He left Transylvania in 1844, for the University of Maryland, but he returned to Lexington two years later, occupying his former chair in the medical school. In 1849 Dr. Bartlett left Transylvania and went to Louisville, where he delivered medical lectures for a year. From 1851 until his death he was professor of materia medica and medical jurisprudence in the College of Physicians and Surgeons of New York City. Dr. Bartlett died at his birthplace, Smithfield, Rhode Island, July 18, 1855, one of the most widely known of American physicians, and also well known and highly regarded by medical men in Europe. His medical works are: _Essay on the Philosophy of Medical Science_ (Philadelphia, 1844); _Inquiry into the Degree of Certainty in Medicine_ (1848); _A Discourse on the Life and Labours of Dr. Wells, the Discoverer of the Philosophy of Dew_ (1849); _The Fevers of the United States_ (1850); _Discourse on the Times, Character, and Works of Hippocrates_ (1852). These are his medical works, but it is upon his small volume of poems, _Simple Settings, in Verse, for Six Portraits and Pictures, from Mr. Dickens's Gallery_ (Boston, 1855), that he is entitled to his place in this work. Of this little book of but eighty pages, his friend, Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, wrote: "Yet few suspected him of giving utterance in rhythmical shape to his thoughts or feelings. It was only when his failing limbs could bear him no longer, as conscious existence slowly retreated from his palsied nerves, that he revealed himself freely in truest and tenderest form of expression. We knew he was dying by slow degrees, and we heard from him from time to time, or saw him always serene and always hopeful while hope could have a place in his earthly future.... When to the friends he loved there came, as a farewell gift, ... a little book with a few songs in it--songs with his whole warm heart in them--they knew that his hour was come, and their tears fell fast as they read the loving thoughts that he had clothed in words of beauty and melody. Among the memorials of departed friendships, we treasure the little book of 'songs' ... his last present, as it was his last production."

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1887, v. i); _History of the Medical Department of Transylvania University_, by Dr. Robert Peter (Louisville, Kentucky, 1905).

JOHN BROWDIE OF NICHOLAS NICKLEBY

[From _Simple Settings, in Verse, for Six Portraits and Pictures, from Mr. Dickens's Gallery_ (Boston, 1854)]

'Twas worth a crown, John Browdie, to hear you ringing out, O'er hedge and hill and roadside, that loud, hilarious shout; And how the echoes caught it up and flung it all about.

'Twas worth another, John, to see that broad and glorious grin, That stretched your wide mouth wider still, and wrinkled round your chin. And showed how true the heart was that glowed and beat within.

Yes! Nick has beaten the _measther_,--'twas a sight beneath the sun! And I only wish, John Browdie, when that good deed was done, That you and I had both been there to help along the fun.

Be sure he let him have it well;--his trusty arm was nerved With hoarded wrongs and righteous hate,--so it slackened not nor swerved, Until the old curmudgeon got the thrashing he deserved.

The guinea, John, you gave the lad, is charmed forevermore; It shall fill your home with blessings; it shall add unto your store; Be light upon your pathway, and sunshine on your floor.

These are the treasures, too, laid up forever in the sky, Kind words to solace aching hearts, and make wet eyelids dry, And kindly deeds in silence done with no one standing by.

And when you tell the story, John, to her, your joy and pride-- The miller's bonny daughter, so soon to be your bride-- She shall love you more than ever, and cling closer to your side.

Content and health be in your house! and may you live to see Full many a little Browdie, John, climb up your sturdy knee; The mother's hope, the father's stay and comfort long to be.

These are thy crown, O England; thy glory, grace, and might!-- Who work the work of honest hands, from early morn till night, And worship God by serving man, and doing what is right.

All honor, then, to them! let dukes and duchesses give room! The men who by the anvil strike, and ply the busy loom; And scatter plenty through the land, and make the desert bloom.

SAMUEL D. GROSS

Dr. Samuel David Gross, the distinguished American surgeon and author, was born near Easton, Pennsylvania, July 8, 1805. He was graduated from the Jefferson Medical College, Philadelphia, in the class of 1828, and he at once entered upon the active practice of his profession in Philadelphia. In 1833 Dr. Gross accepted a professorship in the Ohio Medical College of Cincinnati, which position he held until 1840, when he became professor of surgery in the University of Louisville. The subsequent sixteen years of Dr. Gross's life were spent upon Kentucky soil. His _Report on Kentucky Surgery_ (Louisville, 1851) contained the first biography of Dr. Ephraim McDowell, the Kentucky surgeon, who performed the first operation for the removal of the ovaries done in the world. That Dr. McDowell had actually accomplished this wonderful feat at Danville, in 1809, was Dr. Gross's contention, and that he was able to prove it beyond all doubt, and place the Danville doctor before the world as the father of ovariotomy, proves the power of his paper. Dr. Gross was the founder of the Louisville _Medical Review_, but he had conducted it but a short time when he accepted the chair of surgery in the Jefferson Medical College, Philadelphia. This position he occupied until about two years prior to his death. Dr. Gross enjoyed an international reputation as a surgeon. Oxford and Cambridge conferred degrees upon him in recognition of his distinguished contributions to medical science. As an original demonstrator he was well known. He was among the first to urge the claims of preventive medicine; and his demonstrations upon rabbits, with a view to throwing additional light on manual strangulation, are familiar to students of medicine and medical history. His works include: _Elements of Pathological Anatomy_ (1839); _Foreign Bodies in the Air-Passages_ (1854); _Report on the Causes which Retard the Progress of American Medical Literature_ (1856); _System of Surgery_ (1859); _Manual of Military Surgery_ (1861), Japanese translation (Tokio, 1874); and his best known work of a literary value, _John Hunter and His Pupils_ (1881). In 1875 he published two lectures, entitled _The History of American Medical Literature_; and, in the following year, with several other writers, he issued _A Century of American Medicine_. Dr. Gross was always greatly interested in the history of medicine and surgery. He died at Philadelphia, May 6, 1884.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. His _Autobiography_ (Philadelphia, 1887, two vols.), was edited by his sons, one of whom, A. Haller Gross, was born in Kentucky; Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1887, v. iii).

KENTUCKY

[From _Autobiography of Samuel D. Gross, M. D._ (Philadelphia, 1887, v. i.)]

It was pleasant to dwell in the land of Boone, of Clay, and of Crittenden; to behold its fertile fields, its majestic forests, and its beautiful streams; and to associate with its refined, cultivated, generous-hearted, and chivalric people. It was there that I had hoped to spend the remainder of my days upon objects calculated to promote the honor and welfare of its noble profession, and finally to mingle my dust with the dust and ashes of the sons and daughters of Kentucky. But destiny has decreed otherwise. A change has come over my life. I stand this evening in the presence of a new people, a stranger in a strange place, and a candidate for new favors.

THE DEATH OF HENRY CLAY

[From the same]

The admirers of Mr. Clay cannot but regret the motives which induced him to spend his last days at Washington. It was a pitiful ambition which prompted him to forsake his family and his old friends to die at the capital of the country in order that he might have the _éclat_ of a public funeral. Broken down in health and spirits when he left his old home, unable to travel except by slow stages, he knew perfectly well that his days were numbered, and that he could never again see Kentucky. How much more dignified would it have been if he had breathed out his once precious life in the bosom of his family and in the arms of the woman who for upwards of half a century had watched over his interests, reared his children with a fond mother's care, loved him with a true woman's love, and followed him, wherever he was, with her prayers and her blessings!

THOMAS H. CHIVERS

Dr. Thomas Holley Chivers, the eccentric Southern poet, and maker of most unusual verse forms, was born near Washington, Georgia, December 12, 1807. He was instructed in the classics by his mother, and, choosing medicine as his vocation, he went to Lexington, Kentucky--most probably making the long journey on horse-back--and entered the medical school of Transylvania University. Chivers matriculated in November, 1828, and took up his abode at the old Phoenix Hotel, as his father was wealthy and liberal with him. He took one ticket and made it during his first year. The college records show that he returned for the fall session of 1829, and that, during his second year, he took two tickets, graduating on March 17, 1830. The thesis he submitted for his degree of Doctor of Medicine was _Remittent and Intermittent Bilious Fever_. Kentucky was the birthplace of the first poems Chivers wrote, and, very probably, the birthplace of his first book, _Conrad and Eudora, or The Death of Alonzo_ (Philadelphia, 1834). This little drama, intended for the study, was set in Kentucky, and founded upon the Beauchamp-Sharp murder of 1825, which was still the chief topic of conversation in the State when the poet reached Lexington in 1828. Chivers's second book of poems, called _Nacoochee_ (New York, 1837), contained two poems written while a student of Transylvania, entitled _To a China Tree_, and _Georgia Waters_. A short time after the publication of this book Chivers and Edgar Allan Poe became acquainted; and the remainder of their lives they were denouncing and fighting each other. It all came about by Chivers claiming his _Allegra Florence in Heaven_, published in _The Lost Pleiad_ (New York, 1845), as the original of _The Raven_. Of course, the world and the critics have smiled at this claim and let it pass. After Poe's death Chivers claimed practically everything the Virginian did to be a plagiarism of some of his own poems. His most famous work was _Eonchs of Ruby_ (New York, 1851). This was followed by _Virginalia_ (Philadelphia, 1853); _Memoralia_ (Philadelphia, 1853); _Atlanta_ (Macon, Ga., 1853); _Birth-Day Song of Liberty_ (Atlanta, Ga., 1856); and _The Sons of Usna_ (Philadelphia, 1858). Bayard Taylor, in his famous _Echo Club_, mentioned _Facets of Diamond_ as one of the poet's publications, but a copy of it has not yet been unearthed. Dr. Chivers died at Decatur, Georgia, December 19, 1858. No more pathetic figure has appeared in American letters than Chivers. Had he been content to write his poetry independently of Poe or any one else, he would have left his name clearer. He was a wonderful manipulator of verse-forms, but he was not what Poe was--a world-genius.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _In the Poe Circle_, by Joel Benton (New York, 1899); _The Poe-Chivers Papers_, by G. E. Woodberry (_Century Magazine_, Jan., Feb., 1903); _Representative Southern Poets_, by C. W. Hubner (New York, 1906); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, Georgia, 1909, v. ii).

THE DEATH OF ALONZO

[From _Conrad and Eudora_ (Philadelphia, 1834)]

_Act III. Scene IV. Frankfort. Time, midnight._ Conrad _enters from the tavern, walks the street, dressed in dark clothes, with a masque on his face, and, with difficulty, finds_ Alonzo's _house_.

_Conrad._ This is the place,--and I must change my name.

(_Goes to the door and knocks. Puts his hand in his bosom. A female voice is heard within--the wife of_ Alonzo.)

_Angeline._ I would not venture out this time o' night.

(_Conrad knocks_.)

_Alonzo._ Who's there?

_Conrad._ A friend.

_Angeline_ (_within_). I would not venture out, my love!

_Alonzo._ Why, Angeline!--thy fears are woman's, love.

(_Knocks again._)

_Alonzo._ Who is that?--speak out!

_Conrad._ Darby--'tis thy friend! He has some business with thee--'tis of weight! Has sign'd a bond, and thou must seal the deed!

_Alonzo._ What does he say?

_Angeline._ Indeed I do not know--you'd better see.

(_Knocks again and looks round._)

_Alonzo._ Who can this be--so late at night?

(_Opens the door and steps back._)

_Conrad._ Behold! (_Throws off his masque and takes him by the throat._) Look in my face, and call my name!

_Alonzo._ Conrad!--Conrad! do not kill me, have mercy!

_Conrad._ Where is my wife? Now, villain! die!--die!--die!

(_Stabs him._)

Now, pray! if thou canst pray, now pray--now die! Now, drink the wormwood which Eudora drank.

(_Stamps him._ Alonzo _dies_.)

(Conrad _rushes out and is seen no more_. Angeline, Alonzo's _wife, runs in the room, screams, and falls upon his breast_.)

_Angeline._ 'Tis he--'tis he--Conrad has kill'd Alonzo! Oh! my husband! my husband! thou art dead! 'Tis he--'tis he--the wretch has kill'd Alonzo!

(_The doctor_, Alonzo's _brother, rushes in, crying "Murder!--murder!" Watchmen and citizens rush in, crying "Murder! murder!_ Alonzo's _dead_! Alonzo's _dead_!")

_Citizens._ Who, under God's heaven, could have done this deed?

_Angeline._ 'Tis he--'tis he! Conrad has kill'd Alonzo!

_Watchmen._ Who did it? Speak! speak! Conrad kill'd Alonzo?

_Angeline._ Conrad--'twas Conrad, kill'd my husband! Dead! Oh! death--death--death! What will become of me?

_Doctor._ Did you see his face? My God! I know 'twas he!

_Angeline._ I saw his face--I heard his voice--he's gone!

(Angeline _feels his pulse, while the rest look round_.)

Oh! my husband!--my husband!--death, death! Speak, Alonzo! speak to Angeline--death! Oh! speak one word, and tell me who it was!

(_Kisses him._)

No pulse--my husband's dead! He's gone!--he's gone!

(_Faints away on his breast. The watchmen and citizens take her into an adjoining room, bearing her husband with her--asking, "Who could have kill'd him? Speak_, Angeline--_speak_!")

_Curtain falls. End of Act III._

GEORGIA WATERS

[From _Nacoochee_ (New York, 1837)]

On thy waters, thy sweet valley waters, Oh! Georgia! how happy were we! When thy daughters, thy sweet-smiling daughters, Once gathered sweet-william for me. Oh! thy wildwood, thy dark shady wildwood Had many bright visions for me; For my childhood, my bright rosy childhood Was cradled, dear Georgia! in thee!

On thy mountains, thy green purple mountains, The seasons are waiting on thee; And thy fountains, thy clear crystal fountains Are making sweet music for me. Oh! thy waters, thy sweet valley waters Are dearer than any to me; For thy daughters, thy sweet-smiling daughters, Oh! Georgia! give beauty to thee.

Transylvania University, 1830.

JEFFERSON DAVIS

Jefferson Davis, the first and only president of the Confederacy, was born in Christian, now Todd, county, Kentucky, June 3, 1808. During his infancy his family removed first to Louisiana and afterwards to Mississippi, locating near the village of Woodville. When but seven years old he was mounted on a pony and, with a company of travelers, rode back to Kentucky. He entered St. Thomas College, a Roman Catholic institution, near Springfield, Kentucky. This tiny, obscure "college" was presided over by Dominicans, and Davis was the only Protestant boy in it. He spent two years at St. Thomas, when he returned home to be fitted for college. In October, 1821, when in his fourteenth year, Jefferson Davis arrived in Lexington, Kentucky, and matriculated in the academic department of Transylvania University. Horace Holley, surrounded with his famous faculty, was in charge of the University during Davis's student days. His favorite professor was Robert H. Bishop, afterwards president of Miami University, Oxford, Ohio; and his fellow students included David Rice Atchison, George Wallace Jones, Gustavus A. Henry, and Belvard J. Peters, all subsequently in Congress or on the bench. When Davis was in the United States Senate he found five other Transylvania men in the same body. He made his home with old Joseph Ficklin, the Lexington postmaster, and three of the happiest years of his life were spent in the "Athens of the West." He left Transylvania at the end of his junior year in order to enter West Point, from which he was graduated in 1828. As Lieutenant Davis he was in Kentucky during the cholera-year of 1833, and he did all in his power to bury the dead and watch the dying. Near Louisville, on June 17, 1835, Davis was married to Miss Sarah Knox Taylor, second daughter of President Taylor, but within the year the fair young girl died. Davis was in the lower House of Congress, in 1845, as a Democrat; but in the following year he enlisted for service in the Mexican War, through which he served with great credit to himself and to his country. From 1847 to 1851 he was United States Senator from Mississippi; and from 1853 to 1857 he was Secretary of War in President Pierce's cabinet. Davis was immediately returned to the Senate, where he continued until January 21, 1861, when he bade the Senators farewell in a speech that has made him famous as an orator. Four weeks later he was inaugurated as provisional president of the Confederate States. On February 22, 1862, he was elected permanent president, and settled himself in the capitol at Richmond, Virginia. President Davis was arrested near Irwinville, Georgia, May 10, 1865, and for the next two years he was a prisoner in Fortress Monroe. He died at New Orleans, December 6, 1889, but in 1893 his body was removed to Richmond. As an author Davis's fame must rest on his _The Rise and Fall of the Confederate Government_ (New York, 1881, two vols.).

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Jefferson Davis: A Memoir by his wife_, Mrs. V. Jefferson Davis (New York 1890, two vols.); _Belford's Magazine_ (Jan., 1890); _Southern Statesmen of the Old Regime_, by W. P. Trent (New York, 1897); _Jefferson Davis_, by W. E. Dodd (Philadelphia, 1907); _Statesmen of the Old South_, by W. E. Dodd (New York, 1911). Prof. W. L. Fleming, of Louisiana State University is now preparing what will be the most comprehensive and, perhaps, the definitive biography of Davis.

FROM FAREWELL SPEECH IN UNITED STATES SENATE ON JANUARY 21, 1861

[From _The Rise and Fall of the Confederate Government_ (New York, 1881, v. i.)]

It has been a conviction of pressing necessity, it has been a belief that we are to be deprived in the Union of the rights which our fathers bequeathed to us, which has brought Mississippi to her present decision. She has heard proclaimed the theory that all men are created free and equal, and this made the basis of an attack upon her social institutions; and the sacred Declaration of Independence has been invoked to maintain the position of the equality of the races. That Declaration of Independence is to be construed by the circumstances and purposes for which it was made. The communities were declaring their independence; the people of those communities were asserting that no man was born--to use the language of Mr. Jefferson--booted and spurred, to ride over the rest of mankind; that men were created equal--meaning the men of the political community; that there was no divine right to rule; that no man inherited the right to govern; that there were no classes by which power and place descended to families; but that all stations were equally within the grasp of each member of the body politic. These were the great principles they announced; these were the purposes for which they made their declaration; these were the ends to which their enunciation was directed. They have no reference to the slave; else, how happened it that among the items of arraignment against George III was that he endeavored to do just what the North has been endeavoring of late to do--to stir up insurrection among our slaves? Had the Declaration announced that the negroes were free and equal, how was the Prince to be arraigned for raising up insurrection among them? And how was this to be enumerated among the high crimes which caused the colonies to sever their connection with the mother country? When our Constitution was formed, the same idea was rendered more palpable; for there we find provision made for that very class of persons as property; they were not put upon the footing of equality with white men--not even upon that of paupers and convicts; but, so far as representation was concerned, were discriminated against as a lower caste, only to be represented in the numerical proportion of three fifths.

Then, Senators, we recur to the compact which binds us together; we recur to the principles upon which our Government was founded; and when you deny them, and when you deny to us the right to withdraw from a Government which, thus perverted, threatens to be destructive of our rights, we but tread in the path of our fathers when we proclaim our independence and take the hazard. This is done, not in hostility to others, not to injure any section of the country, not even for our own pecuniary benefit; but from the high and solemn motive of defending and protecting the rights we inherited, and which it is our sacred duty to transmit unshorn to our children.

I find in myself, perhaps, a type of the general feeling of my constituents towards yours. I am sure I feel no hostility towards you, Senators from the North. I am sure there is not one of you, whatever sharp discussion there may have been between us, to whom I cannot now say, in the presence of my God, I wish you well; and such, I am sure, is the feeling of the people whom I represent towards those whom you represent. I, therefore, feel that I but express their desire when I say I hope, and they hope, for peaceable relations with you, though we must part. They may be mutually beneficial to us in the future, as they have been in the past, if you so will it. The reverse may bring disaster on every portion of the country; and, if you will have it thus, we will invoke the God of our fathers, who delivered them from the power of the lion, to protect us from the ravages of the bear; and thus, putting our trust in God and in our own firm hearts and strong arms, we will vindicate the right as best we may.

In the course of my service here, associated at different times with a great variety of Senators, I see now around me some with whom I have served long; there have been points of collision; but, whatever of offense there has been to me, I leave here. I carry with me no hostile remembrance. Whatever offense I have given which has not been redressed, or for which satisfaction has not been demanded, I have, Senators, in this hour of our parting, to offer you my apology for any pain which, in heat of discussion, I have inflicted. I go hence unencumbered of the remembrance of any injury received, and having discharged the duty of making the only reparation in my power for any injury offered.

Mr. President and Senators, having made the announcement which the occasion seemed to me to require, it only remains for me to bid you a final adieu.

WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER

William Davis Gallagher, poet and critic, was born at Philadelphia, August 21, 1808. When he was but eight years old he removed to Cincinnati with his mother, a widow. In 1821 he was apprenticed to a Cincinnati printer. At the age of twenty years Gallagher journeyed through Kentucky and Mississippi, and his letters concerning the country and the people won him his first fame as a writer. In 1831 he became editor of the Cincinnati _Mirrow_, the fifth or sixth literary journal published in the West. Three years later Thomas H. Shreve joined Gallagher in editing the paper. Like all Western magazines, the _Mirrow's_ high hopes were utterly dashed upon the old rocks of failure from one cause or another. In 1835 Gallagher published _Erato No. I._, and _Erato No. II._, which were two small pamphlets of poems. _Erato No. III._ was published at Louisville, two years later. The chief poem in this was upon a Kentucky subject. Gallagher's anthology of Western verse, without biographical or critical notes, entitled _The Poetical Literature of the West_ (Cincinnati, 1841), the first work in that field, was well done, and it strengthened his claim as a critic. In 1854 he became one of the editors of the _Louisville Courier_; but he shortly afterwards purchased a farm near Pewee Valley, Kentucky, some twelve miles from Louisville, and as a Kentucky farmer he spent the final forty years of his life. He took keen interest in agricultural pursuits, but he made nothing more than a meager living out of his farm. His essay on _Fruit Culture in the Ohio Valley_ attracted the attention of persons interested in that subject. As a poet Gallagher submits his claim upon a rather long pastoral poem, entitled _Miami Woods_. This work was begun in 1839, and finished seventeen years later. This gives the title of his book of poems, _Miami Woods, A Golden Wedding, and Other Poems_ (Cincinnati, 1881). _A Golden Wedding_ is not an overly skillful production, and the poet is best seen in his shorter lyrics. Perhaps _The Mothers of the West_, which appeared in the _Erato No. III._, is the best thing he did, and the one poem that will keep his fame green. Gallagher began his literary career with great promise, and he pursued it diligently for some years, but when he should have been doing his finest work, he was winning some prize from an agricultural journal for the best essay on _Fruit Culture in the Ohio Valley_! He failed to follow the gleam. William D. Gallagher died at "Fern Rock Cottage," Pewee Valley, Kentucky, June 27, 1894.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Poets and Poetry of the West_, by W. T. Coggeshall (Columbus, Ohio, 1860); _Blades o' Bluegrass_, by Fannie P. Dickey (Louisville, 1892).

THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST

[From _Miami Woods, A Golden Wedding, and Other Poems_ (Cincinnati, 1881)]

The mothers of our Forest-Land! Stout-hearted dames were they; With nerve to wield the battle-brand, And join the border fray. Our rough land had no braver In its days of blood and strife-- Aye ready for severest toil, Aye free to peril life.

The mothers of our Forest-Land! On old Kentucky's soil, How shared they, with each dauntless band, War's tempest, and life's toil! They shrank not from the foeman, They quail'd not in the fight, But cheer'd their husbands through the day, And soothed them through the night.

The mothers of our Forest-Land! _Their_ bosoms pillow'd Men; And proud were they by such to stand In hammock, fort, or glen; To load the sure old rifle-- To run the leaden ball-- To watch a battling husband's place, And fill it should he fall.

The mothers of our Forest-Land! Such were their daily deeds: Their monument--where does it stand? Their epitaph--who reads? No braver dames had Sparta-- No nobler matrons Rome-- Yet who or lauds or honors them, Ev'n in their own green home?

The mothers of our Forest-Land! They sleep in unknown graves; And had they borne and nursed a band Of ingrates, or of slaves, They had not been more neglected! But their graves shall yet be found, And their monuments dot here and there "The Dark and Bloody Ground!"

THOMAS H. SHREVE

Thomas H. Shreve, poet and journalist, was born at Alexandria, Virginia, in 1808. In early life he removed to Louisville, Kentucky, and entered mercantile pursuits. In 1834 Shreve became a Cincinnati editor; but four years later he returned to Louisville to again engage in business. Throughout his business career, Shreve was a constant contributor of poems and prose sketches to the best magazines. He finally abandoned business for literature, and he at once became associate editor of the _Louisville Journal_. He was not a rugged journalist of the Prentice type, but a cultured and chaste essayist who should have written from his study window, rather than from such a seething hothouse of sarcasm and invective as Prentice maintained. He was a mild-mannered man, a Quaker, who spent his last months on earth in crossing swords with Thomas Babington Macaulay concerning the character of William Penn. In 1851 Shreve's _Drayton, an American Tale_, was issued by the Harpers at New York. This work won the author much praise in the East as well as in the West, and it started him upon an honorable career, which was soon cut short by disease. Thomas H. Shreve died at Louisville, December 23, 1853. Prentice penned a splendid tribute to the memory of his dead friend and associate; and some years later a collection of his verse was made as a fitting memorial of his blameless life and literary labors.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Poets and Poetry of the West_, by W. T. Coggeshall (Columbus, Ohio, 1860); _History of Kentucky_, by R. H. Collins (Covington, Kentucky, 1882); _The Shreve Family_, by L. P. Allen (Greenfield, Illinois).

I HAVE NO WIFE

[From _The Knickerbocker Magazine_ (August, 1838)]

I have no wife--and I can go Just where I please, and feel as free As crazy winds which choose to blow Round mountain-tops their melody. On those who have Love's race to run, Hope, like a seraph, smiles most sweet-- But they who Hymen's goal have won, Sometimes, 'tis said, find Hope a cheat.

I have no wife--young girls are fair-- But how it is, I cannot tell, No sooner are they wed, than their Enchantments give them the farewell. The girls, oh, bless them! make us yearn To risk all odds and take a wife-- To cling to one, and not to turn Ten thousand in the dance of life.

I have no wife:--Who'd have his nose Forever tied to one lone flower, E'en if that flower should be a rose, Plucked with light hand from fairy bower? Oh! better far the bright bouquet Of flowers of every hue and clime; By turns to charm the sense away, And fill the heart with dreams sublime.

I have no wife:--I now can change From grave to joy, from light to sad Unfettered, in my freedom range And fret awhile, and, then, be glad. I now can heed a Siren's tongue, And feel that eyes glance not in vain-- Make love apace, and, being flung, Get up and try my luck again.

I have no wife to pull my hair If it should chance entangled be-- I'm like the lion in his lair, Who flings his mane about him free. If 'tis my fancy, I can wear My boots unblessed by blacking paste, Cling to my coat till it's threadbare, Without a lecture on bad taste.

I have no wife, and I can dream Of girls who're worth their weight in gold; Can bask my heart in Love's broad beam, And dance to think it's yet unsold. Or I can look upon a brow Which mind and beauty both enhance, Go to the shrine, and make my bow, And thank the Fates I have a chance.

I have no wife, and, like a wave, Can float away to any land, Curl up and kiss, or gently lave The sweetest flowers that are at hand. A Pilgrim, I can bend before The shrine which heart and mind approve;-- Or, Persian like, I can adore Each star that gems the heaven of love.

I have no wife--in heaven, they say, Such things as weddings are not known-- Unyoked the blissful spirits stray O'er fields where care no shade has thrown. Then why not have a heaven below, And let fair Hymen hence be sent? It would be fine--but as things go, _Unwedded, folks won't be content_!

ORMSBY M. MITCHEL

Ormsby MacKnight Mitchel, the celebrated American astronomer and author, was born near Morganfield, Kentucky, August 28, 1809. He graduated from West Point in the famous class of 1829 which included Robert E. Lee and Joseph E. Johnston, Mitchel was professor of mathematics at West Point for two years; but he later studied law and practiced at Cincinnati for a year. In 1834 he was elected professor of mathematics and astronomy in Cincinnati College. By his own efforts he raised sufficient funds with which to establish an astronomical observatory in Cincinnati, in 1845--now the Mitchel Observatory--the first of the larger observatories in this country. In 1860 Professor Mitchel was chosen as director of the Dudley observatory at Albany, New York, and there he remained for two years. The Civil War coming on, he entered the Union army, and rose to the rank of general. General Mitchel was placed in command of the "Department of the South," but before the war was well under way, almost, he contracted yellow fever and died at Beaufort, South Carolina, October 30, 1862. General Mitchel was the most distinguished astronomer ever born on Kentucky soil; and in the army the men knew him as "Old Stars." He was a popular lecturer, but it is as an author that his great reputation rests. His books are: _The Planetary and Stellar Worlds_ (New York, 1848); _The Orbs of Heaven_ (1851); _A Concise Elementary Treatise of the Sun, Planets, Satellites, and Comets_ (1860); and _The Astronomy of the Bible_ (New York, 1863). From 1846 to 1848 General Mitchel published an astronomical journal, called _The Sidereal Messenger_. Harvard and Hamilton Colleges conferred honorary degrees upon him; and he was a member of many scientific societies in the United States and Europe.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Ormsby MacKnight Mitchel, Astronomer and General_, by his son, F. A. Mitchel; biographical sketch in _The Astronomy of the Bible_ (New York, 1863); _Old Stars_, by P. C. Headley (Boston, 1864).

ASTRONOMICAL EVIDENCES OF GOD

[From _The Astronomy of the Bible_ (New York, 1863)]

If we extend our researches beyond the limits of the solar system, and, passing across the mighty gulf which separates us from the starry heavens, inspect minutely the organizations which are there displayed, we find the dominion of these same laws extending to these remote regions, and holding an imperious sway over revolving suns. Thus we perceive, that in one most important particular, the objects which compose the mighty universe are obviously alike, and seem to have sprung from a common origin. We are, moreover, compelled to admit a sun in every visible star; and if a sun, then attendant planets; and if revolving planets, then, likewise, some scheme of sentient existence, possibly remotely analogous to that which is displayed with such wonderful minuteness in our globe. Thus if the being of a God can be argued from the admirable adaptations which surround man in this nether world, every star that glitters in the vast concave of heaven proclaims, with equal power, this mighty truth. If we rise still higher, and from the contemplation of individual stars, examine their distribution, their clusterings, their aggregations into immense systems, the fact of their mutual influences, their restless and eternal activity, their amazing periods of revolution, their countless millions, and their ever-during organizations, the mind, whelmed with the display of grandeur, exclaims involuntarily, "This is the empire of a God!"

And now, how is the knowledge of this vast surrounding universe revealed to the mind of man? Here is, perhaps, the crowning wonder. Through the agency of light, a subtle, intangible, imponderable something, originating, apparently, in the stars and suns, darting with incredible velocity from one quarter of the universe to the other, whether in absolute particles of matter shot off from luminous bodies, or by traces of an ethereal fluid, who shall tell? This incomprehensible fluid falls upon an instrument of most insignificant dimensions, yet of most wonderful construction, the human eye, and, lo! to the mind what wonders start into being. Pictures of the most extravagant beauty cover the earth; clouds dipped in the hues of heaven fill the atmosphere; the sun, the moon, the planets, come up from out of the depths of space, and far more amazing still, the distant orbs of heaven, in their relative magnitudes, distances and motions, are revealed to the bewildered mind. We have only to proceed one step further, and bringing to the aid of the human eye, the auxiliary power of the optic glass, the mind is brought into physical association with objects which inhabit the confines of penetrable space. We take cognizance of objects so remote, that even the flashing element of light itself, by which they are revealed, flies on its errand ten times ten thousand years to accomplish its stupendous journey.

Strike the human eye from existence, and at a single blow, the sun is blotted out, the planets fade, the heavens are covered with the blackness of darkness, the vast universe shrinks to a narrow compass bounded by the sense of touch alone.

Such, then, is the organization of the universe, and such the means by which we are permitted to take cognizance of its existence and phenomena. If the feeble mind of man has achieved victories in the natural world--if his puny structures, which have survived the attacks of a few thousand years, proclaim the superiority of the intelligence of his mind to insensate matter--if the contemplation of the works of art and the triumphs of human genius, swells us into admiration at the power of this invisible spirit that dwells in mortal form,--what shall be the emotions excited, the ideas inspired, by the contemplation of the boundless universe of God?

ALBERT T. BLEDSOE

Albert Taylor Bledsoe, controversialist, was born at Frankfort, Kentucky, November 9, 1809, the son of a journalist. He was appointed from Kentucky to West Point and was graduated in 1830, after which he served in the army in Indian territory until the last day of August, 1832, when he resigned to enter upon the study of law. A year later Bledsoe abandoned law to become a tutor in Kenyon College, Ohio, where he later studied theology and was ordained a clergyman in the Protestant Episcopal church. He was connected with various Ohio churches from 1835 to 1838, but in the latter year he quit the ministry to resume his legal studies and he removed to Springfield, Illinois, where he formed a partnership with the afterwards celebrated statesman and soldier, Colonel Edward D. Baker. Abraham Lincoln and Stephen A. Douglas were practicing law in Springfield at this time, and Bledsoe knew both of them intimately; but because of his subsequent connection with the Southern Confederacy none of the biographies of these men mention him. For the following ten years Bledsoe practiced his profession at Springfield and Washington, D. C. His first book, _An Examination of Edwards's Inquiry into the Freedom of the Will_ (Philadelphia, 1845), showed that his interest in theological subjects had not waned. In 1848 Bledsoe was elected professor of mathematics in the University of Mississippi, which position he held for the ensuing six years. His next volume, _A Theodicy, or Vindication of the Divine Glory_ (New York, 1853), gave him a place among theologians. In 1854 Dr. Bledsoe was elected to the chair of mathematics in the University of Virginia, and this he occupied until 1861. While at the University he published _An Essay on Liberty and Slavery_ (Philadelphia, 1856), which anticipated his subsequent action of entering the Confederate army, which he did in 1861, and he was commissioned as a colonel. Dr. Bledsoe was speedily made assistant secretary of war, but this work proved most uncongenial, and he gladly accepted the joint invitation of Davis and Lee to run the blockade, in 1863, and go to England to gather materials for a constitutional argument on the right of secession. He spent three years in London and upon his return to the United States, in February, 1866, he brought his vast researches together in his best known work, _Is Davis a Traitor? or was Secession a Constitutional Right Previous to the War of 1861?_ (Baltimore, 1866). Dr. Bledsoe now took up his residence at Baltimore, and some months later he became editor of a quarterly periodical, _The Southern Review_, which he conducted for the final years of his life. In 1868 he added the principalship of a Baltimore school to his burdens; and in the same year his last volume appeared, _The Philosophy of Mathematics_ (Philadelphia, 1868). In 1871 Dr. Bledsoe was ordained a minister in the Methodist church, and his _Review_ became the recognized organ of his church. He died at Alexandria, Virginia, December 8, 1877. Dr. Bledsoe was always a student and scholar, but he was essentially a controversialist, often bitter in his statements, but time has mellowed much of this, and he now stands forth as a very remarkable man. Consider him from a dozen angles, and one will not find his like in the whole range of American history.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1887, v. i); _Library of Southern Literature_, sketch by his daughter, Mrs. Sophie Herrick (Atlanta, 1909, v. i).

SEVEN CRISES CAUSED THE CIVIL WAR

[From _The Southern Review_ (Baltimore, April, 1867)]

This history consists of seven great crises. The first of these convulsed the Union, and threatened its dissolution before the new Constitution was formed, or conceived. For how little soever its history may be known, the North and the South, like Jacob and Esau, struggled together, and that, too, with almost fatal desperation, in the womb of the old Union. Slavery had nothing at all to do with that struggle between the North and the South, the _dramatis personæ_ in the tragedy of 1861. It was solely and simply a contest for power.

The second crisis was the formation and adoption of the new Constitution. Much has been said about that event, as the most wonderful revolution in the history of the world; because the government of a great people was then radically changed by purely peaceable means, and without shedding a drop of blood. But if that was a bloodless revolution in itself, no one, who has maturely considered it in all its bearings, can deny that it was, in the end, the occasion of the most sanguinary strife in the annals of a fallen world.

The revolution of 1801, by which the radical notions and doctrines of the infidel philosophers of the eighteenth century gained the ascendency in this country, never more to abate in their onward march, constituted the third great crisis in the political history of the United States. In passing through this crisis, the Republic of 1787 became in practice the Democracy of the following generation; and, finally, the rabid radicalism of 1861. It was then that the democratic, or predominant, element in the Republic, began to swallow up the others, and so became the most odious of all the forms of absolute power or despotism. It was then that the reign of "King Demos," the unchecked and the unlimited power of mere numbers, was inaugurated, and his throne established on the ruins of American freedom. But, while history will show this, it will also administer the consoling reflection, that American freedom was doomed, from the first, by the operation of other causes, and that the revolution of 1801 only precipitated its fall. If so, then the sooner its fall the better for the world; as in that case its destruction would involve a smaller portion of the human family in its ruins.

The desperate struggle of 1820-21, between the North and the South, relative to the admission of Missouri into the Union; the equally fierce contest respecting the Tariff in 1832-33; the Mexican War, and the acquisition of vast territory, by the dismemberment of a foreign empire, which led to the most violent and angry of all the quarrels between the two sections; constitute the fourth, fifth and sixth crises in the stormy history of the United Sections. The seventh and last great crisis, grew out of the repeal of the Missouri Compromise of 1820, the rise of the Republican party, as it is called; and consisted in the secession of the Southern States, and the war of coercion. Each of these seven crises had, of course, its prelude and its sequel, without which it cannot be comprehended, or seen how it followed the preceding, and how it led to the succeeding crises in the chain of events. Now some of these crises are most imperfectly understood by the public, and, in some respects, most perfectly misunderstood, such as the first two for example; others, and especially the fourth, or the great Compromise of 1820, are overlaid with a mass of lying traditions such as the world has seldom seen; traditions invented by politicians, and industriously propagated by the press and the pulpit. If these traditions were cleared away, and the facts which lie beneath them in the silent records of the country brought to view, the revelation would be sufficient to teach both sections of the Union the profoundest lessons of humiliation and sorrow. If patiently and properly studied, the history of the United States is, perhaps, fraught with as many valuable lessons for the warning and instruction of mankind, as that of any other age or nation since the fall of Rome, since the Flood, or since the fall of man.

RICHARD H. MENEFEE

Richard Hickman Menefee, who with Henry Clay and Thomas F. Marshall form the great triumvirate of early Kentucky orators, was born at Owingsville, Kentucky, December 4, 1809. He was educated at Transylvania University, and graduated from the law school of that institution in 1832. He practiced his profession at Mt. Sterling, Kentucky, for several years, when, in 1836, he was elected to the Kentucky legislature. In the legislature he won a wide reputation as an orator, and rapidly became known as the most gifted man of his age in Kentucky. In the summer of 1837 Menefee made the race for Congress and, after an exciting campaign, it was found that he had defeated his opponent, Judge Richard French. In the lower House of Congress Menefee and Sargeant S. Prentiss of Mississippi were the two young men that compelled the country's attention and admiration as orators. In 1838 William J. Graves, a Kentucky member of the House, killed Jonathan Cilley, representative from a Maine district, and the friend of Nathaniel Hawthorne, in a duel near Washington City. Menefee was one of Graves's seconds. This affair of honor was so bitterly condemned on all sides that Congress was compelled to enact the anti-duelling law. In July, 1838, the people of Boston tendered Daniel Webster a great home-coming banquet, in Faneuil Hall, and Menefee responded very eloquently to a toast to Kentucky. One more session of Congress and he returned to Kentucky, entering upon the practice of law at Lexington, where cases pressed fast upon him. He met Henry Clay in the great Rogers will case of 1840, and Clay got the jury's verdict. Cassius M. Clay placed Menefee in nomination for the United States Senate in the Kentucky legislature of 1841, but his ill-health made his election a hazardous action. A short time before his death he drew up the mature reflections of his life, in the form of a diary, and this, only recently published, has added to his fame. Menefee died at Lexington, Kentucky, February 20, 1841. Thomas P. Marshall pronounced an eulogy upon him which has taken its rightful place among the masterpieces of American oratory; and in 1869 a Kentucky county was carved out of several other counties and named in his honor. While he was not a constructive statesman, Menefee's fame as an orator seems to grow greater with the passing of the years.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Speeches and Writings of Thomas F. Marshall_, by W. L. Barre (Cincinnati, 1858); _Richard Hickman Menefee_, by John Wilson Townsend (New York, 1907).

KENTUCKY: A TOAST

[From _Richard Hickman Menefee_, by John Wilson Townsend (New York, 1907)]

MR. CHAIRMAN:

I cannot remain silent under the sentiment which has just been announced and so enthusiastically received. That sentiment relates not to myself but to Kentucky--dearer to me than self. Of Kentucky I have nothing to say. There she is. In her history, from the period when first penetrated by the white man as the _dark and bloody ground_, down to the present, she speaks. The character to which that history entitles her is before the world. She is proud of it. She is proud of the past; she is proud of the present. And her pride is patriotic and just. As one of her sons, I ask to express in her name, the acknowledgments due to the complimentary notice you have taken of her, a notice not the less complimentary from its association with the name of Massachusetts.

There is much in the character and history of Massachusetts which should bind her in the strongest bonds to Kentucky. Your sentiment places them together: just where they ought to be. Kentucky is willing to occupy the place you have assigned her. Without respect now to subordinate differences in past events, both States stand knit together by the highest and strongest motives by which States can be impelled. I mean the motive and purpose common to each of maintaining and upholding, in every extremity and to the very last, the Union of these States and the Constitution. Massachusetts has proclaimed over and over again her resolution not to survive them. Nor will Kentucky survive them. She has embarked her whole destiny--all she has and all she hopes for--in the Union and the Constitution. Let come what may of public calamity, of faction, of sectional seduction or intimidation, or evil in any form the most dreadful to man, Kentucky, like Massachusetts, regards the overthrow of the Union as more frightful than all. Kentucky acknowledges no justification for a disruption of the Union that is not a justification for revolution itself. In that Union, and under that Constitution, Kentucky means to stand or fall. Kentucky stands by the Union in her living efforts; she means to hold fast to it in her expiring groans. With Massachusetts she means to perish, if perish she must, with hands clenched, in death, upon the Union.

* * * * *

If the occasion allowed it, I should like to say something of old Massachusetts. I should like to rekindle my own patriotism at her altars. Here--on this very spot--in this very hall--the sacred flame of revolutionary liberty first ascended. Here it has ever ascended. It has never been smothered--never dimmed. Perpetual--clear--holy! Behold its inspirations here in your midst! Where are the doctrines of the Union and the Constitution so incessantly inculcated as here? Where are those doctrines so enthusiastically adopted as here? The principles of the Union and the Constitution--for us another name for the principles of liberty which cannot survive their overthrow--will, in after ages, trace with delight their lineage through you. The blood of freedom is here pure. To be allied to it is to be ennobled. _Massachusetts!_ Which of her multitude of virtues shall I commend? How can I discriminate? I will not attempt it. I take her as she is and all together--I give--_Old Massachusetts!_ God bless her!

GEORGE W. CUTTER

George Washington Cutter, one of Kentucky's finest poets, was born in Massachusetts about 1809, but he early came to Covington, Kentucky, and entered upon the practice of his profession, the law. He commanded a company of Kentuckians in the Mexican War with great honor to himself and to them. He had been a constant contributor of verse to the periodicals of his time, but he did not publish his first book until after the war with Mexico. _Buena Vista and Other Poems_ (Cincinnati, 1848) was his first collection, and it contained a preface signed from Covington, Kentucky, December, 1847. From this it will be seen that Cutter returned to Kentucky after the war, and that he was living in this State at the time of his book's appearance. Tradition has said that he wrote the title-poem, _Buena Vista_, a spirited war ballad, on the field of action immediately after the battle. His little volume contained thirty-seven poems, including _The Song of Steam_, which has been singled out by critics as his masterpiece, an ode to Henry Clay, his political idol, and his fine descriptive poem, _The Creation of Woman_. This, to the present writer, is the most exquisite thing Cutter did in verse. It is highly and consistently poetical, and it should be better appreciated than it has been. Cutter was married to Mrs. Frances Ann Drake, a famous Kentucky actress, but they were not happy and a separation by mutual agreement subsequently followed. Mrs. Cutter was the widow of Alexander Drake, of the well-known family of that name, and after parting with the poet she resumed her first husband's name, returned to the stage, and managed theatres in Kentucky and Ohio until her death in Oldham county, Kentucky, September 1, 1875. Cutter later removed to Indiana and was a member of the State legislature, after which service he removed to Washington City to accept a government position. In Washington Cutter continued his poetical output, life in the capital turning his attention to patriotic subjects. _Poems, National and Patriotic_ (Philadelphia, 1857) proved the author to be, for the critics of his time, "the most intensely patriotic poet we have." This volume contained sixty-nine of what he regarded as his best poems. _The Song of Steam and Other Poems_ also appeared in this same year of 1857, and it contained one of the poet's finest efforts, _The Song of the Lightning_. Cutter died at Washington, D. C., December 24, 1865.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Poets and Poetry of the West_, by W. T. Coggeshall (Columbus, 1860); Adams's _Dictionary of American Authors_ (Boston, 1905).

THE SONG OF STEAM

[From _Buena Vista and Other Poems_ (Cincinnati, 1848)]

Harness me down with your iron bands, Be sure of your curb and rein; For I scorn the power of your puny hands As the tempest scorns a chain. How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight, For many a countless hour, At the childish boast of human might, And the pride of human power.

When I saw an army upon the land, A navy upon the seas, Creeping along, a snail-like band, Or waiting the wayward breeze; When I marked the peasant faintly reel With the toil which he daily bore, As he feebly turned the tardy wheel, Or tugged at the weary oar;--

When I measured the panting courser's speed, The flight of the courier dove-- As they bore the law a king decreed, Or the lines of impatient love-- I could not but think how the world would feel, As these were outstripp'd afar, When I should be bound to the rushing keel, Or chained to the flying car.

Ha! ha! ha! they found me at last, They invited me forth at length, And I rushed to my throne with a thunder-blast, And I laughed in my iron strength. Oh! then ye saw a wondrous change On the earth and the ocean wide, Where now my fiery armies range, Nor wait for wind or tide.

Hurrah! hurrah! the waters o'er, The mountain's steep decline, Time--space--have yielded to my power-- The world! the world is mine! The rivers, the sun hath earliest blest, Or those where his beams decline; The giant streams of the queenly west, Or the orient floods divine:

The ocean pales where'er I sweep, To hear my strength rejoice, And the monsters of the briny deep Cower, trembling, at my voice. I carry the wealth and the lord of earth, The thoughts of his god-like mind, The wind lags after my flying forth, The lightning is left behind.

In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine, My tireless arm doth play, Where the rocks never saw the sun decline, Or the dawn of the glorious day. I bring earth's glittering jewels up From the hidden cave below, And I make the fountain's granite cup With a crystal gush o'erflow.

I blow the bellows, I forge the steel, In all the shops of trade; I hammer the ore and turn the wheel, Where my arms of strength are made; I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint; I carry, I spin, I weave; And all my doings I put into print, On every Saturday eve.

I've no muscle to weary, no breast to decay, No bones to be "laid on the shelf," And soon I intend you may "go and play," While I manage this world myself. But harness me down with your iron bands, Be sure of your curb and rein; For I scorn the strength of your puny hands, As the tempest scorns a chain.

MARY P. SHINDLER

Mrs. Mary Palmer Shindler, poet and novelist, was born at Beaufort, South Carolina, February 15, 1810. She was the daughter of Dr. Benjamin M. Palmer, the celebrated Presbyterian preacher of New Orleans. She was educated in Charleston by the daughter of Dr. David Ramsey, the early historian of South Carolina. Her education was completed in the schools of Connecticut and New Jersey. In 1835 Miss Palmer was married to Charles E. Dana of New York; and in 1848 to Rev. Robert D. Shindler, an Episcopal clergyman. Two years after this marriage they removed to Maryland, and then to Shelbyville, Kentucky, where Dr. Shindler held a professorship in Shelby College. Shelbyville was Mrs. Shindler's home henceforth, save for short sojourns in other states, and in that town she died about 1880. She was the author of _The Southern Harp_ (1840); _The Northern Harp_ (1841); _The Parted Family and Other Poems_ (1842); _The Temperance Lyre_ (1842); _Charles Morton, or the Young Patriot_ (1843); _The Young Sailor_ (1844); _Forecastle Tour_ (1844); and, _Letters to Relatives and Friends on the Trinity_ (1845). Several of Mrs. Shindler's lyrics are well known.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1888, v. v); _The Writers of South Carolina_, by George A. Wauchope (Columbia, South Carolina, 1910).

THE FADED FLOWER

[From _The Parted Family and Other Poems_ (1842)]

I have seen a fragrant flower All impearled with morning dew; I have plucked it from the bower, Where in loveliness it grew. Oh, 'twas sweet, when gayly vying With the garden's richest bloom; But when faded, withered, dying, Sweeter far its choice perfume.

So the heart, when crushed by sorrow, Sends its richest streams abroad, While it learns sweet balm to borrow From the uplifted hand of God. Not in its sunny days of gladness Will the heart be fixed on Heaven; When 'tis wounded, clothed in sadness, Oft its richest love is given.

MARTIN J. SPALDING

Martin John Spalding, seventh archbishop of Baltimore, was born near Lebanon, Kentucky, May 23, 1810. His forebears were Maryland Catholics who had emigrated to Kentucky. He was graduated from St. Mary's College when but sixteen years of age. Spalding then spent four years at St. Joseph's College, Bardstown, Kentucky, and the same number of years in Rome, at the conclusion of which he is said to have made a seven hours' defense in Latin of 256 theological propositions. This exhibition won him a doctor's diploma, and his ordination as a priest. From 1834 to 1843 Dr. Spalding was president of St. Joseph's College in Bardstown. And from 1843 to 1848 he was in charge of the cathedral at Louisville. In 1848 he was consecrated Bishop of Lengone; and two years later Bishop of Louisville. Bishop Spalding served in this capacity until 1864 when, in the presence of four thousand people, he was installed as the seventh archbishop of Baltimore. This high office he held until his death, which occurred at Baltimore, February 7, 1872. Bishop Spalding was the greatest Roman Catholic reviewer and historian Kentucky has produced. He was one of the editors of the _Catholic Magazine_, and the author of the excellent _Sketches of the Early Catholic Missions in Kentucky_ (Louisville, 1846); _The Life, Times, and Character of the Rt. Rev. B. J. Flaget_ (Louisville, 1852). He also published _Lectures on the General Evidences of Christianity_ (1844); _Review of D'Aubigne's History of the Reformation_ (Baltimore, 1847); _History of the Protestant Reformation_ (1860); and a posthumous volume, _Miscellanea_ (1885). There is also a uniform five volume edition of his works, which is fortunate, as his books, especially the _Sketches_, and _Flaget_, are exceedingly scarce.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Life of Archbishop Spalding_, by his nephew, John L. Spalding (New York, 1872); Adams's _Dictionary of American Authors_ (Boston, 1905).

A BISHOP'S ARRIVAL

[From _Sketches of the Life, Times, and Character of the Rt. Rev. Benedict Joseph Flaget_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1852)]

Bishop Dubourg had sailed from Bordeaux on the 1st of July, 1817; and he had landed at Annapolis on the 4th of September. His _suite_ consisted of five priests--of whom the present Archbishop of New Orleans was one--and twenty-six young men, some of whom were candidates for the ministry, and others were destined to become lay brothers to assist the missionaries in temporal affairs. Several of these youths were from Belgium; and among them was the V. Rev. D. A. Deparcq, of our Diocese. A portion of the company started directly for Baltimore with Bishop Dubourg; the rest, with the Rev. M. Blanc at their head, remained at Annapolis, where they were entertained with princely hospitality in the mansion of Charles Carroll of Carrollton, until the end of October.

Preparations were in the meantime made for crossing the mountains. The stage then ran westward only once a week; and no less than three weeks were consumed in transporting the missionary band to Pittsburgh. The Bishop and M. Blanc were in the last division; but after remaining in the stage for two days, during which time it had repeatedly upset, endangering their lives, they finally abandoned it altogether, and performed the remainder of the journey for five days on foot. About the middle of November, the missionary company embarked on a flatboat; and they reached Louisville on the last day of the month. Here they found the Rev. MM. Chabrat and Shaeffer, who had been sent on by Bishop Flaget to welcome them to Kentucky. Accompanied by them and by the Rev. M. Blanc, Bishop Dubourg started immediately for St. Thomas's, where he arrived in the evening of December 2d.

Bishop Flaget was rejoiced to meet his old friend. "I recognized him instantly," says he; "see! on meeting me, he has the humility to dismount, in order to present me the most affectionate salute that ever was given." Many and long were the "happy conversations" which he held with his former associate, and now distinguished guest. Bishop Dubourg officiated pontifically, and preached an admirable sermon in the church of St. Thomas,--the only cathedral which the Bishop as yet possessed.

On the 12th of December, the two prelates, accompanied by Father Badin, set out for St. Louis, by the way of Louisville. Here Bishop Dubourg preached in the chapel erected by M. Badin. On the 18th they embarked on the steamboat Piqua, and on the 20th reached the mouth of the Ohio, where they were detained five days by the ice. Their time was passed chiefly in religious exercises and pious conversations.

The following description of the Piqua and its passengers, from the pen of Bishop Flaget, may not be uninteresting to us at the present day, when steamboat building and navigation have so greatly changed for the better:

"Nothing could be more original than the medley of persons on board this boat. We have a band of seven or eight comedians, a family of seven or eight Jews, and a company of clergymen composed of a tonsured cleric, a priest, and two Bishops; besides others, both white and black. Thus more than thirty persons are lodged in an apartment (cabin), twenty feet by twelve, which is again divided into two parts. This boat comprises the old and the new testament. It might serve successively for a synagogue, a cathedral, a theatre, an hospital, a parlor, a dining room, and a sleeping apartment. It is, in fact, a veritable _Noah's ark_, in which there are both clean and unclean animals;--and what is more astonishing,--peace and harmony reign here."

They were still at the mouth of the Ohio on the morning of Christmas day. Not being able to say three Masses, they determined to make three meditations. At the conclusion of the second, the redoubtable Piqua resumed her course towards St. Louis. The Bishops and clergy made a kind of retreat on their Noah's ark. On the evening of Christmas day, the boat stopped near the farm of the widow Fenwick, a good Catholic, whom they were happy to visit. M. Badin continued his journey by land from this point, in order to be able to visit on the way many of his old friends, Catholic emigrants from Kentucky.

The Bishops returned to the boat, where they found the comedians performing a play,--that is, engaged in a general fight among themselves,--until they were separated by the captain. At midnight, on the 30th, they arrived at St. Genevieve; and early next morning they sent a messenger to announce their coming to M. De Andreis.

Two hours afterwards, "about thirty of the principal inhabitants came, with several young men on horseback and a carriage, to escort the Bishops into the town. We went to the presbytery to put on our pontifical robes: twenty-four choir-children with the cross at their head, and four citizens bearing a canopy, conducted us to the church, where after the installation of Bishop Dubourg, on a throne specially prepared for the purpose, we sang the _Te Deum_. The whole day was spent in receiving visits."

On the first day of the year 1818, Bishop Dubourg celebrated Pontifical Mass at St. Genevieve. The journey was then continued to Prairie du Rocher and Cahokias to St. Louis, where the prelates arrived on the 5th. They were received with great pomp, in the best French style; and Bishop Dubourg was no sooner known than he was universally esteemed and beloved. He professed himself much pleased with the dispositions and sentiments of his new flock,--so different from what he had been led to expect.

Bishop Flaget having now completed his mission, preached his farewell sermon to the Catholics of St. Louis on the feast of the Epiphany; and on the next day he turned his face homeward. He and M. Badin performed the journey on horseback, by the way of Kaskaskia and Vincennes. They were detained three days at the former place, not being able to cross the river in consequence of the running ice; and in traversing Illinois they passed three successive nights in the open air of the prairies. They reached Vincennes on the 27th of January; and after remaining here two weeks, attending to missionary duties, they continued their journey.

On the 21st of February, the Bishop found himself once more at his retired and pleasant home in the seminary of St. Thomas.

JOHN W. AUDUBON

John Woodhouse Audubon, son of the great Audubon, was born at Henderson, Kentucky, November 30, 1812. At the time of his birth his father was ekeing out an existence in Henderson, with saw-mills and lumber ventures of various kinds, all of which finally failed. The nomadic life of the ornithologist was early forced upon his son. Their wanderings were chiefly confined to the country south of the Ohio river, and Louisiana. John Woodhouse Audubon was instructed by his mother in the useful field of learning; but from his father he learned to delineate birds and mammals, though it was the family's desire that he should become a portrait painter. He and his brother, Victor, who was three years his elder, were sent to school together, but, in 1826, they were separated, Victor becoming a clerk at Louisville, Kentucky, and John remaining in Louisiana with his mother, who was then conducting a school, while the father went to Europe to solicit subscriptions for his forthcoming _Birds of America_. John W. Audubon was at this time engaged in drawing from Nature, and in playing the violin, to which he was devoted throughout life. He was a clerk for a short time on a Mississippi river steamboat, but any kind of routine was distasteful to him, his whole life being absorbed in the study of birds and mammals. He accompanied his father on one of his European trips, and in England and Scotland he copied many of the masterpieces of the great painters. In 1863 the collection of new species demanded that father and son should go as far South as the Gulf of Mexico; and while passing through Charleston, South Carolina, the son met Maria Bachman, whom he married the following year. In 1840 the Audubon house near New York City was built, and there John W. Audubon spent the remaining years of his life. In 1849 he joined a California company to go to the gold fields, but he went not for gold but for new birds and mammals. He returned in the following year, and in 1851, his famous father died. The brothers were then occupied with the publication of _The Quadrupeds_, and the octavo edition of _The Birds of America_. In the summer of 1860 Victor Audubon died; and on February 21, 1862, his brother followed him into the silent country. John Woodhouse Audubon's forty-nine years were spent in collaborating with his father and brother, but his independent fame is founded upon the manuscript record of his 1849 journey from New York to California. This most interesting manuscript was edited by his daughter, Miss Maria R. Audubon, of Salem, New York, and published as _Audubon's Western Journal: 1849-1850_ (Cleveland, Ohio, 1906). A more charming book of travels, of Nature in many forms, would be difficult to name.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. The several lives of the great Audubon contain much material for a study of his son. His daughter made an excellent sketch of him for her edition of his _Western Journal: 1849-1850_ (Cleveland, 1906).

LOS ANGELES[8]

[From Audubon's _Western Journal, 1849-1850_ (Cleveland, 1906)]

This "city of the angels" is anything else, unless the angels are fallen ones. An antiquated, dilapidated air pervades all, but Americans are pouring in, and in a few years will make a beautiful place of it. It is well watered by a pretty little river, led off in irrigating ditches like those at San Antonio de Bexar. The whole town is surrounded to the south with very luxuriant vines, and the grapes are quite delightful; we parted from them with great regret, as fruit is such a luxury with us. Many of the men took bushels, and only paid small sums for them.

TULARE VALLEY

[From the same]

One more day brought us to this great valley, and the view from the last hill looking to northwest was quite grand, stretching on one hand until lost in distance, and on the other the snowy mountains on the east of the Tulare valley. Here, for the first time, I saw the Lewis woodpecker, and Steller's jay in this country. I have seen many California vultures and a new hawk, with a white tail and red shoulders. During the dry season this great plain may be travelled on, but now numerous ponds and lakes exist, and the ground is in places, for miles, too boggy to ride over, so we were forced to skirt the hills. This compelled us sometimes to take three days when two should have been ample. Our journeys now are not more than twenty miles a day, and our nights are so penetrating and cold, that four blankets are not too many.

CHRISTMAS IN 'FRISCO IN 1849

[From the same]

Christmas Day! Happy Christmas! Merry Christmas! Not that here, to me at any rate, in this pandemonium of a city. Not a _lady_ to be seen, and the women, poor things, sad and silent, except when drunk or excited. The place full of gamblers, hundreds of them, and men of the lowest types, more blasphemous, and with less regard for God and his commands than all I have ever seen on the Mississippi, [in] New Orleans or Texas, which give us the same class to some extent, it is true; but instead of a few dozen, or a hundred, gaming at a time, here there are thousands, and one house alone pays one hundred and fifty thousand dollars per annum for the rent of the "Monte" tables.

Sunday makes no difference, certainly not Christmas, except for a little more drunkenness, and a little extra effort on the part of the hotel keepers to take in more money.

FOOTNOTE:

[8] Copyright, 1905, by the Arthur H. Clark Company.

ADRIEN E. ROUQUETTE

Adrien Emmanuel Rouquette, Louisiana's most distinguished poet, was born at New Orleans, February 13, 1813, the scion of an old and honorable Creole family, and the brother of Francois Dominique Rouquette (1810-1890), who was also a poet of much merit. From his boyhood he had a great fancy for the American Indian, and among them he spent many of his early years. His academic training was begun at Transylvania University of Lexington, Kentucky, but as the old matriculation books have disappeared, it now seems quite impossible to definitely fix his period of residence. From Lexington Rouquette journeyed to Paris, France, where he studied at the Royal College and at Nantes and Remnes. He was graduated from Remnes, March 26, 1833, and at once returned to New Orleans. He had, however, developed into such an unconventional fellow his family decided that a law course in Paris was what he needed, so back to the capital of the French he went. He soon abandoned the law and again returned to New Orleans, where he took up his abode among the Indians. In 1841 Rouquette published his first and best book of poems, written wholly in French, entitled _Les Savanes_ (Paris and New Orleans). Nearly all of the poems were upon Louisiana subjects, save the finest one, _Souvenir de Kentucky_, an exquisite memorial of his Kentucky days, written in 1838. As he was partly educated in Kentucky and in praise of Kentucky wrote his masterpiece, this State has a double claim upon him which, though secondary to that of Louisiana, is none the less legitimate. In 1842 the poet began his studies for the priesthood, and three years later he was ordained and attached to the Catholic cathedral at New Orleans. His subsequent works include _Discours prononce a la Cathedral de Saint Louis_ (New Orleans, 1846); _Wild Flowers_ (New Orleans, 1848); _La Thebaide en Amerique_ (New Orleans, 1852); _L'Antoniade_ (New Orleans, 1860), a long poem in which a solitary life is extolled; _Poemes patriotiques_ (New Orleans, 1860); _St. Catherine Tegehkwitha_ (New Orleans, 1873); and, _La Nouvelle Atala_ (New Orleans, 1879). In 1859 the Abbé Rouquette established a mission for the Choctaw Indians on the Bayou Lacombe, to which work he gave the larger part of his life. Rouquette also turned into French the poems of Estelle Anna Lewis (1824-1880), the Baltimore woman whom Poe admired; and he edited _Selections from the Poets of all Countries_. The three great Louisiana writers, Rouquette, the poet, Fortier, the critic, and Gayarré, the historian, published pamphlets condemnatory of Mr. George W. Cable's conceptions of Creole life and history as set forth in his many books. The Abbé sent his out anonymously, entitled _Critical Dialogue between Aboo and Caboo on a New Book, or a Grandissime Ascension_, edited by E. Junius (Great Publishing House of Sam Slick Allspice, 12 Veracity street, Mingo City, 1880). From the Creole standpoint _The Grandissimes_ most probably deserved to be satirized, but not in the cheap and easy manner of this little pamphlet. It was a very unhappy swan-song of senility for the Abbé Rouquette. He died at New Orleans, July 15, 1887, lamented by his city and state. Sainte-Beuve, though recognizing the influence of Chateaubriand in Rouquette's work, praised him highly, as did many of the other famous French critics of his day and generation.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Cyclopaedia of American Literature_, by E. A. and G. L. Duyckinck (New York, 1856); _Louisiana Studies_, by Alcée Fortier (New Orleans, 1894); _Literature of the Louisiana Territory_, by A. N. DeMenil (St. Louis, 1904).

SOUVENIR DE KENTUCKY

[From _Les Savanes, Poésies Americaines_ (Paris, 1841)]

Kentucky, the bloody land!

* * * * *

Le Seigneur dit à Osée: "Après cela, néanmoins, je l'attirerai doucement à moi, je l'amènerai dans la solitude, et je lui parlerai au coeur."--(_La Bible_ Osee).

Enfant, je dis un soir: Adieu, ma bonne mère! Et je quittai gaîment sa maison et sa terre, Enfant, dans mon exil, une lettre, un matin, (O Louise!) m'apprit que j'étais orphelin! Enfant, je vis les bois du Kentucky sauvage, Et l'homme se souvient des bois de son jeune âge! Ah! dans le Kentucky les arbres sont bien beaux: C'est la _terre de sang_, aux indiens tombeaux, Terre aux belles forêts, aux séculaires chênes, Aux bois suivis de bois, aux magnifiques scènes; Imposant cimetière, où dorment en repos Tant de _rouges-tribus_ et tant de _blanches-peaux_; Où l'ombre du vieux Boon, immobile génie, Semble écouter, la nuit, l'éternelle harmonie, Le murmure êternel des immenses déserts, Ces mille bruits confus, ces mille bruits divers, Cet orgue des forêts, cet orchestre sublime, O Dieu! que seul tu fis, que seul ton souffle anime! Quand au vaste clavier pèse un seul de tes doigts, Soudain, roulent dans l'air mille flots à la fois: Soudain, au fond des bois, sonores basiliques, Bourdonne un océan de sauvages musiques; Et l'homme, à tous ces sons de l'orgue universel, L'homme tombe à genoux, en regardant le ciel! Il tombe, il croit, il prie; et, chrétien sans étude, Il retrouve, étonné, Dieu dans la solitude!

A portion of this famous poem was translated by a writer in _The Southern Quarterly Review_ (July, 1854).

Here, with its Indian tombs, the Bloody Land Spreads out:--majestic forests, secular oaks, Woods stretching into woods; a witching realm, Yet haunted with dread shadows;--a vast grave, Where, laid together in the sleep of death, Rest myriads of the red men and the pale. Here, the stern forest genius, veteran Boon, Still harbors: still he hearkens, as of yore, To never ceasing harmonies, that blend, At night, the murmurs of a thousand sounds, That rise and swell capricious, change yet rise, Borne from far wastes immense, whose mingling strains-- The forest organ's tones, the sylvan choir-- Thy breath alone, O God! can'st animate, Making it fruitful in the matchless space! Thy mighty fingers pressing on its keys, How suddenly the billowy tones roll up From the great temples of the solemn depths, Resounding through the immensity of wood To the grand gushing harmonies, that speak For thee, alone, O Father. As we hear The unanimous concert of this mighty chaunt, We bow before thee; eyes uplift to Heaven, We pray thee, and believe. A Christian sense Informs us, though untaught in Christian books Awed into worship, as we learn to know That thou, O God, art in the solitude!

EMILY V. MASON

Miss Emily Virginia Mason, biographer and anthologist, was born at Lexington, Kentucky, October 15, 1815, the sister of Stevens Thompson Mason, first governor of Michigan. She was educated in Kentucky schools and in a female seminary at Troy, New York. From 1845 until 1861 Miss Mason lived in Fairfax county, Virginia, but when the Civil War began she left her home and volunteered in the Confederate States hospital service; and she was matron successively of hospitals in the Virginia towns of Greenbrier, White Sulphur Springs, Charlottesville, Lynchburg, and Richmond. Miss Mason won a wide reputation in this work, becoming one of the best loved of Southern women. Almost immediately after the war her first literary work was published, an anthology of _The Southern Poems of the War_ (Baltimore, 1867) which was one of the first collection issued of verse which owed its origin to the war. Her second book was what she always said was the first life of Lee, though John Esten Cooke's account of the great soldier appeared about the same time, entitled _A Popular Life of General Robert Edward Lee_ (Baltimore, 1871). This was followed by her edition of _The Journal of a Young Lady of Virginia in 1798_ (1871), which enjoyed wide popularity among Virginians of her generation. Miss Mason went to Paris, France, about 1870, and for the following fifteen years she was associate principal of an American school for young women. Upon her return to this country she established herself in an attractive old Southern home at Georgetown, D. C., in which she spent the remainder of her life. Miss Mason's last literary work was _Memories of a Hospital Matron_, which appeared in _The Atlantic Monthly_ for September and October of 1902. She was an able writer and a most remarkable woman in many respects. Miss Mason died at Georgetown, D. C., February 16, 1909, at the great age of ninety-four years.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Southern Writers_, by W. P. Trent (New York, 1905); _The Washington Post_ (February 17, 1909).

THE DEATH OF LEE

[From _A Popular Life of General Robert E. Lee_ (Baltimore, 1871)]

On the evening of this day, 28th of September [1870] after a morning of great fatigue, he attended the vestry meeting referred to, returned home, and seated at the tea-table, opened his lips to give thanks to God.

The family looked up to see the parted lips, but heard no sound. With that last thanksgiving his great heart broke.

For many days his weeping friends hung over him, hoping for a return of health and reason, but in vain. He murmured of battles and sieges; of guarded tents and fields just won. Among his last words were: "Strike my tent! Send for Hill!" Remarkably coincident with those of his great lieutenant, Jackson, whose words were: "Let A. P. Hill prepare for action! March the infantry rapidly to the front! Let us cross the river and rest under the shade of the trees."

At 9 o'clock on the morning of the 12th of October, the great soldier breathed his last.

The following day his body was borne to the college-chapel, escorted by a guard of honor composed of Confederate soldiers. Next the hearse was led General Lee's favorite horse "Traveller," who had borne him in so many battles. The Trustees and Faculty of the college, the cadets of the Military Institute, and the citizens, followed in procession.

Above the chapel floated the flag of Virginia, draped in mourning.

Through this and the succeeding day, the body, covered with flowers, lay in state, visited by thousands who came to look for the last time upon his noble features.

On the 15th, the last said rites were rendered, amid the tolling of the bells, the sound of martial music, and the thundering of artillery.

The students, officers and soldiers of the Confederate army, and about a thousand persons, assembled at the chapel. A military escort, with the officers of General Lee's staff, were in the front. The hearse followed, with the faithful "Traveller" close behind it. Next came a committee of the Virginia Legislature, with citizens from all parts of the State. Passing the Military Institute, the cadets made the military salute as the body appeared, then joined the procession, and escorted it back to the chapel.

It had been the request of General Lee that no funeral oration should be pronounced over his remains. His old and long-tried friend, the Rev. Wm. N. Pendleton, simply read the burial services of the Episcopal Church, after which was lowered into a tomb beneath the chapel all that was mortal of Robert E. Lee.

EDMUND FLAGG

Edmund Flagg, traveler, journalist, and poet, was born at Wiscasset, Maine, November 24, 1815. Immediately upon his graduation from Bowdoin College, in 1835, he removed to Louisville, Kentucky, and became a teacher. His letters written to the _Louisville Journal_ while traveling in the states of the Middle West, were afterwards collected, revised, and published anonymously, entitled _The Far West, or a Tour beyond the Mountains_ (New York, 1838, two vols.). This work has been edited by Dr. Reuben Gold Thwaites and published as volumes 26 and 27 of _Early Western Travels_ (Cleveland, 1906). In 1839 Flagg became associate editor of the Louisville _Literary News-Letter_, of which George D. Prentice was editor. All of his poems of merit were published in the _Journal_, and _News-Letter_. Flagg contributed both prose and verse to the Louisville papers for nearly thirty-five years. Ill-health compelled him to abandon journalism for law, and at Vicksburg, Mississippi, he formed a partnership with the celebrated Sargent Smith Prentiss. Two years later he became editor of the _Gazette_ at Marietta, Ohio. Flagg's first two novels were issued about this time, entitled _Carrero_ (New York, 1842), and _Francois of Valois_ (New York, 1842). He was next editor of a publication at St. Louis; and in 1849 he was secretary of the American legation at Berlin. In 1850-1851 he was United States consul at Venice. He afterwards returned to St. Louis and to journalism. Two of his plays, _Blanche of Artois_, and _The Howard Queen_, were well received at Louisville, Cincinnati, and several other cities. In 1853 Flagg's _Venice, the City of the Sea_, appeared, and it won him a wide reputation. _North Italy since 1849_, issued some years later, resumed the story of Venice where his first work had left off, and brought it down to date. Flagg was afterwards connected with the State department in Washington, and under an order from Congress he prepared his famous _Report on the Commercial Relations of the United States with all Foreign Nations_ (Washington, 1856-1857, four vols.). His final work was a novel, _De Molai, the Last of the Military Templars_ (1888). Edmund Flagg died at Salem, Virginia, in 1890. He is most certainly a Kentucky poet, journalist, and traveler, but his fame as a dramatist, historian, and novelist belongs wholly to other states.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Literature of the Louisiana Territory_, by A. N. DeMenil (St. Louis, 1904); Adams's _Dictionary of American Authors_ (Boston, 1905).

THE ANCIENT MOUNDS OF THE WEST

[From _The Louisville Literary News-Letter_]

Ages since--long ere the first son of the Old World had pressed the fresh soil of the New--long before the bright region beyond the blue waves had become the object of the philosopher's reverie by day, and the enthusiast's vision by night--in the deep stillness and solitude of an unpeopled land, these vast mausoleums rose as they now rise, in lonely grandeur from the plain and looked down even as now they look, upon the giant floods rolling their dark waters at their base, hurrying past them to the deep. So has it been with the massive tombs of Egypt, amid the sands and barrenness of the desert. For ages untold have the gloomy pyramids been reflected by the inundations of the Nile; an hundred generations, they tell us, have arisen from the cradle, and reposed beneath their shadows, and like autumn leaves have dropped into the grave; but, from the midnight of bygone centuries, comes forth no darting spirit to claim these kingly sepulchres as his own! And shall the dusky piles, on the plains of distant Egypt affect so deeply our reverence for the departed, and these mighty monuments, reposing in dark sublimity upon our own magnificent prairies, vailed in mystery more inscrutable than they, call forth no solitary throb? Is there no hallowing interest associated with these aged relics--these tombs, and temples, and towers' of another race, to elicit emotion? Are they indeed to us no more than the dull clods we tread upon? Why then does the wanderer from the far land gaze upon them with wonder and veneration? Why linger fondly around them, and meditate upon the power which reared them, and is departed? Why does the poet, the man of genius and fancy, or the philosopher of mind and nature, seat himself at their base, and with strange and undefined emotions, pause and ponder, amid the loneliness that slumbers around? And surely, if the far traveler, as he wanders through this Western Valley, may linger around these aged piles, and meditate upon a power departed--a race obliterated--an influence swept from the earth forever--and dwell with melancholy emotions upon the destiny of man, is it not meet, that those into whose keeping they seem by Providence consigned, should regard them with interest and emotion?--that they should gather up and preserve every incident relevant to their origin, design, or history, which may be attained, and avail themselves of every measure, which may give to them perpetuity, and hand them down, undisturbed in form or character, to other generations?

That these venerable piles are of the workmanship of man's hand, no one, who with unprejudiced opinion has examined them, can doubt. But with such an admission, what is the cloud of reflections, which throng and startle the mind? What a series of unanswerable inquiries succeed! When were these enormous earth heaps reared up from the plain? By what race of beings was the vast undertaking accomplished? What was their purpose?--what changes in their form and magnitude have taken place?--what vicissitudes and revolutions have, in the lapse of centuries, rolled like successive waves over the plains at their base? As we reflect, we anxiously look around us for some tradition--some time-stained chronicle--some age-worn record--even the faintest and most unsatisfactory legend, upon which to repose our credulity, and relieve the inquiring solicitude of the mind. But our research is hopeless. The present race of Aborigines can tell nothing of these tumuli. To them as to us they are vailed in mystery. Ages since--long ere the white-face came--while this fair land was yet the home of his fathers--the simple Indian stood before the venerable earth-heap, and gazed, and wondered, and turned away.

CATHERINE A. WARFIELD

Mrs. Catherine Ann Warfield, poet and novelist, was born at Natchez, Mississippi, June 6, 1816, the daughter of Nathaniel H. Ware. She was educated at Philadelphia with her sister, Eleanor P. Ware Lee (1820-1849), with whom she afterwards collaborated in her first two volumes. Catherine Ware was married at Cincinnati, in 1833, to Robert Elisha Warfield, of Lexington, Kentucky, and Kentucky was her home henceforth. _The Wife of Leon, and Other Poems, by Two Sisters of the West_ (New York, 1844), and _The Indian Chamber, and Other Poems_ (New York, 1846) were the works of the sisters. In 1857 Mrs. Warfield removed from Lexington to Pewee Valley, Kentucky, near Louisville, and some three years later her masterpiece appeared, entitled _The Household of Bouverie_ (New York, 1860, two vols.). This work brought her into wide notice. During the Civil War Mrs. Warfield wrote some of the most spirited lyrics which that mighty conflict called forth. After the war she turned again to prose fiction, producing the following books: _The Romance of the Green Seal_ (1867); _Miriam Monfort_ (1873); _A Double Wedding_ (1875); _Hester Howard's Temptation_ (1875); _Lady Ernestine_ (1876); _Miriam's Memoirs_ (1876); _Sea and Shore_ (1876); _Ferne Fleming_ (1877); and her last novel, _The Cardinal's Daughter_ (1877). Mrs. Warfield died at Pewee Valley, Kentucky, May 21, 1877, at the time of her greatest popularity. Of her books _The Household of Bouverie_ is the only one that is generally known to-day, and is, perhaps, the only one that is at all readable and interesting. Mrs. Warfield was an early edition of "The Duchess" and Mary Jane Holmes, though she did write fine war lyrics and one good story, which is just a bit better than either of the other two women did.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Women of the South Distinguished in Literature_, by Mary Forrest (New York, 1861); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. xii).

CAMILLA BOUVERIE'S DIARY

[From _The Household of Bouverie_ (New York, 1860, v. ii)]

Another queer scene with little Paul, whose quaint ways divert and mystify me all the time. During Mr. Bouverie's absence of a week, I have nothing else to amuse me nor to write about. He has called me familiarly "Camilla" until now; but fearing that Mr. Bouverie might not like the appellation, or rather that it might make me appear too childish in his sight, I said to him recently:

"Paul, you are a little fellow, and I am your guardian's wife. Don't you think it would sound better if you were to add a handle to my name, as common folks say? Call me 'Cousin Camilla' or 'Aunt Camilla,' whichever you prefer; which shall it be, Quintil?"

"Neither," he replied, manfully, "for you are neither of those things to me, and I do not like to tell stories; but I will call you 'madam,' if you choose, as you are a 'madam;'" and something like a sneer wreathed his childish lips.

"A foolish little madam, you think, Paul!" I rejoined, half in pique, half in playfulness.

"Why that is the very name for you," he said, brightening with the thought. "'Little Madam!' I will call you so; but I will not put in the foolish," he added, gravely, "for, perhaps, you will change after a while and grow wiser."

He spoke very seriously, sorrowfully almost, and I was quite provoked for a moment to be set down in this fashion, by such a mere babe and suckling. I was glad of the opportunity presented to me of snubbing him by noticing a streak of molasses on his cheek.

"Go wash your face, Paul," I said, "it is dirty!"

He walked gravely to the glass and surveyed the stain. "Looking glasses are useful things, after all," he said; "they tell the truth--see 'Little Madam,' how you are mistaken! my face is not dirty, only soiled; food is not dirt--if it were, we should all starve."

He turned and smiled at me in his peculiar way, half mocking, half affectionate.

"Yet, as you bid me," he added, "I will wash it off; but isn't it a pity to waste what would keep a bee alive a whole day!"

Is this brat a humorist?

He has brought out of his funny little trunk the oddest present for me! It is a Medusa's head admirably carved in alabaster, and was broken from the side of a vase by accident, and given to him by a lady, at whose house he made a visit with Mr. Bouverie.

He considers it a priceless treasure. There is a vague horror to me in the face that is almost insupportable. The snaky hair, the sightless, glaring eyes, are so mysteriously dreadful. He says it will answer for a paper weight. No, Paul, I will lay it away out of sight forever.

A PLEDGE TO LEE

(Written for a Kentucky Company)

[From _Southern Poems of the War_, edited by Emily V. Mason (Baltimore, 1867)]

We pledge thee, Lee! In water or wine, In blood or in brine, What matter the sign? Whether brilliantly glowing, Or darkly overflowing, So the cup is divine That we fill to thee! Vanquished--victorious, Gloomy or glorious, Fainting and bleeding, Advancing, receding, Lingering or leading, Captive or free; With swords raised on high, With hearts nerved to die, Or to grasp victory; Hand to hand--knee to knee, With a wild three times three We pledge thee, Lee!

We pledge thee, chief: In the name of our nation, Her wide devastation, Her sore desolation, Her grandeur and grief! Where'er thou warrest When our need is the sorest, Or in Fortress or forest, Bidest thy time; Thou--Heaven elected, Thou--Angel-protected, Thou--Brother selected, What e'er thy fate be, Our trust is in thee, And our faith is sublime. With swords raised on high, With hearts nerved to die, Or to grasp victory; Hand to hand--knee to knee, With a wild three times three, We pledge thee, Lee!

J. ROSS BROWNE

John Ross Browne, humorist and traveler, was born in Ireland, in 1817, but when an infant his father came to America and settled at Louisville, Kentucky. Browne was educated in the Louisville schools, and studied medicine for a time under several well-known physicians. When eighteen years old he went to New Orleans; and this journey kindled his passion for travel that ended only with his death. Browne took the whole world for his home. He first went almost around the globe on a whaling vessel, and on his return to this country, he published his first book, called _Etchings of a Whaling Cruise_ (New York, 1846). Browne was private secretary for Robert J. Walker, Secretary of the Treasury, for a time, but, in 1849, he went to California as a government commissioner; and in 1851 he went to Europe as a newspaper correspondent. A tour of Palestine is described in Browne's most famous book, _Yusef, or the Journey of the Frangi_ (New York, 1853). He shortly afterwards returned to the United States and became an inspector of customs on the Pacific coast; but the year of 1861 found him again in Europe, residing at Frankfort-on-the-Main. Browne's next work was _Crusoe's Island_ (New York, 1864). His family's residence in Germany resulted in the author publishing _An American Family in Germany_ (New York, 1866), one of his most delightful volumes. Browne's travels in northern Europe are described in _The Land of Thor_ (New York, 1867). He now returned to America and made his home in California. He investigated the mineral resources of the country west of the Rocky Mountains, and his report was issued as _Resources of the Pacific Slope_ (1869). _Adventures in the Apache Country_ (1869), was his last book. Browne was appointed United States Minister to China on March 11, 1868, but he was recalled sixteen months later. He died at Oakland, California, December 9, 1875. Most of his volumes are very cleverly illustrated with his own comical sketches of characters and scenes. That J. Ross Browne was a man of very considerable ability in several directions admits of no argument.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1887, v. i); _National Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1900, v. viii).

LAPDOGS IN GERMANY

[From _An American Family in Germany_ (New York, 1866)]

One of the most remarkable sights is the dog-fancier--a strapping six-foot dandy, leading after him, with silken strings, a whole brood of nasty little poodles. This fellow is a type of the class; you meet them everywhere at every Continental city. There are thousands of them in Frankfort, men strangely infatuated on the subject of little dogs. Now pardon me if I devote some serious reflections to this extraordinary and unreasonable propensity, which, I fear, is rapidly taking root in the hearts of the American people, especially the female portion of our population. In men it is often excusable; they may be driven to it by unrequited affection. I never see a fine-looking fellow leading a gang of little poodle-dogs after him, that I don't imagine he has had some dreadful experience in the line of true love; but with the opposite sex the case is quite different. "If women have one weakness more marked than another," says Mrs. Beecher Stowe, in a very eloquent passage of the "Minister's Wooing," "it is toward veneration. They are born worshippers--makers of silver shrines for some divinity or other, which, of course, they always think fell straight down from heaven." And, in illustration of this very just remark, she refers to instances where celebrated preachers and divines have stood like the image that Nebuchadnezzar the king set up, "and all womankind, coquettes and flirts not excepted, have been ready to fall down and worship, even before the sound of cornet, flute, harp, sackbut, and so forth," where the most gifted and accomplished of the sex "have turned away from the flattery of admirers, to prostrate themselves at the feet of a genuine hero, who never moved them except by heroic deeds and the rhetoric of a noble life"--a most striking and beautiful trait in woman's character to which all homage should be rendered. She clingeth unto man, even as the ivy clingeth unto the oak. But does anybody pretend to tell me that man is always the lucky recipient of this devotion? Alas, no! Not always for him is it that women are burdened with this load of "fealty, faith, and reverence more than they know what to do with;" not always for him is it that "They stand like a hedge of sweet peas, throwing out fluttering tendrils everywhere for something high and strong to climb by." Alas! man is but a cipher among the objects of woman's heroic devotion. I have a lady in my eye who from early youth has bestowed the tenderest affections of her heart upon poll-parrots; another, who for years has wept over the woes of a little chicken; who would abandon her midnight slumber to minister to the afflictions of a lame turkey, and insensible to the appeals of her lover, only relax in her severity when moved by the plaintive mewing of a cat; another, who, in the bosom of her family, and tenderly adored by her husband, has long since yielded to the fascinating allurement of a sewing-machine, and wrapped around its cogwheels, cotton spools, and hammering needles the poetry of a romantic attachment; and, lastly, the particular case in point, at which I marvel most of all, three most bewitching young ladies, of acknowledged beauty, who are hopelessly and irrevocably gone in love with--what do you think? Not a man, erect and noble, with the brow of Jove and eye of Mars; not even a horse, the paragon of beautiful and intelligent animals, or a lion, the king of the forest; but a miserable, dirty, nasty, little lapdog; a snappish, foul-eyed inodorous, sneaking little brute, which even the very cats hold in contempt! And yet they love it; at least they say so, and I have no reason to dispute their word. Have I not heard them, morning, noon, and night, protest their devotion to the dear little Fidel--the precious, beautiful little Fidel--the adorable love of a little Fidel! Oh, it is enough to make the angels weep to see the grace and fondness with which this horrid little wretch is caught up in those tender white arms, and hugged to those virgin bosoms and kissed by those pouting and honeyed lips! Faugh! It drives me mad. What is the use of wasting so much sweetness when there are thousands of good, honest fellows actually pining away from unrequited affection? brave sons of toil, ready at a moment's notice to be caressed by these sweet-pea vines, who are throwing out their fluttering tendrils for something high and strong to cling to. I leave it to any honest miner, if it is not provoking to the last degree to see the noblest capacity of woman's nature thus cruelly and wastefully perverted--the choicest affections devoted to a miserable, disgusting, and unsympathizing little monster--the very honey of their lips lavished on that foul and mucous nose, which, if it knows anything, must know some thing not fit to be mentioned to polite ears. Heaven! how often have I longed to have a good fair kick at one of these pampered little brutes. Only think of the care taken of them, while widows and orphans are shivering in the cold and perishing of hunger. The choicest pieces of meat cut up for them, potatoes and gravy mixed, delicate morsels of bread; the savory mess put before them by delicate hands, and swallowed into their delicate stomachs, and too often rejected by those delicate organs, to the detriment of the carpet. And then, when this delectable subject of woman's adoration is rubbed, and scrubbed, and pitied, and physicked, and thoroughly combed out from head to foot, with every love-lock of his glossy hair filtered of its fleas, how tenderly he is laid upon the bed or clasped in the embraces of beauty! Shade of Cupid! what a happy thing it is to be a lapdog! Well might the immortal Bard of Avon prefer to be a dog that bayed the moon rather than an indifferent poet. For my part, I'd sooner be wrapped in the arms of beauty than be King of the Cannibal Islands. That strange infatuation of feminine instinct which lends to the head-dress, at an approaching bridal, a degree of importance to which the expected groom can never aspire; which sees the destinies of the whole matrimonial career centred in the fringe of a nightgown; which seeks advice and consolation in the pattern of a reception-dress; which would shrink from the fearful sacrifice of liberty but for the magic power of new bonnets, new gloves, and embroidered handkerchiefs--that we can all understand; these are woman's coy devices to tantalize mankind; these are the probationary tortures inflicted upon him through mere wantonness and love of mischief. But when the richest treasures of her affection, the most divine essence of her being, the Promethean spark warm from her virgin heart, for which worlds are lost and won--when these are cast away upon a nauseous little lapdog, ye gods! what can poor mortals do but abandon their humanity! It is shocking to think of such competition, but how can we help it if young ladies give themselves up to dog worship? I sincerely trust this Continental fashion may never take root in California. Should it do so, farewell all hope for the honest sons of toil; it will then be the greatest of good fortunes to be born a lapdog!

ROB MORRIS

Robert Morris, who is generally bracketed with Albert Pike as the most distinguished writer and craftsman American Masonry has produced, was born near Boston, Massachusetts, August 31, 1818. He was made a Mason in Mississippi, in 1846, and this was the beginning of a Masonic career almost without parallel in the history of the fraternity. Morris, of course, received all of the higher degrees in Masonry, but the most momentous thing he did as a craftsman was to establish the Order of the Eastern Star in 1850--the year he became a Kentuckian. In September, 1854, while living in southern Kentucky, Morris wrote his most celebrated poem, entitled _The Level and the Square_, which was first published in his magazine, _The American Freemason_, of Louisville, Kentucky. Rudyard Kipling lifted a line from it for his equally famous poem, _The Mother Lodge_. Although Morris revised his lines many times, the original version is far and away the finest. In 1858 he was elected Grand Master of the Grand Lodge of Kentucky; and two years later he removed his residence to La Grange, Kentucky, the little town with which his fame is intertwined. Morris wrote several well-known religious songs, _Sweet Galilee_, being the best of them. He was the author of many books upon Masonry, his _Lights and Shadows of Freemasonry_ (Louisville, 1852), being the first work in Masonic belles-lettres. This was followed by his _History of the Morgan Affair_ (New York, 1852); _Life in the Triangle_ (1853); _The Two Saints John_ (1854); _Code of Masonic Law_ (Louisville, 1855), the pioneer work on Masonic jurisprudence; _Masonic Book of American Adoptive Rights_ (1855); _History of Freemasonry in Kentucky_ (Frankfort, 1859), his most important historical work; _Synopsis of Masonic Laws_ (1859); _Tales of Masonic Life_ (1860); _Masonic Odes and Poems_ (New York, 1864); _Biography of Eli Bruce_ (1867); _Dictionary of Freemasonry_ (1872); _Manual of the Queen of the South_ (1876); _Knights Templar's Trumpet_ (1880); _Freemasonry in the Holy Land_ (New York, 1882), an excellent work; _The Poetry of Freemasonry_ (New York, 1884), upon the publication of which, the author was invited to New York City and crowned "The Poet Laureate of Freemasonry," December 17, 1884; and, _Magnum Opus_ (1886). Morris was one of the foremost numismatics of his day and generation in America, his works on this science being _The Twelve Caesars_, and _Numismatic Pilot_. He was also the author of several works designed especially for the officers of a Masonic lodge; and he edited in thirty volumes _The Universal Masonic Library_, besides editing from time to time four Masonic magazines. Rob Morris, to give him the name by which he is best known, died at La Grange, Kentucky, July 31, 1888.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _History of Kentucky_, by R. H. Collins (Covington, Kentucky, 1882); _Appletons' Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1888, v. iv).

THE LEVEL AND THE SQUARE

[From _The American Freemason_ (Louisville, Kentucky, September 15, 1854)]

We meet upon the Level and we part upon the Square: What words of precious meaning those words Masonic are! Come let us contemplate them, they are worthy of our thought-- With the highest and the lowest, and the rarest they are fraught.

We meet upon the Level, though from every station come-- The King from out his palace and the poor man from his home; For the one must leave his diadem without the Mason's door, And the other finds his true respect upon the checkered floor.

We part upon the Square for the world must have its due; We mingle with its multitude, a cold, unfriendly crew; But the influence of our gatherings in memory is green, And we long, upon the Level, to renew the happy scene.

There's a world where all are equal--we are hurrying towards it fast-- We shall meet upon the Level there when the gates of death are passed; We shall stand before the Orient, and our Master will be there To try the blocks we offer His unerring square.

We shall meet upon the Level there, but never thence depart: There's a mansion--'tis all ready for each zealous, faithful heart:-- There's a Mansion and a welcome, and a multitude is there, Who have met upon the Level and been tried upon the Square.

Let us meet upon the Level, then, while laboring patient here-- Let us meet and let us labor tho' the labor seem severe; Already in the western sky the signs bid us prepare, To gather up our working tools and part upon the square.

Hands around, ye faithful Ghiblimites, the bright, fraternal chain, We part upon the Square below to meet in heaven again;-- Oh, what words of precious meaning those words Masonic are-- We meet upon the Level and we part upon the Square.

AMELIA B. WELBY

Mrs. Amelia B. Welby, Kentucky's most famous female poet of the mid-century, was born at St. Michael's, Maryland, February 3, 1819. When she was fifteen years old her family removed to Louisville, Kentucky, the city of her fame. In 1837, George D. Prentice, with his wonderful nose for finding female verse-makers, added Amelia to his already long and ever-increasing list. He printed her first poem in his _Journal_, and crowned her as the finest branch of his poetical tree. His declaration that she possessed the divine afflatus meant nothing, as he had said the same thing about many another sentimental single lady, pining upon the peaks of poesy. But Edgar Allan Poe and Rufus W. Griswold soon separated her from the versifiers and placed her among the poets, and thus her fame has come down to us with fragrance. In June, 1838, Amelia was married to George Welby, a Louisville merchant, who also held her to be a poet born in the purple. Mrs. Welby's verse became well-known and greatly admired in many parts of the country, and, in response to numerous requests for a volume of her work, she collected her _Journal_ verse and published it under the title of _Poems by Amelia_ (Boston, 1845). A second edition was published the following year, and by 1860 the volume was said to be in its seventeenth edition! Robert W. Weir's illustrated edition of her poems was issued in 1850, and this is the most desirable form in which her work has been preserved. These various editions will at once convey some idea of her great popularity. With Poe, Prentice, and Griswold singing her praises, and the public purchasing her poems as rapidly as they could be made into books, Amelia's fame seemed secure. To-day, however, no one has read any of her verse save _The Rainbow_, which has been set down as her best poem, and she has become essentially an historical personage, the keepsake of Kentucky letters. While the greater number of her poems are quite unreadable, her elegy for Miss Laura M. Thurston, a sister versifier, is well done and her finest piece of work. Mrs. Welby died at Louisville, May 3, 1852, when but thirty-three years of age. Had she lived longer, and the poetic appreciation of the American people suffered no change, the heights to which she would have attained can be but vaguely guessed at.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Female Poets of America_, by R. W. Griswold (Philadelphia, 1856); _The Poets and Poetry of the West_, by W. T. Coggeshall (Columbus, 1860).

THE RAINBOW

[From _Poems by Amelia_ (Boston, 1845)]

I sometimes have thoughts, in my loneliest hours, That lie on my heart like the dew on the flowers, Of a ramble I took one bright afternoon When my heart was as light as a blossom in June; The green earth was moist with the late fallen showers, The breeze fluttered down and blew open the flowers, While a single white cloud, to its haven of rest On the white-wing of peace, floated off in the west.

As I threw back my tresses to catch the cool breeze, That scattered the rain-drops and dimpled the seas, Far up the blue sky a fair rainbow unrolled Its soft-tinted pinions of purple and gold. 'Twas born in a moment, yet, quick as its birth It had stretched to the uttermost ends of the earth, And, fair, as an angel, it floated as free, With a wing on the earth and a wing on the sea.

How calm was the ocean! how gentle its swell! Like a woman's soft bosom it rose and it fell; While its light sparkling waves, stealing laughingly o'er, When they saw the fair rainbow, knelt down on the shore. No sweet hymn ascended, no murmur of prayer, Yet I felt that the spirit of worship was there, And bent my young head, in devotion and love, 'Neath the form of the angel, that floated above.

How wide was the sweep of its beautiful wings! How boundless its circle! how radiant its rings! If I looked on the sky, 'twas suspended in air; If I looked on the ocean, the rainbow was there; Thus forming a girdle, as brilliant and whole As the thoughts of the rainbow, that circled my soul. Like the wing of the Deity, calmly unfurled, It bent from the cloud and encircled the world.

There are moments, I think, when the spirit receives Whole volumes of thought on its unwritten leaves, When the folds of the heart in a moment unclose Like the innermost leaves from the heart of a rose. And thus, when the rainbow had passed from the sky, The thoughts it awoke were too deep to pass by; It left my full soul, like the wing of a dove, All fluttering with pleasure, and fluttering with love.

I know that each moment of rapture or pain But shortens the links in life's mystical chain; I know that my form, like that bow from the wave, Must pass from the earth, and lie cold in the grave; Yet O! when death's shadows my bosom encloud, When I shrink at the thought of the coffin and shroud, May Hope, like the rainbow, my spirit enfold In her beautiful pinions of purple and gold.

ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER POET

[From _The Poets and Poetry of the West_, edited by W. T. Coggeshall (Columbus, Ohio, 1860)]

She has passed, like a bird, from the minstrel throng, She has gone to the land where the lovely belong! Her place is hush'd by her lover's side, Yet his heart is full of his fair young bride; The hopes of his spirit are crushed and bowed As he thinks of his love in her long white shroud; For the fragrant sighs of her perfumed breath Were kissed from her lips by his rival--Death.

Cold is her bosom, her thin white arms All mutely crossed o'er its icy charms, As she lies, like a statue of Grecian art, With a marbled brow and a cold hushed heart; Her locks are bright, but their gloss is hid; Her eye is sunken 'neath its waxen lid: And thus she lies in her narrow hall-- Our fair young minstrel--the loved of all.

Light as a bird's were her springing feet, Her heart as joyous, her song as sweet; Yet never again shall that heart be stirred With its glad wild songs like a singing bird: Ne'er again shall the strains be sung, That in sweetness dropped from her silver tongue; The music is o'er, and Death's cold dart Hath broken the spell of that free, glad heart.

Often at eve, when the breeze is still, And the moon floats up by the distant hill, As I wander alone 'mid the summer bowers, And wreathe my locks with the sweet wild flowers, I will think of the time when she lingered there, With her mild blue eyes and her long fair hair; I will treasure her name in my bosom-core; But my heart is sad--I can sing no more.

CHARLES W. WEBBER

Charles Wilkins Webber, the foremost Kentucky writer of prose fiction and adventure of the old school, was born at Russellville, Kentucky, May 29, 1819, the son of Dr. Augustine Webber, a noted Kentucky physician. In 1838 young Webber went to Texas where he was with the Rangers for several years. He later returned to Kentucky and studied medicine at Transylvania University, Lexington, which he soon abandoned for a brief course at Princeton Theological Seminary, with the idea of entering the Presbyterian ministry. A short time afterwards, however, he settled at New York as a literary man. Webber was connected with several newspapers and periodicals, being associate editor of _The Whig Review_ for about two years. His first book, called _Old Hicks, the Guide_ (New York, 1848) was followed by _The Gold Mines of the_ _Gila_ (New York, 1849, two vols.). In 1849 Webber organized an expedition to the Colorado country, but it utterly failed. Several of his other books were now published: _The Hunter-Naturalist_ (Philadelphia, 1851); _Tales of the Southern Border_ (1852; 1853); _Texas Virago_ (1852); _Wild Girl of Nebraska_ (1852); _Spiritual Vampirism_ (Philadelphia, 1853); _Jack Long, or the Shot in the Eye_ (London, 1853), his masterpiece; _Adventures with Texas Rifle Rangers_ (London, 1853); _Wild Scenes in the Forest and Prairie_ (London, 1854); and his last book, _History of Mystery_ (Philadelphia, 1855). In 1855 Webber joined William Walker's expedition to Central America, and in the battle of Rivas, he was mortally wounded. He died at Nicaragua, April 11, 1856, in the thirty-seventh year of his age. Webber's career is almost as interesting as his stories. In fact, he put so much of his life into his works that all of them may be said to be largely autobiographical.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Cyclopaedia of American Literature_, by E. A. and G. L. Duyckinck (New York, 1856); Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1888, v. vi).

TROUTING ON JESSUP'S RIVER

[From _Wild Scenes in the Forest and Prairie, or the Romance of Natural History_ (London, 1854)]

"The Bridge" at Jessup's River is well known to sportsmen; and to this point we made our first flyfishing expedition. The eyes of Piscator glistened at the thought, and early was he busied with hasty fingers through an hour of ardent preparation amongst his varied and complicated tackle. Now was his time for triumph. In all the ruder sports in which we had heretofore been engaged, I, assisted by mere chance, had been most successful; but now the infallible certainty of skill and science were to be demonstrated in himself, and the orthodoxy of flies vindicated to my unsophisticated sense.

The simple preparations were early completed; the cooking apparatus, which was primitive enough to suit the taste of an ascetic, consisted in a single frying-pan. The blankets, with the guns, ammunition, rods, etc., were all disposed in the wagon of our host, which stood ready at the door. It was a rough affair, with stiff wooden springs, like all those of the country, and suited to the mountainous roads they are intended to traverse, rather than for civilized ideas of comfort. We, however, bounded into the low-backed seat; and if it had been cushioned to suit royalty, we could not have been more secure than we were of such comfort as a backwood sportsman looks for. We soon found ourselves rumbling, pitching, and jolting, over a road even worse than that which brought us first to the lake. It seemed to me that nothing but the surprising docility of the ponies which drew us, could have saved us, strong wagon and all, from being jolted to atoms. I soon got tired of this, and sprang out with my gun, determined to foot it ahead, in the hope of seeing a partridge or red squirrel.

We arrived at the "bridge" about the middle of the afternoon. There we found an old field called Wilcox's clearing, and, like all places I had seen in this fine grazing region, it was still well sodded down in blue grass and clover. Our luggage having been deposited in the shantee, consisting almost entirely of boards torn from the old house, which were leaned against the sides of two forks placed a few feet apart, we set off at once for the falls, a short distance above. This was merely an initial trial, to obtain enough for dinner, and find the prognostics of the next day's sport in feeling the manner of the fish.

At the falls the river is only about fifteen feet wide, though its average width is from twenty-five to thirty. The water tumbles over a ledge of about ten feet, at the bottom of which is a fine hole, while on the surface sheets of foam are whirled round and round upon the tormented eddies, for the stream has considerable volume and power.

We stepped cautiously along the ledge, Piscator ahead, and holding his flies ready for a cast, which was most artistically made, not without a glance of triumph at me, then preparing to do the same with the humble angle-worm. The "flies" fall--I see the glance of half a dozen golden sides darting at them; but by this time my own cast is made, and I am fully occupied with the struggles of a fine trout.

My companion's success was again far short of mine, and seeing him looking at my trout lying beside me, I said: "Try the worms, good Piscator--here they are. This is not the right time of day for them to take the flies in this river, I judge."

Improving the door of escape thus opened to him, he took off the flies and used worms with immediate and brilliant success, which brought back the smile to his face; and he would now and then as calmly brush away the distracting swarm of flies from his face, as if they had been mere innocent motes. But later that evening came a temporary triumph for Piscator. The hole at the falls was soon exhausted, and we moved down to glean the ripples. It was nearly sunset, and here the pertinacious Piscator determined to try the flies again. He cast with three, and instantly struck two half-pound trout, which, after a spirited play, he safely landed. Rarely have I seen a prouder look of triumph than that which glowed on his face as he bade me "look there!" when he landed them.

"Very fine, Piscator--a capital feat! but I fear it was an accident. You will not get any more that way."

"We shall see, sir," said he, and commenced whipping the water again, but to no avail, while I continued throwing them out with great rapidity.

I abstained from watching him, for I had no desire to spoil his evening sport by taunting him to continue his experiment. I soon observed him throwing out the fish with great spirit again. I merely shouted to him across the stream--"the angle-worm once more, Piscator?"

"Yes!" with a laugh.

As the sun went down the black gnats began to make themselves felt in their smarting myriads, and we forthwith beat a hasty retreat to the shantee.

We had taken about ten pounds of trout; and the first procedure, after reaching the camp, was to build a "smudge," or smoke-fire, to drive away these abominable gnats, which fortunately take flight with the first whiff of smoke, and the next was to prepare the fish for dinner, though not till all had been carefully dressed by the guide, and placed in the cold current of the little spring near, that they might keep sound. Now came the rousing fire, and soon some splendid trout were piled upon dishes of fresh pealed elm bark before us. They were very skillfully cooked, and no epicure ever enjoyed a feast more thoroughly than we did our well-flavored and delicious trout, in that rude shantee.

The feast being over, then to recline back upon the fresh couch of soft spruce boughs, and, with a cigar in mouth, watch the gathering night-shades brooding lower and more low upon the thick wild forest in front, far into the depths of which the leaping flames of our crackling fire go, darting now and then with a revealing tongue of quick light, and listening to the owl make hoarse answer to the wolf afar off--to think of wild passages in a life of adventure years ago amidst surroundings such as this; with the additional spice of peril from savages and treacherous foes, and then, as the hushed life subsides into a stiller mood, see the faces of loved ones come to you through the darkness, with a smile from out your distant home, and while it sinks sweetly on your heart, subside into happy and dream-peopled slumber! "This is bliss!" the bliss of the shantee to the wearied sportsman! a bliss unattainable by the toiler, and still more by the lounger of the city.

We were on foot with the sun next morning, and after another feast, which we appreciated with unpalled appetites, we set off for some deep spring holes nearly a mile above the falls. The morning set cloudy, and rain fell piteously for several hours. But if this change detracted from our sport, it at least served to give zest to the evening's shelter and repose.

I never felt more delightfully than I did when I sat down to a fine dinner that evening in the old tavern, and very much of this pleasurable feeling of entire comfort I attributed to the prompt use of the cold bath, on reaching our temporary home, wet, weary, and shivering with cold. This, with a change of clothes, restored me to a healthy glow of warmth, ready to enjoy whatever our host might provide.

DR. L. J. FRAZEE

Dr. Lewis Jacob Frazee, author of a little volume of travels of considerable charm, was born at Germantown, Kentucky, August 23, 1819. He was prepared for college at the Maysville Academy, celebrated as the school at which young U. S. Grant spent one year. He was graduated from Georgetown College, Georgetown, Kentucky, in the class of 1837; and four years later he graduated in the medical department of the University of Louisville. On April 9, 1844, Dr. Frazee left Maysville, Kentucky, for a long sojourn in Europe, spending most of his time in Paris studying subjects then untaught in this country. He also visited England and the continent before returning home. These travels Dr. Frazee related in a book of nearly three hundred pages, entitled _The Medical Student in Europe_ (Maysville, Kentucky, 1849), which is now an exceedingly rare work. The style is natural and clear and exhibits genuine literary flavor. He settled at Louisville in 1851. His only other publication was _The Mineral Waters of Kentucky_ (Louisville, 1872), a brochure. Dr. Frazee took a keen interest in the Filson Club of Louisville, and one of his finest papers was read before that organization: _An Analysis of the Personal Narrative of James O. Pattie_. He was sometime professor in the medical school of the University of Louisville, and in the Kentucky School of Medicine; and he edited _The Transylvania Medical Journal_ for several years. Old age found the good doctor surrendering his practice and professorships to establish the Louisville Dental Depot, designed to furnish the local dentists with supplies. He died at Louisville, Kentucky, August 12, 1905, eleven days before his eighty-sixth birthday.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Courier-Journal_ (Louisville, Kentucky, August 13, 1905); letters from Dr. Thos. E. Pickett, the Maysville historian, to the present writer.

HAVRE

[From _The Medical Student in Europe_ (Maysville, Kentucky, 1849)]

Havre is a place of about 25,000 inhabitants, has fine docks, which are accessible in high tide, and a considerable amount of shipping. Many of the streets are narrow and crooked, with narrow sidewalks and in many cases none at all. The houses are stuccoed, and generally present rather a sombre aspect. Three-fourths of the women we saw in Havre wore no bonnets, but simply a cap. Some of them were mounted upon donkeys, with a large market basket swung down each side of the animal; these of course were the peasants. My attention was attracted by the large sumpter horses here, which draw singly from eight to ten bales of cotton, apparently with considerable ease.

On the day after we arrived at Havre we ascended the hill which rises at one extremity of the city. The various little winding pathways up the hill, have on each side massive stone walls, with now and then a gateway leading to a private residence almost buried in a thicket of shrubbery and flowers. Upon the hill are situated some most delightful and elegant mansions, with grounds beautifully ornamented with shade trees, shrubbery, flowers and handsome walks. These salubrious retreats have a double charm when compared with the thronged, narrow, and noisy streets of the city below. Beyond these _Villas_ were fields of grass and grain undivided by fences, with here and there a farm house surrounded by a clump of trees.

In Havre we found delightful cherries and strawberries, as well as a variety of vegetables; the oysters and fish here though in abundance are of rather an inferior quality, the oysters are very small and of a decided copperish taste. At breakfast, which we took at any hour in the morning that we thought proper, we ordered such articles as suited our fancy, generally however a cup of coffee, a beef steak, eggs, an omelet or something of this sort. We dined about five in the evening upon soups, a variety of meats and vegetables, well prepared, and a dessert of strawberries and other fruits, nuts, etc. The meats and vegetables were not placed upon the table, but each dish was passed around separately--the table being cleared and clean plates placed for each course. We were compelled to eat slowly or wait for some time upon others.

This would not suit one of our western men who is for doing everything in a minute, but the plan certainly has its advantages--one, of promoting digestion by giving time for the mastication of the food, and another, of no small moment for an epicure, that of having things fresh from the oven. My own objection to the plan was, that I never knew how much of an article to eat, as I did not know what would next be introduced. Such an objection fails, of course, in many of the hotels where the bill of fare is stereotyped, and where with more precision than an almanac-maker you can foretell every change that will take place during the ensuing year. Our table was well supplied with wine, which is used as regularly at dinner as milk by our Kentucky farmers. When our bill was made out, each item was charged separately, so much for breakfast, mentioning what it consisted of--so much for dinner--so much per day for a room, so much for each candle we used, and so on. A French landlord in making out your bill goes decidedly into minutiae.

THEODORE O'HARA

Theodore O'Hara, author of the greatest martial elegy in American literature, was born at Danville, Kentucky, February 11, 1820. He was the son of Kane O'Hara, an Irish political exile, and a noted educator in his day and generation. O'Hara's boyhood days were spent at Danville, but his family settled at Frankfort when he was a young man. He was fitted for college by his father, and his preparation was so far advanced that he was enabled to join the senior class of St. Joseph's College, a Roman Catholic institution at Bardstown, Kentucky. Upon his graduation O'Hara was offered the chair of Greek, but he declined it in order to study law. In 1845 he held a position in the United States Treasury department at Washington; and a few years later he proved himself a gallant soldier upon battlefields in Mexico, being brevetted major for meritorious service. After the war O'Hara practiced law at Washington for some time; and he went to Cuba with the Lopez expedition of 1850. After his return to the United States he edited the Mobile, Alabama, _Register_ for a time; and he was later editor of the Frankfort, Kentucky, _Yeoman_. O'Hara was a public speaker of great ability, and his address upon William Taylor Barry, the Kentucky statesman and diplomat, is one of the climaxes of Southern oratory. During the Civil War he was colonel of the twelfth Alabama regiment. After the war Colonel O'Hara went to Columbus, Georgia, and became a cotton broker. He died near Guerrytown, Alabama, June 6, 1867. Seven years later his dust was returned to Kentucky, and re-interred in the State cemetery at Frankfort. If collected Colonel O'Hara's poems, addresses, political and literary essays, and editorials would make an imposing volume. His real fame rests upon his famous martial elegy, _The Bivouac of the Dead_, which he wrote at Frankfort in the summer of 1847, to remember young Henry Clay, Colonel McKee, Captain Willis, and the other brave fellows who fell in the war with Mexico. When their remains were returned to Frankfort and buried in the cemetery on the hill, Colonel O'Hara, their old companion in arms, wrote his stately in memoriam for them. He did not read it over them, as Ranck and the others have written, but he did publish it in _The Kentucky Yeoman_, a Democratic paper of Frankfort. _The Bivouac of the Dead_ is the greatest single poem ever written by a Kentucky hand, is matchless, superb, and is read in the remotest corners of the world. Its opening lines have been cut deep within memorial shafts in many military cemeteries. Colonel O'Hara sleeps to-day on the outer circle of his comrades, one with them in death as in life, with the lofty military monument, which Kentucky has erected to commemorate her sons slain in the battles of the republic, casting its long shadows across his grave. His elegy in honor of Daniel Boone was written at the "old pioneer's" grave in the Frankfort cemetery before his now much-mutilated monument was erected. It was originally printed in _The Kentucky Yeoman_ for December 19, 1850. Two other poems purporting to be his have been discovered, but there must be others sealed over and forgotten in the scattered and broken files of Southern newspapers and periodicals. So the poet has come down to us, like he who wrote _The Burial of Sir John Moore_, with one slender sheaf under his arm. But it is enough, enough for both of them.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. George W. Ranck's little books: _O'Hara and His Elegies_ (Baltimore, 1875); _The Bivouac of the Dead and Its Author_ (1898; 1909); Daniel E. O'Sullivan's paper in _The Southern Bivouac_ (Louisville, January, 1887); Robert Burns Wilson's fine tribute in _The Century Magazine_ (May, 1890). The late Mrs. Susan B. Dixon, the Henderson historian, left a MS. life of O'Hara that is to be issued shortly.

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD

[From _O'Hara and His Elegies_, by George W. Ranck (Baltimore, 1875)]

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo; No more on life's parade shall meet The brave and daring few. On Fame's eternal camping-ground Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards with solemn round The bivouac of the dead.

No answer of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind; No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms; No braying horn nor screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust; Their plumed heads are bowed; Their haughty banner, trailed in dust, Is now their martial shroud; And plenteous funeral-tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And their proud forms, in battle gashed, Are free from anguish now.

The neighing steed, the flashing blade, The trumpet's stirring blast; The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout, are past; No war's wild note, nor glory's peal, Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that nevermore shall feel The rapture of the fight.

Like the dread northern hurricane That sweeps his broad plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain, Came down the serried foe.[9] Our heroes felt the shock, and leapt To meet them on the plain; And long the pitying sky hath wept Above our gallant slain.

Sons of our consecrated ground Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the headless air. Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave: She claims from war his richest spoil-- The ashes of her brave.

So 'neath their parent turf they rest; Far from the gory field; Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield. The sunshine of their native sky Smiles sadly on them here, And kindred hearts and eyes watch by The heroes' sepulchre.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead! Dear as the blood you gave, No impious footsteps here shall tread The herbage of your grave; Nor shall your glory be forgot While fame her record keeps, Or honor points the hallowed spot Where valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless tone In deathless songs shall tell, When many a vanquished age hath flown, The story how ye fell. Nor wreck, nor change, or winter's blight, Nor time's remorseless doom, Shall dim one ray of holy light That gilds your glorious tomb.

THE OLD PIONEER

[From the same]

A dirge for the brave old pioneer! Knight-errant of the wood! Calmly beneath the green sod here He rests from field and flood; The war-whoop and the panther's screams No more his soul shall rouse, For well the aged hunter dreams Beside his good old spouse.

A dirge for the brave old pioneer! Hushed now his rifle's peal; The dews of many a vanish'd year Are on his rusted steel; His horn and pouch lie mouldering Upon the cabin-door; The elk rests by the salted spring, Nor flees the fierce wild boar.

A dirge for the brave old pioneer! Old Druid of the West! His offering was the fleet wild deer, His shrine the mountain's crest. Within his wildwood temple's space An empire's towers nod, Where erst, alone of all his race, He knelt to Nature's God.

A dirge for the brave old pioneer! Columbus of the land! Who guided freedom's proud career Beyond the conquer'd strand; And gave her pilgrim sons a home No monarch's step profanes, Free as the chainless winds that roam Upon its boundless plains.

A dirge for the brave old pioneer! The muffled drum resound! A warrior is slumb'ring here Beneath his battle-ground. For not alone with beast of prey The bloody strife he waged, Foremost where'er the deadly fray Of savage combat raged.

A dirge for the brave old pioneer! A dirge for his old spouse! For her who blest his forest cheer, And kept his birchen house. Now soundly by her chieftain may The brave old dame sleep on, The red man's step is far away, The wolf's dread howl is gone.

A dirge for the brave old pioneer! His pilgrimage is done; He hunts no more the grizzly bear About the setting sun. Weary at last of chase and life, He laid him here to rest, Nor recks he now what sport or strife Would tempt him further west.

A dirge for the brave old pioneer! The patriarch of his tribe! He sleeps--no pompous pile marks where, No lines his deeds describe. They raised no stone above him here, Nor carved his deathless name-- An empire is his sepulchre, His epitaph is Fame.

SECOND LOVE

[From _The Southern Bivouac_ (Louisville, Kentucky, January, 1887)]

Thou art not my first love, I loved before we met, And the memory of that early dream Will linger round me yet; But thou, thou art my last love, The truest and the best. My heart but shed its early leaves To give thee all the rest.

A ROLLICKING RHYME

[From the same]

I'd lie for her, I'd sigh for her, I'd drink the river dry for her-- But d----d if I would die for her.

THE FAME OF WILLIAM T. BARRY

[From _Obituary Addresses_ (Frankfort, Kentucky, 1855)]

On his accession to the Presidency, General Jackson--with that discerning appreciation of the most available ability and worth in his party which characterized him--called Mr. Barry into his cabinet to the position of Postmaster General. Here, as one of the most distinguished of the council of Jackson, during the greater part of his incumbency, he is entitled to his full share of the fame of that glorious administration. His health, however, failing him under the wasting labors of the toilsome department over which he presided, he was forced to relinquish it before the administration terminated; and General Jackson, unwilling entirely to lose the benefit of his able services, appointed him, in 1835, Minister Plenipotentiary and Envoy Extraordinary to Spain, a post in which, while its dignity did not disparage his civil rank, it was hoped that the lightness of the duties, and the influence of a genial climate, might serve to renovate his impaired health. But it was otherwise ordained above. He had reached Liverpool on the way to his mission, when the great conqueror, at whose summons the strongest manhood, the noblest virtue, the proudest genius, and the brightest wisdom must surrender, arrested his earthly career on the 30th of August, 1835; and here is all that is left to us of the patriot, the orator, the hero, the statesman, the sage--the rest belongs to Heaven and to fame.

Such, fellow-citizens, is a most cursory and feeble memento of the life and public services of the illustrious man in whose memory Kentucky has decreed the solemn honors of this day. It is well for her that she has felt "the late remorse of love," and reclaimed these precious ashes to her heart, after they have slumbered so many years unsepultured in a foreign land; that no guilty consciousness of unworthy neglect may weigh upon her spirit, and depress her proud front with shame; that no reproaching echo of that eloquent voice that once so sweetly thrilled her, pealing back upon her soul amidst her prideful recollections of the past, may appal her in her feast of memory, and blast her revel of glory; that no avenging muse, standing among the shrines of her departed greatness, and searching in vain for that which should mark her remembrance of one she should so devoutly hallow, shall have reason to sing of her as she has sung:

"Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar; And Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore."

Here, beneath the sunshine of the land he loved, and amid the scenes which he consecrated with his genius, he will sleep well. Sadly, yet proudly will his fond foster-mother receive within her bosom to-day this cherished remnant of the child she nursed for fame; doubly endeared to her, as he expired far away in a stranger land, beyond the reach of her maternal embrace, and with no kindred eyes to light the gathering darkness of death, no friendly hand to soften his descent to the grave, no pious orisons to speed his spirit on its long journey through eternity. Gently, reverently let us lay him in this proud tabernacle, where he will dwell embalmed in glory till the last trump shall reveal him to us all radiant with the halo of his life. Let the Autumn's wind harp on the dropping leaves her softest requiem over him; let the Winter's purest snows rest spotless on his grave; let Spring entwine her brightest garland for his tomb, and Summer gild it with her mildest sunshine. Here let the marble minstrel rise to sing to the future generations of the Commonwealth the inspiring lay of his high genius and his lofty deeds. Here let the patriot repair when doubts and dangers may encompass him, and he would learn the path of duty and of safety--an oracle will inhabit these sacred graves, whose responses will replenish him with wisdom, and point him the way to virtuous renown. Let the ingenuous youth who pants for the glories of the forum, and "the applause of listening Senates," come hither to tune his soul by those immortal echoes that will forever breathe about this spot and make its silence vocal with eloquence. And here, too, let the soldier of liberty come, when the insolent invader may profane the sanctuary of freedom--here by this holy altar may he fitly devote to the infernal gods the enemies of this country and of liberty.

We will now leave our departed patriot to his sleep of glory. And let no tear moisten the turf that shall wrap his ashes. Let no sound of mourning disturb the majestic solitude of his grand repose. He claims no tribute of sorrow. His body returns to its mother earth, his spirit dwells in the Elysian domain of God, and his deeds are written on the roll of Fame.

"Let none dare mourn for him."

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Some versions show the following stanzas at this point:

Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was "Victory or Death."

Long had the doubtful conflict raged O'er all that stricken plain, For never fiercer fight had waged The vengeful blood of Spain; And still the storm of battle blew, Still swelled the gory tide; Not long, our stout old chieftain[10] knew, Such odds his strength could bide.

'Twas in that hour his stern command Called to a martyr's grave The flower of his beloved land, The nation's flag to save. By rivers of their fathers' gore His first-born laurels grew, And well he deemed the sons would pour Their lives for glory too.

Full many a norther's breath has swept O'er Angostura's plain,[11] And long the pitying sky has wept Above its mouldered slain. The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, Or shepherd's pensive lay, Alone awakes each sullen height That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground, Ye must not slumber there, et cetera.

[10] Gen. Zachary Taylor.

[11] Near Buena Vista.

SARAH T. BOLTON

Mrs. Sarah Tittle Bolton, author of _Paddle Your Own Canoe_, was born at Newport, Kentucky, in 1820. When she was about three years old, her father removed to Indiana, settling first in Jennings county, but later moving on to Madison. When a young woman, she contributed poems to the Madison newspaper which attracted the editor, Nathaniel Bolton, so strongly that he married the author. They moved to Indianapolis, and Mrs. Bolton soon gained a wide reputation as a poet. Her ode sung at the laying of the corner-stone of the Masonic Temple, in 1850, won her a loving cup from the Masons of Hoosierdom. Two years later her poem in honor of the hero of Hungary, Louis Kossuth, increased her fame. In 1855 Mr. Bolton was appointed consul to Geneva, Switzerland, and his wife accompanied him to his post. They remained in Switzerland for three years, during which time Mrs. Bolton acted as correspondent for the Cincinnati _Commercial_. In 1858 she and her husband returned to Indianapolis, in which city he died some months later. Her _Poems_ (New York, 1856) brought her newspaper and periodical verse together; and a complete collection, with a notice of her life, was published at Indianapolis in 1886. Mrs. Bolton was Indiana's foremost female singer for many years. She died at Indianapolis in 1893. Of her many poems _Paddle Your Own Canoe_ is the best known, although _Left on the Battlefield_ is admired by many of her readers.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Poets and Poetry of the West_, by W. T. Coggeshall (Columbus, 1860); _The Hoosiers_, by Meredith Nicholson (New York, 1900).

PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE

[From _The Poets and Poetry of the West_, edited by W. T. Coggeshall (Columbus, Ohio, 1860)]

Voyager upon life's sea, To yourself be true, And where'er your lot may be, Paddle your own canoe. Never, though the winds may rave, Falter nor look back; But upon the darkest wave Leave a shining track.

Nobly dare the wildest storm, Stem the hardest gale, Brave of heart and strong of arm, You will never fail. When the world is cold and dark, Keep an aim in view; And toward the beacon-mark Paddle your own canoe.

Every wave that bears you on To the silent shore, From its sunny source has gone To return no more. Then let not an hour's delay Cheat you of your due; But, while it is called to-day, Paddle your own canoe.

If your birth denies you wealth, Lofty state and power, Honest fame and hardy health Are a better dower. But if these will not suffice, Golden gain pursue; And to gain the glittering prize, Paddle your own canoe.

Would you wrest the wreath of fame From the hand of fate? Would you write a deathless name With the good and great? Would you bless your fellow-men? Heart and soul imbue With the holy task, and then Paddle your own canoe.

Would you crush the tyrant wrong, In the world's free fight? With a spirit brave and strong, Battle for the right. And to break the chains that bind The many to the few-- To enfranchise slavish mind-- Paddle your own canoe.

Nothing great is lightly won, Nothing won is lost; Every good deed, nobly done, Will repay the cost. Leave to Heaven, in humble trust, All you will to do; But if you succeed, you must Paddle your own canoe.

JOHN C. BRECKINRIDGE

John Cabell Breckinridge, the youngest of the American vice-presidents, distinguished as a public speaker, was born near Lexington, Kentucky, January 21, 1821. He was educated at Centre College, Danville, Kentucky, and then studied law at Transylvania University. Breckinridge lived at Burlington, Iowa, for a year, when he returned to Lexington, Kentucky, to practice law. He served in the Mexican War, and was afterwards a member of Congress. In 1856, when he was about thirty-five years of age, he was elected vice-president of the United States, with James Buchanan as president. In 1860 Breckinridge was the candidate of the Southern slaveholders for the presidency, but Abraham Lincoln received 180 electoral votes to his 72, Kentucky failing to support him. He took his seat in the United States Senate in March, 1861, as the successor of John J. Crittenden, and he at once became the champion of the Southern Confederacy in that body. He was expelled from the Senate on December 4, 1861, on which occasion he delivered his farewell address. Breckinridge then went South. He was appointed a major-general, and he saw service at Shiloh, Chickamauga, Cold Harbor, Nashville, and in several other great battles. From January to April, 1865, General Breckinridge was Jefferson Davis's secretary of war. When the Confederacy surrendered, he made his escape to Europe, where he remained for three years, when he returned to Lexington and to his law practice. General Breckinridge died at Lexington, Kentucky, May 17, 1875. Ten years later an imposing statue was erected to his memory on Cheapside, Lexington. He was a man of most attractive personality, an eloquent orator, a capable advocate, a brave soldier, an honest public servant, the greatest member of the house of Breckinridge.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Library of Oratory_ (New York, 1902, v. x); J. C. S. Blackburn's oration upon Breckinridge; _McClure's Magazine_ (January, 1901). For many years Col. J. Stoddard Johnston has been engaged upon a life of Breckinridge.

HENRY CLAY

[From _Obituary Addresses on the Occasion of the Death of the Hon. Henry Clay_ (Washington, 1852)]

Imperishably associated as his name has been for fifty years with every great event affecting the fortunes of our country, it is difficult to realize that he is indeed gone forever. It is difficult to feel that we shall see no more his noble form within these walls--that we shall hear no more his patriot tones, now rousing his countrymen to vindicate their rights against a foreign foe, now imploring them to preserve concord among themselves. We shall see him no more. The memory and fruits of his services alone remain to us. Amidst the general gloom, the Capitol itself looks desolate, as if the genius of the place had departed. Already the intelligence has reached almost every quarter of the Republic, and a great people mourn with us to-day, the death of their most illustrious citizen. Sympathizing as we do deeply with his family and friends, yet private affliction is absorbed in the general sorrow. The spectacle of a whole community lamenting the loss of a great man, is far more touching than any manifestation of private grief. In speaking of a loss which is national, I will not attempt to describe the universal burst of grief with which Kentucky will receive these tidings. The attempt would be vain to depict the gloom that will cover her people, when they know that the pillar of fire is removed, which has guided their footsteps for the life of a generation.

* * * * *

The life of Mr. Clay, sir, is a striking example of the abiding fame which surely awaits the direct and candid statesman. The entire absence of equivocation or disguise, in all his acts, was his master-key to the popular heart; for while the people will forgive the errors of a bold and open nature, he sins past forgiveness who deliberately deceives them. Hence Mr. Clay, though often defeated in his measures of policy, always secured the respect of his opponents without losing the confidence of his friends. He never paltered in a double cause. The country was never in doubt as to his opinions or his purposes. In all the contests of his time, his position on great public questions was as clear as the sun in a cloudless sky. Sir, standing by the grave of this great man, and considering these things, how contemptible does appear the mere legerdemain of politics! What a reproach is his life on that false policy which would trifle with a great and upright people! If I were to write his epitaph, I would inscribe, as the highest eulogy, on the stone which shall mark his resting-place, "Here lies a man who was in the public service for fifty years, and never attempted to deceive his countrymen."

While the youth of America should imitate his noble qualities, they may take courage from his career, and note the high proof it affords that, under our equal institutions, the avenues of honour are open to all. Mr. Clay rose by the force of his own genius, unaided by power, patronage, or wealth. At an age when our young men are usually advanced to the higher schools of learning, provided only with the rudiments of an English education, he turned his steps to the West, and amid the rude collisions of a border-life, matured a character whose highest exhibitions were destined to mark eras in his country's history. Beginning on the frontiers of American civilization, the orphan boy, supported only by the consciousness of his own powers, and by the confidence of the people, surmounted all the barriers of adverse fortune, and won a glorious name in the annals of his country. Let the generous youth, fired with honorable ambition, remember that the American system of government offers on every hand bounties to merit. If, like Clay, orphanage, obscurity, poverty, shall oppress him; yet if, like Clay, he feels the Promethean spark within, let him remember that his country, like a generous mother, extends her arms to welcome and to cherish every one of her children whose genius and worth may promote her prosperity or increase her renown.

Mr. Speaker, the signs of woe around us, and the general voice announce that another great man has fallen. Our consolation is that he was not taken in the vigour of his manhood, but sank into the grave at the close of a long and illustrious career. The great statesmen who have filled the largest space in the public eye, one by one are passing away. Of the three great leaders of the Senate, one alone remains, and he must follow soon. We shall witness no more their intellectual struggles in the American Forum; but the monuments of their genius will be cherished as the common property of the people, and their names will continue to confer dignity and renown upon their country.

Not less illustrious than the greatest of these will be the name of Clay--a name pronounced with pride by Americans in every quarter of the globe; a name to be remembered while history shall record the struggles of modern Greece for freedom, or the spirit of liberty burn in the South American bosom; a living and immortal name--a name that would descend to posterity without the aid of letters, borne by tradition from generation to generation. Every memorial of such a man will possess a meaning and a value to his countrymen. His tomb will be a hallowed spot. Great memories will cluster there, and his countrymen, as they visit it, may well exclaim--

"Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines, Shrines to no creed or code confined; The Delphian vales, the Palestines, The Meccas of the mind."

JAMES WEIR, Sr.

James Weir, Senior, an early Kentucky romancer, was born at Greenville, Kentucky, June 16, 1821. He was the son of James Weir, a Scotch-Irish merchant and quasi-author. He was graduated from Centre College, Danville, Kentucky, in 1840, and later studied law at Transylvania University. He engaged in the practice of law at Owensboro, Kentucky--first known as the Yellow Banks--and on March 1, 1842, he was married to Susan C. Green, daughter of Judge John C. Green of Danville. Weir wrote a trilogy of novels which do not deserve the obscurity into which they have fallen. They were called _Lonz Powers, or the Regulators_ (Philadelphia, 1850, two vols.); _Simon Kenton, or the Scout's Revenge_ (Philadelphia, 1852); and _The Winter Lodge, or Vow Fulfilled_ (Philadelphia, 1854). All of these romances were thrown upon historical backgrounds, and they created much favorable criticism at the time of their publication. Weir wrote numerous sketches and verses, but these were his only published books. Business, bar sufficient to all literary labors, pressed hard upon him, and he practically abandoned literature. In 1869 he was elected president of the Owensboro and Russellville railroad; and for nearly forty years he was president of the Deposit bank at Owensboro. Weir died at Owensboro, Kentucky, January 31, 1906. His son, Dr. James Weir, Junior, was an author of considerable reputation.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _History of Kentucky_, by R. H. Collins (Covington, Kentucky, 1882); letters of Mr. Paul Weir to the Author.

SIMON KENTON

[From _Simon Kenton; or, The Scout's Revenge_ (Philadelphia, 1852)]

By the side of the Sergeant [Duffe, in whose North Carolina home the tale opens] sat a stout, powerfully framed, and wild-looking being, whose visage, though none of the whitest (for it was very unfashionably sunburnt), betokened an Anglo-Saxon; whilst his dress and equipments went far to proclaim him a savage; and, had it not been for his language (though none of the purest), it would have been somewhat difficult to settle upon his race! In a court of justice, especially in the South, where color is considered _prima facie_ evidence of slavery, we wouldn't have given much for his chance of freedom. Simon Kenton, or Sharp-Eye, for such were the titles given him by his parents, and by his border companions, and he answered readily to them both, in his dress and appearance, presented a striking picture of the daring half savage characters everywhere to be found at that day (and, indeed, at the present time) upon our extreme western frontier. A contemporary of Boone, and one of the most skillful and determined scouts of Kentucky, or the "Cane-Land," as it was then sometimes called, Kenton's dress, composed of a flowing hunting-shirt of tanned buckskin, with pants, or rather leggins, of the same material--a broad belt, buckled tight around his waist, supporting a tomahawk and hunting-knife--a gay pair of worked moccasins, with a capacious shot-pouch swung around his neck and ornamented with long tufts of black hair, resembling very much, as in truth they were, the scalp-locks of the western Indian, gave him a decidedly savage appearance, and declared at once his very recent return from a dangerous life upon the frontier. He had been a fellow-soldier of Duffe during the Revolution; but, after the war, being of an adventurous and daring disposition, had wandered out West, where he had already become famous in the many bloody border frays between the savage and early settler, and was considered second, in skill and cool bravery, to no scout of the "Dark and Bloody Ground." On a visit to the Old States, as they were called at that period to distinguish them from the more recent settlements in the West, Kenton was sojourning, for the time, with his old friend and companion in arms, not without a hope that, by his glowing descriptions of the flowing savannas beyond the Blue Ridge, and of the wild freedom of a frontier life, he might induce the latter to bear him company upon his return to Kentucky. Six feet two inches in his moccasins, with a well-knit sinewy frame to match his great height, and with a broad, full, and open face, tanned and swarthy, it is true, yet pleasant and bright, with a quiet, good-humored smile and lighted up by a deep-blue eye, and with heavy masses of auburn hair, and whiskers sweeping carelessly around and about his countenance, Kenton exhibited in his person, as he sat before the fire of the Sergeant, a splendid specimen of the genuine borderer, and no wonder the Indian brave trembled at the redoubted name of Sharp-Eye, and instinctively shrank from a contest with so formidable a foe. Although, now surrounded by friends, and in the house of an old comrade, the scout, as was natural with him from long custom, still held grasped in his ready hand the barrel of his trusty rifle, from which he never parted, not even when he slept, and, at the same time, kept his ears wide awake to all suspicious sounds, as if yet in the land of the enemy, and momentarily expecting the wild yell of his accustomed foe. Notwithstanding he was well skilled in every species of woodcraft, an adept at following the trail of the wild beasts of the forest, and familiar with all the cunning tricks of the wily savage; yet, strange as it may appear, he was the most credulous of men, and as simple as a child in what is generally termed the "ways of the world," or, in other words, the tortuous windings of policy and hypocrisy, so often met with under the garb of civilization. Indeed, it has been said of him "that his confidence in man, and his credulity were such that the same man might cheat him twenty times; and, if he professed friendship, he might cheat him still!" At the feet of the scout lay the inseparable companion of all his journeyings, his dog; and Bang, for such was the name of this prime favorite, was as rough a specimen of the canine species as his master's countenance was of the face divine! But Bang was, nevertheless, a very knowing dog, and, ever and anon, now as his master became excited in his descriptions of western scenes and adventures, he would raise his head and look intelligently at the narrator, and so wisely did he wag his shaggy tail, that more than once the warm-hearted hunter, breaking off suddenly in his narrative, would pat his trusty comrade upon the head, and swear, with a hearty emphasis, "that Bang knew all about it!"

MARY E. W. BETTS

Mrs. Mary E. Wilson Betts, the author of a single lyric which has preserved her name, was born at Maysville, Kentucky, in January, 1824. Miss Wilson was educated in the schools of her native town, and, on July 10, 1854, she was married to Morgan L. Betts, editor of the _Detroit Times_. She died at Maysville two months later, or on September 19, 1854, of congestion of the brain, believed to have been caused by the great gunpowder explosion near Maysville on August 13, 1854. Mrs. Betts's husband died in the following October. While she wrote many poems, her brief tribute to Col. William Logan Crittenden, kinsman of John J. Crittenden, who was a member of Lopez's filibustering expedition to Cuba, in 1850, has preserved her name for the present generation. Colonel Crittenden was captured by the Cubans, shot, and his brains beaten out. Before the shots were fired he was requested to kneel, but he made his now famous reply: "A Kentuckian kneels to none except his God, and always dies facing his enemy!" When, in her far-away Kentucky home, Mrs. Betts learned of Crittenden's fate, she wrote her tribute to the memory of the gallant son of Kentucky, which was first printed in the _Maysville Flag_. The editor introduced the little poem thus: "The lines which follow are from one of Kentucky's most gifted daughters of song. Upon gentler themes the tones of her lyre have oft been heard to breathe their music. To sing to the warrior, its cords have ne'er been strung till now; the tragic death, and last eloquent words of the gallant Crittenden, have caused this tribute to his memory." This poem has been republished many times and in various forms. During the Spanish-American war in 1898 it was often seen in print as being typical of the courage of the soldiers of this country.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Lopez's Expeditions to Cuba_, by A. C. Quisenberry (Louisville, 1906); _Kentuckians in History and Literature_, by J. W. Townsend (New York, 1907).

A KENTUCKIAN KNEELS TO NONE BUT GOD!

[From _The Maysville Flag_]

Ah! tyrants, forge your chains at will-- Nay! gall this flesh of mine: Yet, thought is free, unfettered still, And will not yield to thine! Take, take the life that Heaven gave, And let my heart's blood stain thy sod; But know ye not Kentucky's brave Will kneel to none but God!

You've quenched fair freedom's sunny light, Her music tones have stilled, And with a deep and darkened blight, The trusting heart has filled! Then do you think that I will kneel Where such as you have trod? Nay! point your cold and threatening steel-- I'll kneel to none but God!

As summer breezes lightly rest Upon a quiet river, And gently on its sleeping breast The moonbeams softly quiver-- Sweet thoughts of home light up my brow When goaded with the rod; Yet, these cannot unman me now-- I'll kneel to none but God!

And tho' a sad and mournful tone Is coldly sweeping by; And dreams of bliss forever flown Have dimmed with tears mine eye-- Yet, mine's a heart unyielding still-- Heap on my breast the clod; I'll kneel to none but God! My soaring spirit scorns thy will--

REUBEN T. DURRETT

Reuben Thomas Durrett, founder of the Filson Club and editor of its publications, was born near Eminence, Kentucky, January 22, 1824. He was graduated from Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island, in 1849. The following year he began the practice of law at Louisville, and for the next thirty years he was one of the leaders of the Louisville bar. He was editor of the _Louisville Courier_ from 1857 to 1859, and throughout his long life he has been a contributor of historical essays to the Louisville press. Colonel Durrett was imprisoned for his Southern sympathies during the Civil War, and for this reason he saw little service. In 1871 he founded the Public Library of Louisville; and in 1884 he organized the now well-known Filson Club, which meets monthly in his magnificent library--the greatest collection of Kentuckiana in the world. While his library has never been catalogued, he must possess at least thirty thousand books, pamphlets, manuscripts, and newspaper files. Col. Theodore Roosevelt, Dr. Robert M. McElroy, and many other historical investigators have made important "finds" in Colonel Durrett's library. He has one of the six extant copies of the first edition of John Filson's _History of Kentucke_; and he has the copy of Dean Swift's _Gulliver's Travels_, which Neely, the pioneer, read to Daniel Boone on Lulbegrub Creek, near Winchester, Kentucky, in 1770, as they sat around the evening camp fire. The Filson club was founded to increase the interest then taken in historical subjects in Kentucky, and to issue an annual publication. That this purpose has been well carried out may be seen by the twenty-six handsome and valuable monographs which have appeared.[12] The Club's first book was Colonel Durrett's _The Life and Writings of John Filson, the first historian of Kentucky_ (Louisville, 1884). This work brought Filson into world-wide notice and revived an interest in his precious little history. _An Historical Sketch of St. Paul's Church, Louisville_ (Louisville, 1889); _The Centenary of Kentucky_ (Louisville, 1892); _The Centenary of Louisville_ (Louisville, 1893); _Bryant's Station_ (Louisville, 1897); and _Traditions of the Earliest Visits of Foreigners to North America_ (Louisville, 1908), all of which are Filson Club publications, comprise Colonel Durrett's work in book form. This distinguished gentleman and writer resides at Louisville, where he keeps the open door for any who would come and partake of the wisdom of himself and of his books.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Memorial History of Louisville_, by J. S. Johnston (Chicago, 1896); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. iv).

LA SALLE: DISCOVERER OF LOUISVILLE[13]

[From _The Centenary of Louisville_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1893)]

In the year 1808, while digging the foundation of the great flouring mill of the Tarascons in that part of Louisville known as Shippingport, it became necessary to remove a large sycamore tree, the trunk of which was six feet in diameter, and the roots of which penetrated the earth for forty feet around. Under the center of the trunk of this tree was found an iron hatchet, which was so guarded by the base and roots that no human hand could have placed it there after the tree grew. It must have occupied the spot where it was found when the tree began to grow. The hatchet was made by bending a flat bar of iron around a cylinder until the two ends met, and then welding them together and hammering them to a cutting edge, leaving a round hole at the bend for a handle. The annulations of this tree were two hundred in number, thus showing it to be two hundred years old according to the then mode of computation. Here was a find which proved to be a never-ending puzzle to the early scientists of the Falls of the Ohio. The annulations of this tree made it two hundred years old, and so fixed the date earlier than any white man or user of iron was known to have been at the falls. One thought that Moscoso, the successor of De Soto, in his wanderings up the Mississippi and Missouri rivers, might have entered the Ohio and left the hatchet there in 1542; another, that it might have come from the Spaniards who settled St. Augustine in 1565; another, that the Spaniards who went up the Ohio in 1669 in search of silver might have left it where it was found; and another, that Marquette, when he discovered the Upper Mississippi in 1673, or La Salle, when he sailed down to its mouth in 1682, might have given the hatchet to an Indian, who left it at the Falls. But from these reasonable conjectures their learning and imagination soon led these savants into the wildest theories and conjectures. One thought that the Northmen, whom the Sagas of Sturleson made discoverers of America in the eleventh century, had brought the hatchet to this country; another, that Prince Madoc, who left a principality in Wales in the twelfth century for a home in the western wilderness, might have brought it here; and another, that it might have been brought here by those ancient Europeans whom Diodorus and Pausanius and other classical writers assure us were in communication with this country in ancient times. One of these learned ethnologists finally went so far as to advance the theory of the Egyptian priests, as related by Plato, that the autochthons of our race brought it here before the Island of Atlantis, lying between Europe and America, went down in the ocean and cut off all further communication between the continents.

This hatchet, however, really furnished no occasion for such strained conjectures and wild speculations. If the sycamore under which it was found was two hundred years old, as indicated by its annulations, it must have begun to grow about the time that Jamestown in Virginia and Quebec in Canada were founded. It would have been no unreasonable act for an Indian or white man to have brought this hatchet from the English on the James, or from the French on the St. Lawrence, to the Falls of the Ohio in 1608, just two hundred years before it was discovered by removing the tree that grew over it. The known habit of the sycamore, however, to make more than one annulation in years particularly favorable to growth suggests that two hundred annulations do not necessarily mean that many years. If we allow about fifty per cent of the life of the tree to have been during years exceptionally favorable to its growth, and assign double annulations to these favorable years, we shall have this tree to have made its two hundred annulations in about one hundred and thirty-nine years, and to have sprung from its seed and to have begun its growth about the year 1669 or 1670, when La Salle, the great French explorer, is believed to have been at the Falls of the Ohio. We have no account of any one at the Falls in 1608, or about this time, to support the conjecture that it might have come from Jamestown or Quebec; but we have La Salle at this place in 1669 or 1670, and it is not unreasonable that he should have left it here at that time. In this sense the old rusty hatchet, which is fortunately preserved, becomes interesting to us all for its connection with the discovery of Louisville. It is a souvenir of the first white man who ever saw the Falls of the Ohio. It is a memento of Robert Cavalier de La Salle, the discoverer of the site of the city of Louisville.

FOOTNOTES:

[12] A complete list of the club's publications is: _John Filson_, by R. T. Durrett (1884); _The Wilderness Road_, by Thomas Speed (1886); _The Pioneer Press of Kentucky_, by W. H. Perrin (1888); _Life and Times of Judge Caleb Wallace_, by W. H. Whitsitt (1888); _An Historical Sketch of St. Paul's Church_, by R. T. Durrett (1889); _The Political Beginnings of Kentucky_, by J. M. Brown (1889); _The Centenary of Kentucky_, by R. T. Durrett (1892); _The Centenary of Louisville_, by R. T. Durrett (1893); _The Political Club of Danville, Kentucky_, by Thomas Speed (1894); _The Life and Writings of Rafinesque_, by R. E. Call (1895); _Transylvania University_, by Dr. Robert Peter (1896); _Bryant's Station_, by R. T. Durrett (1897); _The First Explorations of Kentucky_, by J. S. Johnston (1898); _The Clay Family_, by Z. F. Smith and Mrs. Mary R. Clay (1899); _The Battle of Tippecanoe_, by Alfred Pirtle (1900); _Boonesborough_, by G. W. Ranck (1901); _The Old Masters of the Bluegrass_, by S. W. Price (1902); _The Battle of the Thames_, by B. H. Young (1903); _The Battle of New Orleans_, by Z. F. Smith (1904); _History of the Medical Department of Transylvania University_, by Dr. Robert Peter (1905); _Lopez's Expeditions to Cuba_, by A. C. Quisenberry (1906); _The Quest for a Lost Race_, by Dr. T. E. Pickett (1907); _Traditions of the Earliest Visits of Foreigners to North America_, by R. T. Durrett (1908); _Sketches of Two Distinguished Kentuckians_, by J. W. Townsend and S. W. Price (1909); _The Prehistoric Men of Kentucky_, by B. H. Young (1910); _The Kentucky Mountains_, by Miss Mary Verhoeff (1911). No publication was issued in 1912.

[13] Copyright, 1893, by the Filson Club.

RICHARD H. COLLINS

Richard Henry Collins, whom Mr. James Lane Allen has happily christened "the Kentucky Froissart," was born at Maysville, Kentucky, May 4, 1824, over the office of _The Eagle_. He was the son of Lewis Collins (1797-1870), who published a history of Kentucky in 1847. Richard H. Collins was a Cincinnati lawyer for eleven years, but he lived many years at Maysville, where he edited the old _Eagle_, which his father had made famous. In 1861 he founded the _Danville Review_; and in 1874 he published a "revised, enlarged four-fold, and brought down to the year 1874" edition, in two enormous volumes, of his father's history of Kentucky. Unquestionably this is a work of tremendous importance, the most magnificent and elaborate history of this or any other State yet compiled. Traveling the whole State over, obtaining contributions from each town's ablest writer, and then building them upon his father's fine foundation, Collins was able to publish an almost invaluable work. To-day his history of Kentucky, though it certainly contains many errors of various kinds and degrees, is the greatest mine of our State's history which all must explore if they would be informed of our people's past. Dean Shaler and all later Kentucky historical writers have taken pleasure in paying tribute to his work. The one mistake that Collins made, which might have been easily avoided, was to put his manuscripts together in such a manner that the authorship of the various papers cannot be determined; but in this he followed his father's methods; and for this reason the writer has been compelled to reproduce the prefaces of both books, rather than portions of the actual text, for fear he may use matter prepared by a contributor. Collins practiced law in different Kentucky towns, wrote for newspapers and magazines, and spent a very busy and rather active life. He died at the home of his daughter at Maryville, Missouri, on New Year's Day of 1888.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _History of Kentucky_, by Z. F. Smith (Louisville, 1892); _The Blue Grass Region of Kentucky_, by James Lane Allen (New York, 1892).

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

[From _History of Kentucky_ (Covington, Kentucky, 1882, v. ii)]

Twenty-seven years, 1847 to 1874, have elapsed since _Collins's History of Kentucky_ quietly and modestly claimed recognition among the standard local histories in the great American republic. That has been an eventful period. Death, too, has been busy with the names in the Preface above--has claimed alike the author and compiler, Judge Lewis Collins, and about one hundred and fifty more of the honored and substantial names who contributed information or other aid towards preserving what was then unwritten of the history of the State. The author of the present edition (now nearly fifty years of age) is the youngest of the forty-two contributors who are still living; while several of them are over eighty and one is over ninety-two years of age. Time has dealt gently with them; fame has followed some, and fortune others; a few have achieved both fame and fortune, while a smaller few lay claim to neither.

It is not often, as in this case, that the mantle of duty as a state-historian falls from the father to the son's shoulders. It has been faithfully and conscientiously worn; how well and ably, let the disinterested and unprejudiced judge.

The present edition had its origin in this: When Judge Collins died, the Legislature of Kentucky was in session. As its testimonial and appreciation of his services and character, this resolution was unanimously adopted, and on March 21, 1870, approved by Gov. Stevenson:

"_Resolved by the General Assembly of the Commonwealth of Kentucky_:

"That we have heard with deep regret of the death of Judge Lewis Collins, of Maysville, Kentucky, which has occurred since the meeting of this General Assembly. He was a native Kentuckian of great purity of character and enlarged public spirit; associated for half a century with the press of the State, which he adorned with his patriotism, his elevated morals, and his enlightened judgment. He was the author of a _History of Kentucky_, evidencing extended research, and which embodies in a permanent form the history of each county in the State, and the lives of its distinguished citizens, and is an invaluable contribution to the literature and historical knowledge of the State. His name being thus perpetually identified with that of his native State, this General Assembly, from a sense of duty and regard for his memory, expresses this testimonial of its appreciation of his irreproachable character and valued services."

This touching, and tender, and noble tribute to the departed author and editor, was but the culmination of a sympathy broader than the State, for it was echoed and sent back by many citizens from a distance. He had lived to some purpose. It was no small comfort to his family, to know that their bereavement was regarded as a public bereavement; and that his name and works would live on, and be green in the memory of the good people of Kentucky--the place of his birth, the home of his manhood, the scene of his life's labors, his grave. In a spontaneous tribute of praise and sympathy, the entire newspaper press of the State, and many in other States, announced his decease.

* * * * *

That action of the State, and those generous outpourings of sympathy and regard, started fresh inquiries for the work that had made him best known--_Collins's History of Kentucky_. It had been _out of print_ for more than twenty years! It was known that I had been associated with my father as an editor, and then his successor, and had assisted him with his _History_. Hence, many applications and inquiries for the book were made to me; always with the suggestion that I ought to prepare a new edition, enlarged, and bring down to the present the history of the State. It was an important undertaking--as delicate as important. I shrank from the great responsibility, and declined. But the urgency continued, for the necessity of a State history was felt. The great State of Kentucky, the mother of statesmen and heroes, the advance guard of civilization west of the great Appalachian chain, had no published _History_ of the last twenty-six years; and no _History_ at all in book form, _now accessible_ to more than a few thousand of the intelligent minds among her million-and-a-third of inhabitants. The duty of preparing this _History_ sought _me_, and not I _it_. It has been a task of tremendous labor, extending through the long weary months of nearly four years. But it has been a sweet and a proud task, and the _destiny_ that seemed driving me on is almost fulfilled. I wish I could know the verdict of the future upon my labors, but that is impossible. The carping and noisy fault-finding of the dissatisfied and ungenerous few are far from being pleasant; but the consciousness of duty done, with an honest heart, and the praise of the liberal ones who will appreciate the work, will be a noble and a proud satisfaction, and a joy ceasing only with my life.

[Then follow three pages of names of persons whom he thanks for assistance.]

ANNIE C. KETCHUM

Mrs. Annie Chambers Ketchum, poet, naturalist, and novelist, was born near Georgetown, Kentucky, November 8, 1824, the daughter of Benjamin Stuart Chambers, founder of Cardome Academy; her mother was a member of the famous Bradford family of journalists. Miss Chambers was graduated from Georgetown Female College with the M. A. degree. Her first husband was William Bradford, whom she married in 1844, and from whom she was subsequently divorced. After her separation from her husband, she went to Memphis, Tennessee, and opened a school for girls, which she conducted for several years. In 1858 she was married to Leonidas Ketchum, a Tennessean, who was mortally wounded at the battle of Shiloh in 1863. After her husband's death, Mrs. Ketchum returned to Kentucky and conducted a school at Georgetown for three years, but, in 1866, she returned to Memphis, where she again taught for a number of years. Mrs. Ketchum spent the winter of 1875 at Paris, France, pursuing her literary work, and on May 24, 1876, she entered upon the novitiate in a convent there. She afterwards returned to America and her last years were spent in Kentucky. Mrs. Ketchum died in 1904. Her first literary work to attract attention was a novel, entitled _Nellie Bracken_ (Philadelphia, 1855). From 1859 to 1861 Mrs. Ketchum was editor of _The Lotus_, a monthly magazine published at Memphis. _Benny: A Christmas Ballad_ (New York, 1869) was the first of her poems to attract any considerable attention; and her best known poem, _Semper Fidelis_, originally published in _Harper's Magazine_ for October, 1873, is a long, leisurely thing that makes one wonder at its once wide popularity. All of her poems Mrs. Ketchum brought together in _Lotus Flowers_ (New York, 1878). _Lotus_ was her shibboleth, and she never missed an opportunity to make use of it. She made many translations from Latin, German, and French writers, her finest work in this field being _Marcella, a Russian Idyl_ (New York, 1878). _The Teacher's Empire_ (1886) was a collection of educational essays contributed to various journals. Mrs. Ketchum's _Botany for Academies and Colleges_ (Philadelphia, 1887), was a text-book in many institutions for several years subsequent to its publication.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _History of Kentucky_, by R. H. Collins (Covington, Kentucky, 1882); Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1887, v. iii); B. O. Gaines's _History of Scott County, Kentucky_ (1905, v. ii).

APRIL TWENTY-SIXTH

[From _The Southern Poems of the War_, edited by Emily V. Mason (Baltimore, 1867)]

Dreams of a stately land, Where roses and lotus open to the sun, Where green ravine and misty mountains stand, By lordly valor won.

Dreams of the earnest-browed And eagle-eyed, who late with banners bright, Rode forth in knightly errantry, to do Devoir for God and right.

Shoulder to shoulder, see The crowning columns file through pass and glen! Hear the shrill bugle! List the rolling drum, Mustering the gallant men!

Resolute, year by year, They keep at bay the cohorts of the world; Hemmed in, yet trusting in the Lord of Hosts, The cross is still unfurled.

Patient, heroic, true, And counting tens where hundreds stood at first; Dauntless for truth, they dare the sabre's edge, The bombshell's deadly burst.

While we, with hearts made brave By their proud manhood, work, and watch, and pray, Till, conquering fate, we greet with smiles and tears The conquering ranks of grey!

Oh, God of dreams and sleep, Dreamless they sleep--'tis we, the sleepless, dream, Defend us while our vigil dark we keep, Which knows no morning beam!

Bloom, gentle spring-tide flowers-- Sing, gentle winds, above each holy grave, While we, the women of a desolate land, Weep for the true and brave.

Memphis, Tennessee.

FRANCIS H. UNDERWOOD

Francis Henry Underwood, "the editor who was never the editor" of _The Atlantic Monthly_, though he was indeed the projector and first associate editor of that famous magazine, was born at Enfield, Massachusetts, January 12, 1825, the son of Roswell Underwood. He spent the year of 1843-1844 at Amherst College, and in the summer of 1844 he came out to Kentucky and settled at Bowling Green as a school teacher. Underwood read law at Bowling Green and was admitted to the bar of that town in 1847. On May 18, 1848, he was married to Louisa Maria Wood, of Taylorsville, Kentucky, to whom he afterwards dedicated his Kentucky novel. While in Kentucky Underwood wrote verses which he submitted to N. P. Willis, who was then at Washington. The celebrated critic wrote him: "Your poetry is as good as Byron's was at the same stage of progress--correct, and evidently inspired, and capable of expansion into stuff for fame." None of it, however, has come down to us. Underwood's intense hatred of slavery caused him to quit Kentucky, in 1850, after having lived for six years in this State, and to return to Massachusetts, where he was admitted to the bar of Northampton. He enlisted in the Free-soil movement with heart and soul. In 1852 he was clerk of the Massachusetts Senate, which position he left to become literary adviser for the then leading publishers of New England, Phillips, Sampson and Company. In 1853 Underwood conceived the idea of a Free-soil literary magazine, but a publisher's failure delayed its appearance. In November, 1857, however, the first issue of _The Atlantic Monthly_ appeared, Dr. Holmes having christened the "baby," with James Russell Lowell as editor-in-chief, and Underwood as assistant editor. Lowell and Underwood were great friends and they worked together with pleasure and harmony. For two years they were the editors, when the breaking up of the firm of Phillips, Sampson and Company, and the passing of the periodical into the hands of Ticknor and Fields, caused Underwood to resign. From 1859 to 1870 he was clerk of the Superior Criminal Court of Boston; and from 1861 to 1875 he was a member of the Boston School Committee. Underwood's first three works were a _Handbook of English Literature_ (Boston, 1871); _Handbook of American Literature_ (Boston, 1872); and _Cloud Pictures_ (Boston, 1872), a group of musical stories. Then came his Kentucky novel, entitled _Lord of Himself_ (Boston, 1874), which was really a series of pictures of life at Bowling Green in 1844. This tale was well received by the Kentucky press and public, the background and characters were declared realistic, and the author's effort to make something pathetic out of the old system of slavery was smiled at and dismissed in the general pleasure his story gave. In his imaginary Kentucky county of Barry, Underwood had a merry time rehabilitating the past. The character of Arthur Howard is the author himself. _Lord of Himself_ is a work of high merit, and it does not deserve the oblivion into which it has fallen. In 1880 Underwood's second novel, _Man Proposes_, was published, together with his _The True Story of Exodus_. Two years later his biographies of Longfellow and Lowell were issued; and in 1883 his study of Whittier was published. In 1885 President Cleveland named Underwood United States Consul at Glasgow; and three years later the University of Glasgow granted him LL.D. During Cleveland's second administration Underwood was consul at Edinburgh. While in Scotland he wrote his last two novels, called _Quabbin_ (Boston, 1892), and _Dr. Gray's Quest_. In _Quabbin_ he described his native town of Enfield in much the same manner that he had years before written of Bowling Green, Kentucky. Underwood died at Edinburgh, August 8, 1894.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Biographical Catalogue of Amherst College_; _The Author of "Quabbin,"_ by J. T. Trowbridge (_Atlantic Monthly_, January, 1895); _The Editor who was Never the Editor_, by Bliss Perry (_Atlantic Monthly_, November, 1907). Mr. Perry's paper is especially notable for the great number of letters reproduced which Underwood received from the celebrities of his time.

ALOYSIUS AND MR. FENTON

[From _Lord of Himself_ (Boston, 1874)]

It was at this juncture that the youth of many locks and ample Byronic shirt collar appeared on the scene. Aloysius Pittsinger was his name. He was a consolation. His very name, Aloysius, had a sweet gurgle in the sound, resembling the anticipatory and involuntary noises from children's mouths at the sight of sugar lollipops. He was a clerk in Mr. Goldstein's store. There he dispensed tobacco, both fine-cut and plug, assorted nails, New Orleans sugar, Rio coffee, Porto Rico molasses, Gloucester mackerel, together with foreign cloths and homespun jeans, and all the gimcracks which little negroes coveted and the swarms of summer flies had spared.

The appearance of Aloysius happened in this wise. Mr. Fenton was an early riser, but was loath to go to his shop without his breakfast. On the fateful morning he had come down rather earlier than usual. After due search and discussion, it was announced to him that there was nothing at once appetizing and substantial in the house that could, within the desired period, be got ready for the table; and his wife made bold to ask if in this emergency he wouldn't go out and get something. To a hungry man, in the faint interval after a "nipper" and before a solid bit, such a proposition is an unpleasant surprise. But, after devoting the cook and the household generally to immediate pains and inconveniences, and to something more hereafter, Mr. Fenton put on his slouched hat and started out. He mused also.

If I were ambitious of the fame of the great American novelist, or were contending for the fifty thousand dollar prize offered by the publishers of the Metropolitan Album, and hoped to have my thrilling descriptions read by its subscribing army of three hundred and fifty-one thousand chambermaids, I might paint the current of his swift thought thus:

"The air bites shrewdly. Ha, by the mass! Shall I to the _abattoir_ and ask the slayer of oxen for a steak? or a chop from the loin of sheep, a bell-wether of Kentucky's finest flock--Kentucky, state renowned for dainty mutton? Or does the slayer of oxen yet sleep, supinely stertorous, heavy with the lingering fumes of the mighty Bourbon? Perchance he has no steak, no chop!--all gone to feed an insatiable people! Bethink me. Ay--and the _abattoir_ is far, though its perfume is nigh; it is thrice a hundred yards from hence. I will go to the house of the Israelite, Goldstein, and get a fish--a fish dear to losel Yankees, and not scorned by the sons of the sun-land either. 'Tis well. I will make the trial. Haply I shall find that the young man, Pittsinger, whose prænomen is Aloysius, has arisen, and is even now combing his ambrosial locks."

What he _did_ think was something like this:

"It's doggon cold this mornin'. I wonder whether that derned old drunken Bill Stone's got ary bit of fresh meat--and if he's up yet. I don't b'lieve it, for he was drunk's an owl last night at old Red Eye. Besides, it's fer to the slaughter-house. Le's see. I might get a mackerel at Goldstein's. I'll do it. B'iled a little, to take the salt out, and then het with cream, it ain't bad, by a derned sight."

He walked out to the square, occasionally blowing his cold fingers. The shutters were not taken down from Goldstein's front windows, but Mr. Fenton knew that the clerk slept in a little room in a ruinous lean-to back of the store, and he rattled the door to call him. There was no answer, nor sound of any one stirring, and he rattled again. His powerful shake made the square resound. He called, endeavoring to throw his voice through the key-hole, "Aloysius, ain't you up yit? I want a mackerel."

The silence was aggravating, and there were internal qualms that made Fenton doubly impatient.

"Aloysius, you lazy bones! Do you hear? I want a mackerel for breakfast. You're thest the no-countest boy I ever see! If 'twan't for your father, you'd thest starve."

Fenton sadly meditated, and was about to give it up, when he heard a voice within, saying, "Never too late, Mr. Fenton. You shall have your mackerel. You needn't wait. As soon as I get my clothes on I'll tote you over one."

AN AMAZING PROPHECY

[From the same]

"The hardest strain upon the republic is yet to come," said Mr. Pierrepont. "God only knows how the slavery question is to be settled; but no change in policy will be adopted without a severe struggle. If the South is worsted, it will have the terrible problem of the status of the negroes to solve, and it will be a tumultuous time for a generation. The danger to the North in the event of success, or of defeat either, will arise from its wealth. The accumulations at the commercial centres are to make them enormously rich. Money is a power, and never a quiescent one. Your rich men will put themselves into office, or they will send their paid attorneys to legislate for them. They will so touch the subtle springs of finance as to make every affair of state serve their personal advantage. They will make corruption honorable, and bribery a fine art. It is now a mark of decency and a badge of distinction for a public man to be poor. Everyone knows that a public man can't be rich honestly; but you will live to see congressmen going to the capital carrying travelling-bags, and returning home with wagon loads of trunks, and with stocks and bonds that will enable them to snap their fingers at constituents."

"It is the old story of republics," said Mr. Howard. "They are founded by valor, reared by industry, with frugality and equal laws. Wealth follows, then corruption, then the public conscience is debauched, faith is lost, and justice thrust out. Then the general rottenness is shaken by the coming of a new Cæsar, and an empire is welcomed because liberty had already been lost, and anything is better than anarchy. However, let us hope this is far away."

STEPHEN C. FOSTER

Stephen Collins Foster, the celebrated song writer, was born at Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, July 4, 1826. At the age of fifteen years he entered Jefferson College, at Cannonsburg, Pennsylvania, but music had set its seal upon him and he soon returned to Pittsburgh to pursue it. The next few years were almost entirely devoted to his musical studies, though he had a living to make. The year of 1842 found Foster clerking in a Cincinnati store; and during this time his first song, _Open Thy Lattice, Love_, was published at Baltimore. _Uncle Ned_, and _O Susannah!_ followed fast upon his first effort, and the three launched him upon his career. He relinquished his business cares, and surrendered his life to song. In 1850 Foster married Jane McDowell of Pittsburgh, and they lived at New York City for a short time before settling at Pittsburgh. His _Camptown Races_, and _My Old Kentucky Home, Goodnight_, appeared in 1850. It is surely a regrettable fact that the most famous Kentucky song was not written by a Kentucky hand. Foster's only child, Mrs. Marion Foster Welsh, of Pittsburgh, has recently repudiated the ancient tale that is told of the origin of _My Old Kentucky Home_, but as she declined to furnish the real history of the song, saying she would make it known at the proper time, nothing better than the often repeated story can be told here. Foster was visiting his kinsman, Judge John Rowan, at his home, "Federal Hill," near Bardstown, Kentucky, and on this typical Southern plantation, with its negroes and their cabins, _My Old Kentucky Home_ was written. The story is usually elaborated, but as it has been set aside by the author's daughter, further comment is not worth while. It is enough to know that it was written in Kentucky. Foster went to New York City in 1860, and the same year _Old Black Joe_ appeared. _Old Folks at Home_, _Nelly was a Lady_, _Nelly Bly_, _Massa's in the Cold, Cold Ground_, _Old Dog Tray_, _Don't Bet Your Money on the Shanghai_, _We Are Coming, Father Abraham_, and dozens of other songs have kept Foster's fame green. His beautiful serenade, _Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming_, is his highest note in genuine scientific music. Foster died at New York, January 13, 1864, and he was buried in Allegheny cemetery, Pittsburgh. In 1906 the Kentucky home-comers never seemed to tire of _My Old Kentucky Home_, and a fitting memorial was unveiled at Louisville by Foster's daughter in honor of the song's maker. It is known and sung in the remotest corners of the world. Mr. James Lane Allen's fine tribute to the poet's memory may be found in _The Bride of the Mistletoe_:

"More than half a century ago the one starved genius of the Shield [Kentucky], a writer of songs, looked out upon the summer picture of this land, its meadows and ripening corn tops; and as one presses out the spirit of an entire vineyard when he bursts a solitary grape upon his tongue, he, the song writer, drained drop by drop the wine of that scene into the notes of a single melody. The nation now knows his song, the world knows it--the only music that has ever captured the joy and peace of American home life--embodying the very soul of it in the clear amber of sound."

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Atlantic Monthly_ (November, 1867); _Current Literature_ (September, 1901). Strangely enough no formal biography of Foster has been written.

MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME, GOOD-NIGHT

[From _Stephen Collins Foster Statue_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1906, a pamphlet)]

The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky home, 'Tis summer, the darkies are gay; The corn-top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom, While the birds make music all the day; The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, All merry, all happy, and bright, By'n-by hard times comes a-knocking at the door, Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!

CHORUS:

Weep no more, my lady, O weep no more to-day! We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For the old Kentucky home far away.

They hunt no more for the 'possum and the coon, On the meadow, the hill, and the shore; They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon, On the bench by the old cabin door; The day goes by, like a shadow o'er the heart, With sorrow, where all was delight; The time has come when the darkies have to part, Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!

CHORUS:

Weep no more, my lady, O weep no more to-day! We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For the old Kentucky home far away.

The head must bow and the back will have to bend, Wherever the darkey may go; A few more days and the trouble all will end In the field where the sugar-cane grows; A few more days for to tote the weary load-- No matter, 'twill never be light; A few more days till we totter on the road, Then my old Kentucky home, good-night!

CHORUS:

Weep no more, my lady, O weep no more to-day! We will sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For the old Kentucky home far away.

ZACHARIAH F. SMITH

Zachariah Frederick Smith, the Kentucky historian, was born near Eminence, Kentucky, January 7, 1827. He was educated at Bacon College, Harrodsburg, Kentucky. During the Civil War he was president of Henry College at New Castle, Kentucky. From 1867 to 1871 he was superintendent of public instruction in Kentucky. Professor Smith was subsequently interested in various enterprises, and for four years he was connected with the publishing firm of D. Appleton and Company. For more than fifty years he was a curator of Transylvania University. His _History of Kentucky_ (Louisville, 1885; 1892), is the only exhaustive and readable history of the Commonwealth from the beginnings down to the date of its publication. In a sense it is the chronicles of the Collinses transformed from the encyclopedic to the continuous narrative form. Professor Smith's other works are: _A School History of Kentucky_ (Louisville, 1889); _Youth's History of Kentucky_ (Louisville, 1898); _The Mother of Henry Clay_ (Louisville, 1899); and _The Battle of New Orleans_ (Louisville, 1904). He spent the final years of his life upon _The History of the Reformation of the 19th Century, Inaugurated, Advocated, and Directed by Barton W. Stone, of Kentucky: 1800-1832_, which was almost ready for publication when he died. In this work Professor Smith set forth that Barton W. Stone, and not Alexander Campbell, was the founder of the Christian ("Campbellite") so-called "reformation" in this State, and that its adherents are "Stoneites," not "Campbellites," as they are called by the profane. Professor Smith died at Louisville, Kentucky, July 4, 1911, but he was buried at Eminence.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Kentucky in the Nation's History_, by R. M. McElroy (New York, 1909); _The Register_ (Frankfort, Kentucky, September, 1911).

EARLY KENTUCKY DOCTORS

[From _The History of Kentucky_ (Louisville, 1892)]

It is probable Dr. Thomas Walker, of Virginia, was the first physician who ever visited Kentucky. In 1745 he came and negotiated treaties with the Indian tribes for the establishment of a colony, which was announced in Washington's journal (1754) as Walker's settlement on the Cumberland, accompanied by a map, dated 1750. Some time just before 1770, Dr. John Connolly, of Pittsburgh, visited the Falls of the Ohio, and three years later, in company with Captain Thomas Bullitt, patented the land on which Louisville now stands. But little is known of the professional performances of either Walker or Connolly, except the fact that they were both men of superior intelligence, and of far more than average cultivation. They were both known as enterprising business men rather than great practitioners of medicine. In a _History of the Medical Literature of Kentucky_, Dr. Lunsford P. Yandell (the elder) says: "The first surgical operation ever performed in Kentucky by a white man occurred in 1767." Colonel James Smith, in that year, accompanied by his black servant, Jamie, traveled from the mouth of the Tennessee river across the country to Carolina, now Tennessee. On their way, Colonel Smith stepped upon a projecting fragment of cane, which pierced his foot, and was broken off level with the skin. Swelling quickly came on, causing the flesh to rise above the end of the cane. Having no other instruments than a knife, a moccasin awl, and a pair of bullet-molds, the colonel directed his servant to seize the piece of cane with the bullet-molds, while he raised the skin with the awl and cut the flesh away from around the piece of cane, and, with the assistance of Jamie, the foreign body was drawn out. Colonel Smith then treated the wound with the bruised bark from the root of a lind tree, and subsequently by poultices made of the same material, using the mosses of the old logs in the forest, which he secured with strips of elm bark, as a dressing.

Dr. Frederick Ridgely, a favorite pupil of Dr. Rush, was sent from Philadelphia early in 1779, as a surgeon to a vessel sailing with letters of marque and reprisal off the coast of Virginia. This vessel was chased into the Chesapeake Bay by a British man-of-war. As the ship's colors were struck to the enemy, Dr. Ridgely leaped overboard, and narrowly escaped capture by swimming two miles to the shore. He was at once thereafter appointed an officer in the medical department of the Colonial army. A few months later, he resigned his commission, and settled, in 1790, at Lexington, where he speedily attained a leading position as a master of the healing art. From Lexington he was frequently called, in the capacity of surgeon, to accompany militia in their expeditions against the Indians. He was appointed surgeon-general to the army of "Mad Anthony Wayne," returning finally to Lexington, where he took part in the organization of the first medical college established in the West. Dr. Ridgely was a frequent contributor to the _American Medical Repertory_, published at Philadelphia. He was the intimate friend of Dr. Samuel Brown, also of Lexington. At the organization of the medical department of Transylvania University, in 1799, Brown and Ridgely were the first professors. Ridgely, in that year, delivered a course of lectures to a small class, and, as the organization of the faculty had not been completed, no further attempts at teaching were made. Dr. Samuel Brown, like his colleague, Ridgely, was a surgeon of great ability and large experience. These two gentlemen added greatly to the growth and popularity of Lexington by their renown as surgeons. They attracted patients from the remote settlements on the frontier, and were both frequent contributors to the medical literature of that time. The cases reported by these gentlemen were numerous, interesting, carefully observed, and ably reported. Dr. Brown was a student at the University of Edinburgh with Hosack, Davidge, Ephraim McDowell, and Brockenborough, of Virginia. Hosack became famous as a professor in the College of Physicians and Surgeons, at New York; Davidge laid the foundation of the University of Maryland; Brown was one of the first professors in Transylvania University, at Lexington, while McDowell achieved immortal fame in surgery as the father of ovariotomy. Strong rivalry in the practice of medicine at Lexington, between Brown and Ridgely, and Fishback and Pindell, had much to do with the difficulties attending the efforts of the two former to establish the medical school. In 1798, Jenner made public his great discovery of the protective power of vaccination. Dr. Brown, of Lexington, was his first imitator on this continent. Within three years from the date of Jenner's first publication, and before the experiment had been tried elsewhere in this country, Brown had already vaccinated successfully more than five hundred people at Lexington.

JOHN A. BROADUS

John Albert Broadus, the most distinguished clergyman and writer Kentucky Baptists have produced, was born near Culpepper, Virginia, January 24, 1827. At the age of sixteen years Broadus united with the Baptist church; and he shortly afterwards decided to study for the ministry of his church. He taught school for a time before going to the University of Virginia, in 1846, and he was graduated four years later with the M.A. degree. While at the University Broadus was greatly impressed by Professors Gessner Harrison, Wm. H. McGuffey, and E. H. Courtenay. In 1851 Broadus declined a professorship in Georgetown College, Georgetown, Kentucky, in order to become assistant instructor of ancient languages in his _alma mater_ and pastor of the Charlottesville Baptist church. In 1857 it was decided to establish the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary at Greenville, South Carolina, and Broadus, James P. Boyce, Basil Manly, Jr., William Williams, and E. T. Winkler, were the committee on establishment. Boyce and Manly urged the curriculum system, but Broadus advocated the elective system so earnestly that he completely won them over. "So, as Mr. Jefferson had drawn a new American university, Mr. Broadus drew a new American seminary." The Seminary opened in 1859 with the members of the committee, with the exception of Williams, as the professors. Boyce was elected president, and Broadus occupied the chair of New Testament Interpretation and Homiletics. Twenty-six students greeted the faculty; and all were soon hard at work. After a few years, however, the Civil War came and the Seminary shortly suspended. During the war Dr. Broadus was a chaplain in the Confederate armies. At the close of the war work in the Seminary was resumed with seven students enrolled, Dr. Broadus having but one student in homiletics, and he was blind! The lectures he prepared for this blind brother were the basis of the work that made him famous, _The Preparation and Delivery of Sermons_ (Philadelphia, 1870), which is at the present time the finest thing on the subject, a text-book in nearly every theological school in Christendom. Dr. Broadus declined chairs in Chicago and Brown universities, and the presidency of Vassar College, in order to remain with the Seminary, the darling of his dreams. In 1873 he read his notable paper in memory of Gessner Harrison at the University of Virginia; and the next year he joined Dr. Boyce in Kentucky in the effort that was then being made to remove the Seminary to Louisville. His lectures before the Newton Theological Seminary were published as _The History of Preaching_ (New York, 1876). In 1877 the Seminary was removed to Louisville, Dr. Boyce remaining as president and Dr. Broadus as professor of homiletics. From the first the Seminary was a success, it now being the largest in the United States. In 1879 Dr. Broadus delivered his noted address upon Demosthenes before Richmond College, Virginia, which is regarded as one of the very finest efforts of his life. In Louisville he became the city's first citizen, honored and beloved by all classes. In 1886 Harvard conferred the degree of Doctor of Divinity upon him; and later in the same year one of the most important of his books appeared, _Sermons and Addresses_ (Baltimore, 1886). This was followed by his famous _Commentary on Matthew_ (Philadelphia, 1887), which was begun during the darkest days of the Civil War, and is now considered the best commentary in English on that Gospel. Dr. Boyce died at Pau, France, in 1888, and Dr. Broadus succeeded him as president of the Seminary. In January, 1889, he delivered the Lyman Beecher lectures on _Preaching_ at Yale; and some months later his _Translation of and Notes to Chrysostom's Homilies_ (New York, 1889) appeared. In the spring of 1890 Dr. Broadus delivered three lectures before Johns Hopkins University, which were published as _Jesus of Nazareth_ (New York, 1890). He spent the summer of 1892 in Louisville preparing his _Memoir of James P. Boyce_ (New York, 1893); and _A Harmony of the Gospels_ (New York, 1893), his final works. Dr. Broadus died at Louisville, Kentucky, March 16, 1895.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Life and Letters of John Albert Broadus_, by A. T. Robertson (Philadelphia, 1900); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. ii).

OXFORD UNIVERSITY[14]

[From _Life and Letters of John A. Broadus_, by A. T. Robertson (Philadelphia, 1901)]

We had four and a half hours at Oxford, and spent it with exceeding great pleasure, and most respectably heavy expense.

At University College we saw a memorial of Sir Wm. Jones, by Flaxman, which I am sure I shall never forget--worthy of Sir Wm. and worthy of Flaxman. At Magdalen College we saw the varied and beautiful grounds, with the Poet's Walk, where Addison loved to stroll. At New College we visited the famous and beautiful chapel. (New College is now five hundred years old.) These are the most remarkable of the nineteen colleges. You know they are entirely distinct establishments, as much as if a hundred miles apart, and that the University of Oxford is simply a general organization which gives degrees to the men prepared by the different colleges. Then we spent one and a half hours at the famous Bodleian Library, the most valuable (British Museum has the largest number of books) in the world. Oh, the books, the books--the early and rare editions, the illuminated manuscripts of the Middle Ages, the autographs of famous persons, and the portraits, the portraits of hundreds of the earth's greatest ones. Happy students, fellows, professors, who have constant access to the Bodleian Library.

SPURGEON

[From the same]

I was greatly delighted with Spurgeon, especially with his conduct of public worship. The congregational singing has often been described, and is as good as can well be conceived. Spurgeon is an excellent reader of Scripture, and remarkably impressive in reading hymns, and the prayers were quite what they ought to have been. The sermon was hardly up to his average in freshness, but was exceedingly well delivered, without affectation or apparent effort, but with singular earnestness, and directness. The whole thing--house, congregation, order, worship, preaching, was as nearly up to my ideal as I ever expect to see in this life. Of course Spurgeon has his faults and deficiencies, but he is a wonderful man. Then he preaches the real gospel, and God blesses him. After the services concluded, I went to a room in the rear to present my letter, and was cordially received. Somebody must tell Mrs. V---- that I "thought of her" repeatedly during the sermon, and "gave her love" to Spurgeon, and he said such a message encouraged him. (I made quite a little story of it, and the gentlemen in the room were apparently much interested, not to say amused.)

We went straight towards St. Paul's, where Liddon has been preaching every Sunday afternoon in September, and there would be difficulty in getting a good seat. We lunched at the Cathedral Hotel, hard by, and then stood three-quarters of an hour at the door of St. Paul's, waiting for it to open. Meantime a good crowd had collected behind us, and there was a tremendous rush when the door opened, to get chairs near the preaching stand. The crowd looked immense in the vast cathedral, and yet there were not half as many as were quietly seated in Spurgeon's Tabernacle. There everybody could hear, and here, in the grand and beautiful show-place, Mr. Liddon was tearing his throat in the vain attempt to be heard by all. The grand choral service was all Chinese to me.

FOOTNOTE:

[14] Copyright, 1901, by the American Baptist Publication Society.

MARY J. HOLMES

Mrs. Mary Jane Holmes, a family favorite for fifty years, was born at Brookfield, Massachusetts, April 5, 1828. She became a teacher at an early age, and at Allen's Hill, New York, on August 9, 1849, she was married to Daniel Holmes, a Yale man of the class of 1848, who had been teaching the year between his graduation and marriage at Versailles, Kentucky. Immediately after the ceremony he and his bride started to Kentucky, where Mrs. Holmes joined her husband in teaching. In 1850 they gave up the school at Versailles, taking charge of the district school at Glen's Creek, near Versailles. Here they taught for two years, when Mr. Holmes decided to relinquish teaching for the practice of law, and they removed to Brockport, New York, their home henceforth. Mrs. Holmes returned to Kentucky in 1857, for a visit, and this, with the three years indicated above, included her Kentucky life. Having settled at Brockport, she began her career as a novelist. Her first and best known book, _Tempest and Sunshine, or Life in Kentucky_, was published in 1854. Mr. Middleton, one of the chief characters in this novel, was a rather close characterization of a Kentucky planter, Mr. Singleton, who resided some miles from Versailles; and his daughter, Sue Singleton, subsequently Mrs. Porter, always claimed, though facetiously, that she was the original of _Tempest_. It is now known, however, that Mrs. Holmes had not thought of her in delineating the character, and that the Singleton home is the only thing in the book that is drawn from actual life with any detail whatever. In her Kentucky books that followed _Tempest and Sunshine_, she usually built an accurate background for characters that lived only in her imagination. Besides _Tempest and Sunshine_, Mrs. Holmes was the author of thirty-four books, published in the order given: _The English Orphans_; _Homestead on the Hillside_, a book of Kentucky stories; _Lena Rivers_, a Kentucky novel, superior to _Tempest and Sunshine_; _Meadow Brook_; _Dora Deane_; _Cousin Maude_; _Marian Grey_, a Kentucky story; _Darkness and Daylight_; _Hugh Worthington_, another Kentucky novel; _The Cameron Pride_; _Rose Mather_; _Ethelyn's Mistake_; _Millbank_; _Edna Browning_; _West Lawn_; _Edith Lyle_; _Mildred_; _Daisy Thornton_; _Forrest House_; _Chateau D'Or_; _Madeline_; _Queenie Hetherton_; _Christmas Stories_; _Bessie's Fortune_; _Gretchen_; _Marguerite_; _Dr. Hathern's Daughters_; _Mrs. Hallam's Companion_; _Paul Ralston_; _The Tracy Diamonds_; _The Cromptons_; _The Merivale Banks_; _Rena's Experiment_; and _The Abandoned Farm_. About two million copies of Mrs. Holmes's books have been sold by her authorized publishers; how many have been sold in pirated editions cannot, of course, be ascertained. Mrs. Holmes died at Brockport, New York, October 6, 1907.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Allibone's _Dictionary of Authors_ (Philadelphia, 1897, v. ii); _The Nation_ (October 10, 1907).

THE SCHOOLMASTER

[From _Lena Rivers_ (New York, 1856)]

And now Mr. Everett was daily expected. Anna, who had no fondness for books, greatly dreaded his arrival, thinking within herself how many pranks she'd play off upon him, provided 'Lena would lend a helping hand, which she much doubted. John Jr., too, who for a time, at least, was to be placed under Mr. Everett's instruction, felt in no wise eager for his arrival, fearing, as he told 'Lena that "between the 'old man' and the tutor, he would be kept a little too straight for a gentleman of his habits;" and it was with no particular emotions of pleasure that he and Anna saw the stage stop before the gate one pleasant morning toward the middle of November. Running to one of the front windows, Carrie, 'Lena, and Anna watched their new teacher, each after her own fashion commenting upon his appearance.

"Ugh," exclaimed Anna, "what a green, boyish looking thing! I reckon nobody's going to be afraid of him."

"I say he's real handsome," said Carrie, who being thirteen years of age, had already, in her own mind, practiced many a little coquetry upon the stranger.

"I like him," was 'Lena's brief remark.

Mr. Everett was a pale, intellectual looking man, scarcely twenty years of age, and appearing still younger so that Anna was not wholly wrong when she called him boyish. Still there was in his large black eye a firmness and decision which bespoke the man strong within him, and which put to flight all of Anna's preconceived notions of rebellion. With the utmost composure he returned Mrs. Livingstone's greeting, and the proud lady half bit her lip with vexation as she saw how little he seemed awed by her presence.

Malcolm Everett was not one to acknowledge superiority where there was none, and though ever polite toward Mrs. Livingstone, there was something in his manner which forbade her treating him as aught save an equal. He was not to be trampled down, and for once in her life Mrs. Livingstone had found a person who would neither cringe to her nor flatter. The children were not presented to him until dinner time, when, with the air of a young desperado, John Jr. marched into the dining-room, eyeing his teacher askance, calculating his strength, and returning his greeting with a simple nod. Mr. Everett scanned him from head to foot, and then turned to Carrie half smiling at the great dignity which she assumed. With Lena and Anna he seemed better pleased, holding their hands and smiling down upon them through rows of teeth which Anna pronounced the whitest she had ever seen.

Mr. Livingstone was not at home, and when his mother appeared, Mrs. Livingstone did not think proper to introduce her. But if by this omission she thought to keep the old lady silent, she was mistaken, for the moment Mrs. Nichols was seated, she commenced with, "Your name is Everett, I b'lieve?"

"Yes, ma'am," said he, bowing very gracefully toward her.

"Any kin to the governor what was?"

"No, ma'am, none whatever," and the white teeth became slightly visible for a moment, but soon disappeared.

"You are from Rockford, 'Lena tells me?"

"Yes, ma'am. Have you friends there?"

"Yes--or that is, Nancy Scovandyke's sister, Betsy Scovandyke that used to be, lives there. Maybe you know her. Her name is Bacon--Betsy Bacon. She's a widder and keeps boarders."

"Ah," said he, the teeth this time becoming wholly visible, "I've heard of Mrs. Bacon, but have not the honor of her acquaintance. You are from the east, I perceive."

"Law, now! how did you know that?" asked Mrs. Nichols, while Mr. Everett answered, "I _guessed_ at it," with a peculiar emphasis on the word guessed, which led 'Lena to think he had used it purposely and not from habit.

Mr. Everett possessed in a remarkable degree the faculty of making those around him both respect and like him, and ere six weeks had passed, he had won the love of all his pupils. Even John Jr. was greatly improved, and Carrie seemed suddenly reawakened into a thirst for knowledge, deeming no task too long, and no amount of study too hard, if it won the commendation of the teacher. 'Lena, who committed to memory with great ease, and who consequently did not deserve so much credit for her always perfect lessons, seldom received a word of praise, while poor Anna, notoriously lazy when books were concerned, cried almost every day, because as she said, "Mr. Everett didn't like her as he did the rest, else why did he look at her so much, watching her all the while, and keeping her after school to get her lessons over, when he knew how she hated them."

Once Mrs. Livingstone ventured to remonstrate, telling him that Anna was very sensitive, and required altogether different treatment from Carrie. "She thinks you dislike her," said she, "and while she retains this impression, she will do nothing as far as learning is concerned; so if you do not like her, try and make her think you do!"

There was a peculiar look in Mr. Everett's dark eyes as he answered, "You may think it strange, Mrs. Livingstone, but of all my pupils I love Anna the best! I know I find more fault with her, and am, perhaps, more severe with her than with the rest, but it's because I would make her what I wish her to be. Pardon me, madam, but Anna does not possess the same amount of intellect with her cousin or sister, but by proper culture she will make a fine, intelligent woman."

Mrs. Livingstone hardly relished being told that one child was inferior to the other, but she could not well help herself--Mr. Everett would say what he pleased--and thus the conference ended. From that time Mr. Everett was exceedingly kind to Anna, wiping away the tears which invariably came when told that she must stay with him in the schoolroom after the rest were gone; then, instead of seating himself in rigid silence at a distance until her task was learned, he would sit by her side, occasionally smoothing her long curls and speaking encouragingly to her as she poured over some hard rule of grammar, or puzzled her brains with some difficult problem in Colburn. Ere long the result of all this became manifest. Anna grew fonder of her books, more ready to learn, and--more willing to be kept after school!

Ah, little did Mrs. Livingstone think what she was doing when she bade young Malcolm Everett make her warm-hearted, impulsive daughter _think_ he liked her!

ROSA V. JEFFREY

Mrs. Rosa Vertner Jeffrey, one of the most beautiful of Kentucky women, whose personal loveliness has caused some critics to forget she was a gifted poet, was born at Natchez, Mississippi, in 1828, the daughter of John Y. Griffith, a writer of considerable reputation in his day. Her mother died when she was but nine months old, and she was reared by her aunt. When Rosa was ten years of age her adopted parents removed to Lexington, Kentucky, where she was educated at the Episcopal Seminary. In 1845 Miss Vertner--she had taken the name of her foster parents--was married to Claude M. Johnson, a wealthy citizen of Lexington, and she at once took her place as a great social and literary leader. One of her sons, Mr. Claude M. Johnson, was mayor of Lexington for several years, and he was afterwards in the service of the United States government. In 1861 Mrs. Johnson's husband died, and she removed to Rochester, New York, where she resided for two years, when she was married to Alexander Jeffrey, of Edinburgh, Scotland, and they returned to Lexington, her home for the remainder of her life. Mrs. Jeffrey died at Lexington, Kentucky, October 6, 1894, and no woman has yet arisen in Kentucky to take her position as society's favorite beauty and poet. She began her literary career as a contributor of verse to Prentice's _Louisville Journal_. Her pen-name was "Rosa," and under this name her first volume of poems was published, entitled _Poems, by Rosa_ (Boston, 1857). This was followed by _Florence Vale_; _Woodburn_, a novel; _Daisy Dare and Baby Power_ (Philadelphia, 1871), a book of poems; _The Crimson Hand and Other Poems_ (Philadelphia, 1881), her best known work; and _Marah_ (Philadelphia, 1884), a novel. Mrs. Jeffrey was also the author of a five-act comedy, called _Love and Literature_. As a novelist or playwright she did nothing especially strong, but as a writer of pleasing poems her place in the literature of Kentucky seems secure.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _History of Kentucky_, by R. H. Collins (Covington, Kentucky, 1882); _The Register_ (Frankfort, January, 1911).

A GLOVE

[From _The Crimson Hand and Other Poems_ (Philadelphia, 1881)]

In a box of airy trifles--fans, flowers, and ribbons gay-- I chanced to find a tasselled glove, worn once on the first of May. How long ago? Ah me, ah me! twelve years, twelve years today! Alas! for that beautiful, fragrant time, so far in the past away, And crowned with sweeter memories than any other May, Standing alone, in a checkered life--it was my wedding day!

The passing hours were shod with light, and their glowing sandals made Such sunny tracks that they guide me yet through a retrospect of shade. Through changes and shadows of twelve long years, down that love-lit path I stray; The winters come and the winters go, yet it leads to an endless May. No leaves of the autumn have fallen there, and never a flake of snow Has chilled the path of those May-day hours that gleam through the long ago!

The flowering cherry's wild perfume came stealing, bitter sweet, From fragrant breezes drifting heaps of blossoms to my feet; The flowers are dust, but the bees that bore their subtle sweets away Dropped golden honey on the path of that beautiful first of May. And the sweetness clings, for I gather it in wandering back today.

Twelve years! twelve years!--a long, long life for a little tasselled glove! Yet, I treasure it still for his dear sake who clasped with so much love The hand that wore, on that festal night, this delicate, dainty thing-- His forever! bound to him by the link of a wedding ring! The glove is soiled and faded now, but the ring is as bright today As the love that flooded my life with light on that beautiful first of May.

A MEMORY

[From the same]

A memory filled my heart last night With all its youthful glow; Under the ashes, out of my sight, I buried it long ago; I buried it deep, I bade it rest, And whispered a long "good-by;" But lo! it has risen--too sweet, too blest Too cherished a thing to die.

In the dim, dim past, where the shadows fall, I left it, but, crowned with light, A spirit of joy in the banquet-hall, It haunted my soul last night. One earnest, tender, passionate glance-- I cherished it--that was all, As we drifted on through the mazy dance To a musical rise and fall.

It rose with a weird and witching swell, 'Mid the twinkling of merry feet, And clasped me close in a wild, strange spell Of memories bitter-sweet; Bitter--because they left a sting And vanished: a lifelong pain; Sweet--because nothing can ever bring Such joy to my heart again.

To me it was nothing, only a waltz; To the other it meant no wrong; Men may be cruel--who are not false-- And women remember too long.

SALLIE R. FORD

Mrs. Sallie Rochester Ford, the mother of good _Grace Truman_, was born at Rochester Springs, near Danville, Kentucky, in 1828. Miss Rochester was graduated from the female seminary at Georgetown, Kentucky, in 1849, and six years later she was married to Rev. Samuel H. Ford (1823-1905), a Baptist preacher and editor of Louisville and St. Louis. She was her husband's associate in his literary enterprises, rendering him excellent service at all times. Her last years were spent at St. Louis, in which city she died in February, 1910, having rounded out more than four score years. Mrs. Ford's religious novel, _Grace Truman, or Love and Principle_ (New York, 1857) attracted wide attention in its day, and it was reprinted many times. It was read by thousands of young girls; and ministers descanted upon it in their sermons. While the work sets forth that the Baptist road is the only right of way to heaven, and is sentimental to the core, it is fairly well-written, and it undoubtedly did much good. A copy of it may be found in almost any collection of Kentucky books. _Grace Truman_ was followed by _Mary Bunyan_ (New York, 1859); _Morgan and His Men_ (Mobile, Ala., 1864); _Ernest Quest_ (New York, 1877); _Evangel Wiseman_ (1907); and Mrs. Ford's final work, published at St. Louis, _The Life of Rochester Ford, the Successful Christian Lawyer_.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _How I Came to Write "Grace Truman: An Appendix_ to the 1886 edition; Adams's _Dictionary of American Authors_ (Boston, 1905).

OUR MINISTER MARRIES

[From _Grace Truman_ (St. Louis, 1886)]

May roses fling abroad their rich fragrance on the evening air! May dews glide noiselessly to the newly awakened earth, and lose themselves in her fresh, green bosom. A soft May moon steals above the eastern horizon, and gilds with radiant luster the brow of night. Gentle May zephyrs from their airy home glide over the earth, kissing the lips of the rose, and the tender cheek of the hedge-row violet. Young and tender May leaves whisper to each other tales of love, away, away, in the dark old forests.

And other lips than those of the dancing leaves have whispered tales of love; and mortal ears have heard its sweet low murmurings; and mortal hearts have felt its thrilling inspiration, until the soul, fired beneath its ecstatic power, has tasted of bliss which mortal tongue can never say.

In the hospitable mansion of Mr. Gray, all is excitement and expectancy. She to whom their hearts were so closely wedded, the living, joyous Annie, is tonight to take upon her the marriage vow. She is to wed the man of her heart's free choice, the object of her pure unsullied love. She is to stand in the presence of God and many witnesses, and promise to love and cherish, yea as long as life shall last, him upon whom she has bestowed her girlhood's fresh full confidence and affection.

The house is brilliantly lighted throughout, and everything bears the testimony of free Kentucky hospitality. 'Tis but the twilight hour--early, yet the guests are fast assembling.

* * * * *

It was a simple yet beautiful and impressive scene--that little group as it stood, while the aged man of God, in a solemn and touching manner, united in indissoluble ties the two warm loving hearts before him. The vailed form of the bride, leaning on the arm of him who was henceforth to be her earthly stay; the calm dignified form, and earnest, we might say, almost holy expression of him who was receiving the precious trust--the bent form, and hoary locks, and tremulous voice of the minister--all conspired to make the scene one of solemn beauty and intense interest.

Congratulations followed, and many were the kisses that pressed the blushing cheek of the happy bride, who, with her vail thrown back from her brow and the color playing over her bright face "like moonlight over streams," looked the very embodiment of grace and loveliness.

Fannie calmly waited till the excitement was measurably over; and then approaching her new cousin, leaning on the arm of Mr. Ray, gave them each a fervent kiss and her warmest wishes for their future happiness.

* * * * *

The time passed most delightfully to all present. Mr. and Mrs. Gray moved about among the guests dispensing pleasure and enjoyment wherever they went. But the bride and bridegroom were the chief attraction; she, with her naturally exuberant spirits, heightened by the excitement of the occasion, and yet tempered by her husband's dignified cheerfulness; and he, with his fine conversational powers and affable manner, drew around them an admiring crowd wherever they were. The young ladies and gentlemen promenaded and chatted gayly, while the more elderly ones grouped themselves together in different parts of the room for the purpose of social conversation.

* * * * *

Supper was served in liberal, handsome style; and Mr. and Mrs. Gray, assisted by Mr. and Mrs. Truman, attended to the wants of their guests in the most obliging and attentive manner. And when the hour arrived for the company to disperse to their respective homes, each one went away happy in the thoughts of having passed a most agreeable hour.

Mr. and Mrs. Gray accompanied their daughter to Weston the day after the wedding, when they met with a most welcome reception from Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, who had provided an evening entertainment for the bridal party, and had called together many of their friends.

They remained several days, during which time they saw their daughter nicely and comfortably ensconced in a neat little brick cottage, situated in a very pleasant part of the village, and which was henceforth called "The Parsonage."

Annie, or, we should rather say, Mrs. Lewis, united with the little church of which her husband was now the almost idolized pastor, on the Saturday after her marriage. It had been so arranged by Mr. Lewis that they should be married on Tuesday previous to their church meeting, that she might thus soon cast her lot among his people. She was welcomed with warm hearts and affectionate greeting; and when, on the following morning, her husband led her down into the stream, where but a few months before he had followed Christ in baptism, they received her from the liquid grave, a member of the household of faith, a laborer with them in the vineyard of the Lord.

JOHN E. HATCHER

Col. John E. Hatcher ("G. Washington Bricks"), a newspaper humorist who won wide fame in his day and generation, but who is now quite sealed over and forgotten, was born near Charlottesville, Virginia, in 1828. When a boy his parents emigrated to Tennessee. At the age of twenty years Hatcher became editor of _The American Democrat_ at Florence, Alabama; and in 1852 he purchased _The Mirror_, a paper which General Zollicoffer had established at Columbia, Tennessee. Some time later Hatcher disposed of that property, and accepted a position on the _Nashville Patriot_. He was fast gaining a reputation for his humorous sketches, paragraphs, and rhymes, which were floating through many Southern newspapers under his pen-name of "G. Washington Bricks." Hatcher relinquished the pen for the sword when the Civil War began, becoming an officer on the staff of General Cheatham. After the war, or in 1867, Colonel Hatcher settled at Louisville, Kentucky, joining the staff of Prentice's then fast-expiring _Journal_. When, in the following year, the _Journal_ was united with the _Courier_, he became editor of the _Daily Democrat_; and when that paper was consolidated with the other two to make _The Courier-Journal_, he became one of the editors of the new paper, and continued to write for it so long as he lived. For a short time he did some special work for a Louisville publication known as _The Evening Express_, conducted by Mr. Overton. A few years before his death Colonel Hatcher returned to his old home at Columbia, Tennessee, and founded _The Mail_; but he became "outside editor" of _The Courier-Journal_, laying down his pen for that paper only with his death, which occurred at Columbia, Tennessee, March 26, 1879. Consumption caused his demise and robbed Southern journalism of one of its finest minds. Colonel Hatcher married Miss Lizzie McKnight, daughter of a prosperous merchant at Iuka, Mississippi, and the early death of their only child, a daughter, coupled with consumption, hastened his own death. As an editorial paragraphist Colonel Hatcher has never had a peer in Kentucky or the South. Prentice, the father of the paragraph, was a wit; Hatcher was a humorist; and his writings were often credited to Prentice by those who were not acquainted with the inner workings of the office. Henry Watterson has written this fine tribute to Colonel Hatcher's memory:

He was one of the silent singers of the press, but he lacked nothing of eminence except good fortune; for he was a humorist of the very first water, and had he lived under different conditions could not have failed of the celebrity to which his talents entitled him. Born not merely poor, but far inland, with no early advantages, and later in life with none except those furnished by a rural newspaper; ill health overtook him before he had divined his own powers.... His wit was not so aggressive as that of Mr. Prentice. But he had more humor. He died in the prime of life and left behind him a professional tradition, which is cherished by the little circle of friends to whom a charming personality and many brilliant gifts made him very dear.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Courier-Journal_ (March 27, 1879); _Oddities of Southern Life_, by Henry Watterson (Boston, 1882).

NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPHS

[From _The Courier-Journal_]

Garters with monogram clasps are now worn by the pretty girls. They are rather a novelty yet, but we hope to see more of them.

"The New York _Telegraph_ advises people to marry for love and not for money." Good advice, certainly; but inasmuch as you will always be in want of money if you marry for love, and always in want of love if you marry for money, your safest way is to marry for a little of both.

Some of our contemporaries will persist in speaking of us as a "rebel." That we fought for the stars and bars with a heroism of which Marathon, Leuctra, and Thermopylae never even dreamed, the bones of half-a-dozen substitutes which lie bleeding upon as many "stormy heights and carnage covered fields" bear testimony abundant and indisputable, and that we suffer ourselves still to be called a "rebel" without unsheathing the avenging dagger and wading up to our knees in gore, is simply because there is already as much blood upon the hands of our substitutes as we can furnish soap to wash off without becoming a bankrupt. Nevertheless, if this thing is much longer persisted in, there may come a time when virtue will cease to be a forebearance. One more taste of blood, this sanguinary arm once more uplifted to smite, and the world will shudder.

General Grant says he won't call an extra session of Congress unless the war in Europe is likely to give us trouble. So he is determined that if the gods bring us one calamity, he will immediately step forward with another.

For list of candidates see first page.--_Banner_. For the candidates themselves--but you needn't trouble yourself to see them; they'll see you.

The French General Failly, who was killed by a Prussian shell, and was afterward murdered by his own soldiers, and subsequently blew out his own brains, is now a prisoner at Mayence--whether dead or alive, the telegraph does not inform us.

The Glasgow _Times_ tells of a man in Georgia, fifty years of age, who never in his life drank a glass of whiskey, smoked a pipe, or courted a woman. The poor wretch has lived utterly in vain. The man who has never sat by a beautiful woman, with a pipe in his mouth, a glass of whiskey in one hand, and the whalebones of her palpitating stays in the other, and "with a lip unused to the cool breath of reason, told his love," has no more idea of Paradise than a deaf and dumb orang-outang has of metaphysics. Even without the pipe and whiskey there is, strictly speaking, nothing disagreeable about it.

The United States navy has but one Admiral Poor. We wish we could say it has but one poor admiral.

WILLIAM C. WATTS

William Courtney Watts, author of a single historical novel which is regarded by many as the finest work of its kind yet done by a Kentucky hand, was born at Salem, Kentucky, February 7, 1830. His family has no record of his school days, but he was married to Miss Nannie Ferguson when a young man, and six children were born to them. Watts's early years were spent at Salem and Smithland, Kentucky, but he later went to New Orleans as a clerk in the firm of Givens, Watts and Company, cotton brokers. He shortly afterwards joined the New York branch of this New Orleans house, known as Watts, Crowe and Company, as a partner in the business; and from New York Watts went to Liverpool, England, to represent the firm of W. C. Watts and Company, which was the foreign title for the New Orleans and New York houses. For some years the business was very prosperous, and Watts, of course, shared largely in the firm's success. After the usual congratulatory messages between England and the United States had been exchanged, Watts is said to have sent the first cablegram across the Atlantic. After many years of prosperity, failure overtook the house of Watts, and he returned to New York, setting up in business with a Mr. Slaughter. Some time subsequently he came back to Kentucky, making his home in Smithland, but rheumatism ruined his health, causing lameness, and making him an invalid for the remainder of his life. In Smithland, during days of illness, Watts wrote his splendid story, _The Chronicles of a Kentucky Settlement_ (New York, 1897). This novel of early Kentucky life is one of the most charming and delightful tales ever told by an American author, although founded upon fact and, in a sense, twice-told. _The Chronicles_ is the only book Watts wrote, and he has come down to posterity with this single story in his feeble hand. The preface, signed on the sixty-seventh anniversary of his birth, was done but ten months before his death, which occurred at Smithland, Kentucky December 27, 1897. He is buried in the cemetery of the little Kentucky town over which he cast the glamour of romance, almost unknown to its citizen of this day, and still unappreciated and unheralded by Kentuckians. His _Chronicles_ is known only to the student and collector, as it was never properly put before the public, though published by a powerful New York firm. His family knows little of his life and is quite careless of his fame. In years to come the _Chronicles_ may take high rank among the finest series of historical pictures ever penned of a single Southern settlement, and then William Courtney Watts will come into his very own.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Courier-Journal_ (December 28, 1897); letter from Watts's daughter to the author.

A WEDDING AND A DANCE[15]

[From _Chronicles of a Kentucky Settlement_ (New York, 1897)]

A few weeks after the race there was a grand wedding, and, this time, Squire Howard united in holy matrimony Jefferson Brantley and Emily Wilmot, the ceremony taking place at the residence of the bride's father. Joseph Adair and Horace Benton were the groomsmen, and Laura Howard and Ada Howard the bridesmaids. A young lady from Princeton was to have been one of the bridesmaids, but illness prevented her attendance, and Ada Howard took her place. The residence of Mr. Wilmot was too small to admit of dancing, but the company present had a merry time--the fun and frolic being kept up until a late hour. It was then the custom to "give" (hold) the infare at the residence of the groom's parents or some other near relative, but, as Mr. Brantley had no relatives in the county, his infare was held at the Brick Hotel in Salem, and great were the preparations made on the occasion--never had such an elegant and sumptuous table been spread in those "parts"; there were meats of many sorts, including barbacued pigs, and cakes, pastries, fruits, nuts, and wines and liquors in abundance. Silas Holman and Billy Wilmot were never in better trim, and their fiddles seemed the fountain of such ecstatic sounds as to set the nerves of old as well as young tingling with a pleasurable excitement which could only find its true expression in the quick and graceful movements of the dance. And dancing there was, and such dancing! There was Bird McCoy, who could "cut the double shuffle,"--spring into the air, strike his feet together thrice before lighting, and not lose step to the music. And among the young ladies--many of them country girls whose lives in the open air made them as active as squirrels and as graceful as fawns--were many good dancers, but it was conceded that among them all the slight, sylph-like Ada Howard was the best--"the pick of the flock." And the mirth and fun grew "fast and furious," and the "dancers quick and quicker flew." Nor did the fun and frolic cease until faint streaks of light in the East heralded the coming morn. They almost literally

"Danced all night 'til broad daylight, And went home with the girls in the morning."

And yet, be it said that, while there was a good deal of drinking that night, there was no drunkenness, rowdyism, unseemly behavior, or ungentlemanly conversation; for woe to the young man who at such a time and place, when ladies were present, had violated the recognized rules of decorum!

It is certain, however, that several young persons came very near that night being "fiddled out of the church." There was one gay, good-humored, hearty country girl who, when "churched" for dancing that night, admitted that she was "on the floor with the so-called dancers"; that she had a "partner," and took part in the movements; but, she contended, that inasmuch as she had not _crossed her feet_, she had violated no rule of the church. "What," she asked, "if I walk forward and backward and turn and bow _without_ music, is that dancing? And if I do the same when there _is_ music, does that make it dancing?" And the good old brethren, who were sitting in judgment, after mature deliberation, came to the conclusion that they were not "cl'ar on the p'int 'bout crossin' the feet." "And," said one, "if we err, let it be on the side o' marcy." "Yes," replied another, "but let the young sister understand that she must n't do it ag'in." And so the matter was settled.

FOOTNOTE:

[15] Copyright, 1897, by G. P. Putnam's Sons.

J. PROCTOR KNOTT

James Proctor Knott, he who made Duluth famous, was born at Lebanon, Kentucky, August 29, 1830. In 1851 he became a Missouri lawyer, and later a member of the Missouri legislature. For a time he was attorney-general of the state but, refusing to take certain test oaths prescribed for officials, his office was declared vacant and he returned to Lebanon, his birthplace. In 1866 Knott was sent to the lower house of Congress, and he was re-elected two years later. On January 27, 1871, he delivered his celebrated Duluth speech upon the St. Croix and Superior land grant, which effort brought him a national reputation as an orator and humorist, but which injured him as a constructive statesman--if he ever was or could be such a statesman! Knott was in Congress again from 1875 until 1883, when he was elected governor of Kentucky. Governor Knott was not an overly forceful executive, but the people enjoyed his witty stories and speeches, and thus his term wore on and out. It was an era of good feeling, Kentuckians smiling and taking their governor good naturedly at all times. His brief eulogy to remember James Francis Leonard, the Kentucky telegrapher, was the finest literary thing he did while governor of Kentucky. The governor was dean of the law faculty of Centre College, Danville, Kentucky, from 1894 to 1901, when, old age coming on, he returned to his home at Lebanon, where the final years of his life were passed, and where he died on June 18, 1911.

BIBLIOGRAPHY: _Oddities in Southern Life and Character_, by Henry Watterson (Boston, 1883); _The Life of James Francis Leonard_, by J. W. Townsend (Louisville, 1909).

FROM THE DULUTH SPEECH

[From _Oddities in Southern Life and Character_, edited by Henry Watterson (Boston, 1883)]

Hence, as I have said, sir, I was utterly at a loss to determine where the terminus of this great and indispensable road should be, until I accidentally overheard some gentleman the other day mention the name of "Duluth." [Great laughter.] Duluth! The word fell upon my ear with peculiar and indescribable charm, like the gentle murmur of a low fountain stealing forth in the midst of roses, or the soft, sweet accents of an angel's whisper in the bright, joyous dream of sleeping innocence. Duluth! 'Twas the name for which my soul had panted for years, as the hart panteth for the water-brooks. [Renewed laughter.] But where was Duluth? Never, in all my limited reading, had my vision been gladdened by seeing the celestial word in print. [Laughter.] And I felt a profounder humiliation in my ignorance that its dulcet syllables had never before ravished my delighted ear. [Roars of laughter.] I was certain the draughtsman of this bill had never heard of it, or it would have been designated as one of the termini of this road. I asked my friends about it, but they knew nothing of it. I rushed to the library and examined all the maps I could find. [Laughter.] I discovered in one of them a delicate, hair-like line, diverging from the Mississippi near a place marked Prescott, which I supposed was intended to represent the river St. Croix, but I could nowhere find Duluth.

Nevertheless, I was confident it existed somewhere, and that its discovery would constitute the crowning glory of the present century, if not of all modern times. [Laughter.] I knew it was bound to exist in the very nature of things; that the symmetry and perfection of our planetary system would be incomplete without it [renewed laughter]; that the elements of material nature would long since have resolved themselves back into original chaos if there had been such a hiatus in creation as would have resulted from leaving out Duluth. [Roars of laughter.] In fact, sir, I was overwhelmed with the conviction that Duluth not only existed somewhere, but that wherever it was it was a great and glorious place. I was convinced that the greatest calamity that ever befell the benighted nations of the ancient world was in their having passed away without a knowledge of the actual existence of Duluth; that their fabled Atlantis, never seen save by the hallowed vision of inspired poesy, was, in fact, but another name for Duluth; that the golden orchard of the Hesperides was but a poetical synonym for the beer gardens in the vicinity of Duluth. [Great laughter.] I was certain that Herodotus had died a miserable death because in all his travels and with all his geographical research he had never heard of Duluth. [Laughter.] I knew that if the immortal spirit of Homer could look down from another heaven than that created by his own celestial genius upon the long lines of pilgrims from every nation of the earth to the gushing fountain of poesy opened by the touch of his magic wand; if he could be permitted to behold the vast assemblage of grand and glorious productions of the lyric art called into being by his own inspired strains, he would weep tears of bitter anguish that, instead of lavishing all the stores of his mighty genius upon the fall of Ilion, it had not been his more blessed lot to crystalize in deathless song the rising glories of Duluth. [Great and continued laughter.] Yet, sir, had it not been for this map, kindly furnished me by the legislature of Minnesota, I might have gone down to my obscure and humble grave in an agony of despair, because I could nowhere find Duluth. [Renewed laughter.] Had such been my melancholy fate, I have no doubt that, with the last feeble pulsation of my breaking heart, with the last faint exhalation of my fleeting breath, I should have whispered, "Where is Duluth?" [Roars of laughter.]

GEORGE G. VEST

George Graham Vest, exquisite eulogist of man's good friend, the dog, was born at Frankfort, Kentucky, December 6, 1830. At the age of eighteen years Vest was graduated from Centre College, Danville, Kentucky; and five years later Transylvania University granted him his degree in law. The year of his graduation from Transylvania, 1853, Vest went to Missouri, settling at Georgetown. He rapidly attained a State-wide reputation as a lawyer and orator. In 1860 he was a presidential elector on the Democratic ticket, and a member of the Missouri House of Representatives. Vest's sympathy lay with the South and he resigned his seat in the legislature in order to become a member of the Confederate Congress. He served two years in the Confederate House and one year in the Senate. After the war he resumed the practice of his profession at Sedalia, but he later removed to Kansas City. In 1878 Vest was elected United States Senator from Missouri and this position he held until 1903. In the Senate his powers as an orator and debater were generally recognized, and he became a national figure. Of the many speeches that Senator Vest made, his tribute to the dog, made in a jury trial, is the one thing that will keep his memory green for many years. It appears that Senator Vest was called into a case in which one party was endeavoring to recover damages for the death of a favorite dog, and when it came time for him to speak he arose and delivered his tribute to the dog, and then resumed his seat without having mentioned the case before the jury in any way whatsoever. The jury understood however, and the Senator won his case. Senator Vest died at Sweet Springs, Missouri, August 9, 1904.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1888, v. vi); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. xii).

JEFFERSON'S PASSPORTS TO IMMORTALITY[16]

[From _The Writings of Thomas Jefferson_ (Washington, 1905, v. xii)]

Upon the canvas of the past, Washington and Jefferson stand forth the central figures in our struggle for independence. The character of the former was so rounded and justly proportioned, that, so long as our country lives, or a single community of Americans can be found, Washington will be "First in war, first in peace, and first in the hearts of his countrymen."

To Washington we are more indebted than to any one man for national existence; but what availed the heroism of Bunker Hill, the sufferings of Valley Forge, or the triumph of Yorktown, if the government they established had been but an imitation of the monarchy from which we had separated?

To Jefferson we owe eternal gratitude for his sublime confidence in popular government, and his unfaltering courage in defending at all times and in all places, the great truth, that "All governments derive their just powers from the consent of the governed."

The love of liberty is found not in palaces, but with the poor and oppressed. It flutters in the heart of the caged bird, and sighs with the worn and wasted prisoner in his dungeon. It has gone with martyrs to the stake, and kissed their burning lips as the tortured spirit winged its flight to God!

In the temple of this deity Jefferson was high priest!

For myself, I worship no mortal man living or dead; but if I could kneel at such a shrine, it would be with uncovered head and loving heart at the grave of Thomas Jefferson.

EULOGY OF THE DOG

[From _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. xii)]

Gentlemen of the Jury:

The best human friend a man has in the world may turn against him and become his enemy. His son or daughter that he has reared with loving care may prove ungrateful. Those who are nearest and dearest to us, those whom we trust with our happiness and our good name may become traitors to their faith. The money that a man has he may lose. It flies away from him, perhaps, when he needs it most. A man's reputation may be sacrificed in a moment of ill-considered action. The people who are prone to fall on their knees to do us honor when success is with us may be the first to throw the stone of malice when failure settles its cloud upon our heads. The one absolutely unselfish friend that a man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deceives him, the one that never proves ungrateful and treacherous is his dog.

A man's dog stands by him in prosperity and in poverty, in health and in sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground where the wintry wind blows and the snow drifts fiercely, if only he may be near his master's side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer. He will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounter with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert he remains. When riches take wings and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journeys through the heavens. If fortune drives the master forth an outcast in the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying, to guard against danger, to fight against his enemies, and when, the last scene of all comes and when death takes the master in its embrace and his body is laid away in the cold ground, no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by the graveside may the noble dog be found, his head between his paws, his eyes sad but open in alert watchfulness, faithful and true even in death.

FOOTNOTE:

[16] Copyright, 1905, by the Thomas Jefferson Memorial Association.

WILLIAM P. JOHNSTON

William Preston Johnston, biographer and poet, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, January 5, 1831, the son of the famous Confederate general, Albert Sidney Johnston. He was graduated from Yale in 1852. During the Civil War young Johnston was on the staff of Jefferson Davis. After the war he was professor of history and literature in Washington and Lee University, Lexington, Virginia, for ten years. In 1880 he accepted the presidency of Louisiana State University, at Baton Rouge. Paul Tulane's magnificent gift in 1883 made Tulane University possible, and Johnston became its first president. This position he held until his death, which occurred at New Orleans, July 16, 1899. President Johnston's _Life of General Albert Sidney Johnston_ (New York, 1878), is one of the most admirable biographies ever written by a Kentuckian. His graphic description of the battle of Shiloh, in which his famous father met death and the South defeat, is now accepted, even in the North, as the best account of that desperate conflict. Had General Johnston lived a day longer no one can even guess what it would have meant to the South and to the North. President Johnston was also the author of _The Prototype of Hamlet_ (1890), in which his power as a Shakesperian scholar is well proved; and he published _The Johnstons of Salisbury_. He was a maker of charming verse, which may be read in his three collections, _My Garden Walk_ (1894), _Pictures of the Patriarchs_ (1896), and _Seekers After God_ (Louisville, 1898), a book of sonnets. As a man, Johnston was a true type of the courtly Southern soldier and scholar.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1888, v. iii); _William Preston Johnston's Work for a New South_, by A. D. Mayo (Washington, 1900); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. vii).

BATTLE OF SHILOH--SUNDAY MORNING

[From _The Life of Gen. Albert Sidney Johnston_ (New York, 1879)]

Saturday afternoon, April 5th, the sun, breaking through the mists which drifted away, set in a cloudless sky. The night was clear, calm, and beautiful. General Johnston, tired out with the vigils of the night before, slept quietly in an ambulance-wagon, his staff bivouacking by the camp-fires around him. Some of Hardee's troops having wasted their rations, he and Bragg spent a large part of the night getting up provisions for them. Before the faintest glimmer of dawn, the wide forest was alive with preparations for the mighty contest of the coming day. No bugle-note sounded, and no drum beat the reveillé; but men took their hasty morning meal, and looked with sharp attention to the arms that were to decide the fortunes of the fight. The cool, gray dawn found them in motion. Morning opened with all the delicate fragrance and beauty of the season, enhanced by the contrast of the day before. The sky was serene, the air was bracing, the dew lay heavy on the tender green of leaf and herb, and the freshness of early spring was on all around. When the sun rose it was with unclouded brilliancy; and, as it shed its glories over the coverts of the oak-woods, the advancing host, stirred by the splendor of the scene and the enthusiasm of the hour, passed the omen from lip to lip, and welcomed its rising as another "sun of Austerlitz."

The native buoyance of General Johnston's self-repressed temper broke its barriers at the prospect of that struggle which should settle for all time by the arbitrament of arms the dispute as to his own military ability and skill and the fate of the Confederate cause in the West. He knew the hazard; but he knew, too, that he had done all that foresight, fortitude, energy, and strategy, could accomplish to secure a victory, and he welcomed with exultant joy the day that was about to decide not only these great questions, but for him all questions, solving the mysteries of life and death. Men who came within his influence on the battle-field felt and confessed the inspiration of his presence, his manner, and his words. As he gave his orders in terse sentences, every word seemed to ring with a presage of victory.

Turning to his staff, as he mounted, he exclaimed, "Tonight we will water our horses in the Tennessee River." It was thus that he formulated his plan of battle. It must not stop short of entire victory.

As he rode forward he encountered Colonel Randal L. Gibson, who was the intimate friend of his son. When Gibson ordered his brigade to salute, General Johnston took him warmly by the hand and said: "Randal, I never see you but I think of William. I hope you may get through safely to-day, but we must win a victory." Gibson says he felt greatly stirred by his words.

Sharp skirmishing had begun before he reached the front. Here he met Colonel John S. Marmaduke, commanding the Third Arkansas Regiment. This officer, in reply to General Johnston's questions, explained, with some pride, that he held the _centre_ of the front line, the other regiments forming on him. Marmaduke had been with General Johnston in Utah, at Bowling Green, and in the retreat to Corinth, and regarded him with the entire affection and veneration of a young soldier for his master in the art of war. General Johnston put his hand on Marmaduke's shoulder, and said to him with an earnestness that went to his heart, "_My son_, we must this day conquer or perish!" Marmaduke felt himself moved to a tenfold resolution.

General Johnston said to the ambitious Hindman, who had been in the vanguard from the beginning: "You have _earned_ your spurs as major-general. Let this day's work win them."

"Men of Arkansas!" he exclaimed to a regiment from that State, "they say you boast of your prowess with the bowie-knife. To-day you wield a nobler weapon--the bayonet. Employ it well." It was with such words, as he rode from point to point, that he raised a spirit in that host which swept away the serried lines of the conquerors of Donelson.

WILL WALLACE HARNEY

Will Wallace Harney, poet, was born at Bloomington, Indiana, June 20, 1832, the son of John H. Harney, professor of mathematics in the University of Indiana, and author of the first _Algebra_ edited by an American. When the future poet was seven years of age his father removed to Louisville, Kentucky, to accept the presidency of Louisville College. In 1844 President Harney became editor of the Louisville _Daily Democrat_, which he conducted for nearly twenty-five years. Will Wallace Harney was educated by the old grammarian, Noble Butler, and at Louisville College. He became a teacher in the public schools of the city, in which he taught for five years; and he was the first principal of the high school there, holding the position for two years. Know-Nothingism then swept the city and elected a new board of trustees, which requested Harney's resignation. He was appointed to a professorship in the State Normal School at Lexington, which he held for two years. He then returned to Louisville to practice law, but he was shortly afterwards asked to become assistant editor of the _Daily Democrat_; and after his father's death, in 1867, he became editor of that paper. Harney's masterpiece, _The Stab_, that John J. Piatt called "a tragic little night-piece which Heine could not have surpassed in its simple, graphic narration and vivid suggestiveness," was written in Kentucky before 1860. In 1869 Harney removed to Florida, where he planted an orange grove and wrote for the high-class magazines and newspapers of the East and South. From 1883 to 1885 he was editor of _The Bitter Sweet_, a newspaper of Kissimmee. Harney spent the final years of his life with his only son, William R. Harney, a business man of Jacksonville, to whom he inscribed his one book, _The Spirit of the South_ (Boston, 1909). This volume brought together his poems and short stories which he cared to preserve from newspapers and periodicals. The poet died at Jacksonville, Florida, March 28, 1912.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Blue Grass_, by Fannie P. Dickey (Louisville, 1892); _Memorial History of Louisville, Kentucky_, by J. S. Johnston (Chicago, 1896).

THE STAB[17]

[From _The Spirit of the South_ (Boston, 1909)]

On the road, the lonely road, Under the cold white moon, Under the ragged trees, he strode; He whistled, and shifted his heavy load; Whistled a foolish tune.

There was a step timed with his own; A figure that stooped and bowed; A cold white blade that flashed and shone, Like a splinter of daylight downward thrown-- And the moon went behind a cloud.

But the moon came out, so broad and good, The barn cock woke and crowed; Then roughed his feathers in drowsy mood, And the brown owl called to his mate in the wood, That a dead man lay on the road.

FOOTNOTE:

[17] Copyright, 1909, by the Author.

J. STODDARD JOHNSTON

Josiah Stoddard Johnston, journalist and historian, was born at New Orleans, February 10, 1833. He is the nephew of the celebrated Confederate cavalry leader, General Albert Sidney Johnston. Left an orphan when but five years old, he was reared by relatives in Kentucky. He was graduated from Yale in 1853; and the following year he was married to Miss Elizabeth W. Johnson, daughter of George W. Johnson, Confederate governor of Kentucky. Johnston was a cotton planter in Arkansas from 1855 to 1859, and a Kentucky farmer until the Civil War began. He served throughout the war upon the staffs of Generals Bragg, Buckner, and Breckinridge. Colonel Johnston was editor of the old Frankfort _Yeoman_ for more than twenty years; and from 1903 to 1908 he was associate editor of the Louisville _Courier-Journal_. In 1871 Colonel Johnston was Adjutant-General of Kentucky; and Secretary of State from 1875 to 1879. He has been vice-president of the Filson Club of Louisville since 1893; and he is now consulting geologist of the Kentucky Geological Survey. Colonel Johnston's knowledge of plants and mammals is very extensive and most surprising in a man of literary tastes. His tube-roses and flower gardens is one of the traditions of the old town of Frankfort. Colonel Johnston has published _The Memorial History of Louisville, Kentucky_ (Chicago, 1896, two vols.); _The First Explorations of Kentucky_ (Louisville, 1898); and _The Confederate History of Kentucky_. Colonel Johnston is one of the finest men in Kentucky to-day, dignified, cultured, and deeply learned in the history of Kentucky and the West.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Memorial History of Louisville_ (Chicago, 1896); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1909, v. vi).

"CAPTAIN MOLL"[18]

[From _First Explorations of Kentucky_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1898)]

The Revolutionary War was drawing to a close, involving Virginia in its last throes in the devastation of an invading army. The whole eastern portion was overrun by the British forces under Arnold and Tarleton, the capital taken, and much public and private property destroyed everywhere. Charlottesville, to which the legislature had adjourned, Monticello, and Castle Hill were raided by Tarleton's dragoons, and the legislature, Mr. Jefferson, and Doctor Walker barely escaped capture. An interesting incident of the raid is recorded well illustrating the spirit which actuated the American women of that period. Not far distant from Charlottesville, on an estate known as "The Farm," resided Nicholas Lewis, the uncle and guardian of Meriwether Lewis, of the Lewis and Clark expedition to the Pacific. His wife was Mary Walker, the eldest daughter of Doctor Walker. Her husband was absent in the army when Tarleton with his raiders swooped down on her home and proceeded to appropriate forage and every thing eatable and portable. She received the British cavalryman with spirit and dignity, and upbraided him sharply for his war on defenseless women, telling him to go to the armies of Virginia and meet her men. Tarleton parried her thrusts with politeness as well as he could, and after his men were rested, resumed his march.

After his departure Mrs. Lewis discovered that his men had carried off all her ducks except a single old drake. This she caused to be caught and sent it to Tarleton by a messenger, who overtook him, with her compliments, saying that the drake was lonesome without his companions, and as he had evidently overlooked it, she wished to reunite them. From that time she was known as "Captain Moll," and bears that sobriquet in the family records. She was a woman of strong character, was still living at "The Farm" in 1817, and left many descendants in Virginia and in and near Louisville, Kentucky. On the 19th of October, 1781, Tarleton's career closed, and Virginia was relieved from similar devastation for a period of eighty years by the surrender at Yorktown.

FOOTNOTE:

[18] Copyright, 1898, by John P. Morton and Company.

JULIA S. DINSMORE

Miss Julia Stockton Dinsmore ("F.V."), poet, was born in Louisiana about 1833, but most of her long life of nearly eighty years has been spent in Kentucky. For many years Miss Dinsmore published an occasional poem in the newspapers of her home town, Petersburg, Kentucky, but, in 1910, when she was seventy-seven years of age, the New York firm of Doubleday, Page and Company discovered Miss Dinsmore to be a poet of much grace and charm, and they at once issued the first collection of her work, entitled "Verses and Sonnets." This little volume contains more than eighty exquisite lyrics, which have been favorably reviewed by the literary journals of the country. _Love Among the Roses_, _Noon in a Blue Grass Pasture_, _Far 'Mid the Snows_, _That's for Remembrance_, and several of the sonnets are very fine. Miss Dinsmore is a great lover of Nature, as her poems reveal, and she is often in the saddle. A most remarkable woman she surely is, having won the plaudits of her people when most women of her years have their eyes turned toward the far country. Another volume of her verse may be published shortly.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Current Literature_ (June, 1910); _The Nation_ (July 14, 1910).

LOVE AMONG THE ROSES[19]

[From _Verses and Sonnets_ (New York, 1910)]

"What, dear--what dear?" How sweet and clear The redbird's eager voice I hear; Perched on the honeysuckle trellis near He sits elate, Red as the cardinal whose name he bears, And tossing high the gay cockade he wears Calls to his mate, "What, dear--what, dear?"

She stirs upon her nest, And through her ruddy breast The tremor of her happy thoughts repressed Seems rising like a sigh of bliss untold, There where the searching sunbeams' stealthy gold Slips past the thorns and her retreat discloses, Hid in the shadow of June's sweetest roses. Her russet, rustic home, Round as inverted dome Built by themselves and planned, Within whose tiny scope, As though to them the hollow of God's hand, They gladly trust their all with faith and hope.

"What, dear--what, dear?" Are all the words I hear, The rest is said, or sung In some sweet, unknown tongue. Whose music, only, charms my alien ear; But bird, my heart can guess All that its tones express Of love and cheer, and fear and tenderness.

It says, "Does the day seem long-- The scented and sunny day Because you must sit apart? Are you lonesome, my own sweetheart? You know you can hear my song And you know I'm alert and strong And a match for the wickedest jay That ever could do us wrong. As I sit on the snowball spray Or this trellis not far away, And look at you on the nest, And think of those beautiful speckled shells In whose orbs the birds of the future rest, My heart with such pride and pleasure swells As never could be expressed.

"But, dear--but, dear!"-- Now I seem to hear A change in the notes so proud and clear-- "But, dear--but, dear! Do you feel no fear When day is gone and the night is here? When the cold, white moon looks down on you, And your feathers are damp with the chilly dew, And I am silent, and all is still, Save the sleepless insects, sad and shrill, And the screeching owl, and the prowling cat, And the howling dog--when the gruesome bat Flits past the nest in his circling flight Do you feel afraid in the lonely night?"

"Courage! my own, when daylight dawns You shall hear again in the cheerful morns My madrigal among the thorns, Whose rugged guardianship incloses Our link of love among the roses."

FOOTNOTE:

[19] Copyright, 1910, by Doubleday, Page and Company.

HENRY T. STANTON

Henry Thompson Stanton, one of the most popular poets Kentucky has produced, was born at Alexandria, Virginia, June 30, 1834. He was brought by his father, Judge Richard Henry Stanton, to Maysville, Kentucky, when he was only two years old. Stanton was educated at the Maysville Academy and at West Point, but he was not graduated. He entered the Confederate army as captain of a company in the Fifth Kentucky regiment, and through various promotions he surrendered as a major. Major Stanton saw much service on the battlefields of Kentucky, Tennessee, and Virginia. After the war he practised law for a time and was editor of the Maysville _Bulletin_ until 1870, when he removed to Frankfort, Kentucky, to become chief assistant to the State Commissioner of Insurance. Major Stanton's first volume of verse was _The Moneyless Man and Other Poems_ (Baltimore, 1871). This title poem, written for a wandering elocutionist who "struck" the town of Maysville one day, and asked the major to write him "a poem that would draw tears from any audience," made him famous and miserable for the rest of his life. For the nomad he "dashed off this special lyric and it brought all Kentucky to the mourners' bench. It was more deadly as a tear-provoker than 'Stay, Jailer, Stay,' and though the author wrote other things which were far better, the public would never admit it, and many people innocently courted death by rushing up to Stanton and exclaiming: 'Oh, and is this Major Stanton who wrote 'The Moneyless Man?' So glad to meet you.'" One Kentucky poet took the philosophy of _The Moneyless Man_ too seriously, and _A Reply to the Moneyless Man_ was the pathetic result. The rhythm of the poem is very pleasing, but it is, in a word, melodramatic. Major Stanton's second and final collection of his verse was _Jacob Brown and Other Poems_ (Cincinnati, 1875). It contains several poems that are superior to _The Moneyless Man_, but the general reader refuses to read them. From 1875 till 1886 he edited the Frankfort _Yeoman_; and during President Cleveland's first administration he served as Land Commissioner. Besides his poems, Major Stanton wrote a group of paper-backed novels, entitled _The Kents; Social Fetters_ (Washington, 1889); and _A Graduate of Paris_ (Washington, 1890). Major Stanton died at Frankfort, Kentucky, May 8, 1898. Two years later _Poems of the Confederacy_ (Louisville, 1900), containing the war lyrics of the major, was artistically printed as a memorial to his memory. The introduction to the little book was written by Major Stanton's friend and fellow man of letters, Colonel J. Stoddard Johnston, and it is an altogether fitting remembrance for the author of _The Moneyless Man_.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Poems of the Confederacy_ (Louisville, 1900); _Confessions of a Tatler_, by Elvira Miller Slaughter (Louisville, 1905).

THE MONEYLESS MAN

[From _The Moneyless Man and Other Poems_ (Baltimore, 1871)]

Is there no secret place on the face of the earth, Where charity dwelleth, where virtue has birth? Where bosoms in mercy and kindness will heave, When the poor and the wretched shall ask and receive? Is there no place at all, where a knock from the poor, Will bring a kind angel to open the door? Ah, search the wide world wherever you can There is no open door for a Moneyless Man!

Go, look in yon hall where the chandelier's light Drives off with its splendor the darkness of night, Where the rich-hanging velvet in shadowy fold Sweeps gracefully down with its trimmings of gold, And the mirrors of silver take up, and renew, In long lighted vistas the 'wildering view: Go there! at the banquet, and find, if you can, A welcoming smile for a Moneyless Man!

Go, look in yon church of the cloud-reaching spire, Which gives to the sun his same look of red fire, Where the arches and columns are gorgeous within, And the walls seem as pure as a soul without sin; Walk down the long aisles, see the rich and the great In the pomp and the pride of their worldly estate; Walk down in your patches, and find, if you can, Who opens a pew to a Moneyless Man.

Go, look in the Banks, where Mammon has told His hundreds and thousands of silver and gold; Where, safe from the hands of the starving and poor, Lies pile upon pile of the glittering ore! Walk up to their counters--ah, there you may stay 'Til your limbs grow old, 'til your hairs grow gray, And you'll find at the Banks not one of the clan With money to lend to a Moneyless Man!

Go, look to yon Judge, in his dark-flowing gown, With the scales wherein law weighteth equity down; Where he frowns on the weak and smiles on the strong, And punishes right whilst he justifies wrong; Where juries their lips to the Bible have laid, To render a verdict--they've already made: Go there, in the court-room, and find, if you can, Any law for the cause of a Moneyless Man!

Then go to your hovel--no raven has fed The wife who has suffered too long for her bread; Kneel down by her pallet, and kiss the death-frost From the lips of the angel your poverty lost: Then turn in your agony upward to God, And bless, while it smites you, the chastening rod, And you'll find, at the end of your life's little span, There's a welcome above for a Moneyless Man!

"A MENSÁ ET THORO"

[From _Jacob Brown and Other Poems_ (Cincinnati, 1875)]

Both of us guilty and both of us sad-- And this is the end of passion! And people are silly--people are mad, Who follow the lights of Fashion; For she was a belle, and I was a beau, And both of us giddy-headed-- A priest and a rite--a glitter and show, And this is the way we wedded.

There were wants we never had known before, And matters we could not smother; And poverty came in an open door, And love went out at another: For she had been humored--I had been spoiled, And neither was sturdy-hearted-- Both in the ditches and both of us soiled, And this is the way we parted.

A SPECIAL PLEA

[From the same]

Prue and I together sat Beside a running brook; The little maid put on my hat, And I the forfeit took.

"Desist," she cried; "It is not right, I'm neither wife nor sister;" But in her eye there shone such light, That twenty times I kiss'd her.

SWEETHEART[20]

[From _Blades o' Bluegrass_, by Mrs. F. P. Dickey (Louisville, Kentucky, 1892)]

Sweetheart--I call you sweetheart still, As in your window's laced recess, When both our eyes were wont to fill, One year ago, with tenderness. I call you sweetheart by the law Which gives me higher right to feel, Though I be here in Malaga, And you in far Mobile.

I mind me when, along the bay The moonbeams slanted all the night; When on my breast your dark locks lay, And in my hand, your hand so white; This scene the summer night-time saw, And my soul took its warm anneal And bore it here to Malaga From beautiful Mobile.

The still and white magnolia grove Brought winged odors to your cheek, Where my lips seared the burning love They could not frame the words to speak; Sweetheart, you were not ice to thaw, Your bosom neither stone nor steel; I count to-night, at Malaga, Its throbbings at Mobile.

What matter if you bid me now To go my way for others' sake? Was not my love-seal on your brow For death, and not for days to break? Sweetheart, our trothing holds no flaw; There was no crime and no conceal, I clasp you here in Malaga, As erst in sweet Mobile.

I see the bay-road, white with shells, I hear the beach make low refrain, The stars lie flecked like asphodels Upon the green, wide water-plain-- These silent things as magnets draw, They bear me hence with rushing keel, A thousand miles from Malaga, To matchless, fair Mobile.

Sweetheart, there is no sea so wide, No time in life, nor tide to flow, Can rob my breast of that one bride It held so close a year ago. I see again the bay we saw; I hear again your sigh's reveal, I keep the faith at Malaga I plighted at Mobile.

FOOTNOTE:

[20] Copyright, 1892, by the Author.

SARAH M. B. PIATT

Mrs. Sarah Morgan Bryan Piatt, one of Kentucky's most distinguished poets, was born near Lexington, Kentucky, August 11, 1836. Her grandfather was Morgan Bryan, brother-in-law of Daniel Boone, and one of the proprietors of Bryan's Station, near Lexington, famous in the old Indian wars. When only three years old she left Lexington to make her home near Versailles, Kentucky, where her beautiful mother died in 1844. After her mother's death she was sent to her aunt's home at New Castle, Kentucky. Miss Bryan was graduated from Henry Female College, New Castle; and on June 18, 1861, she was married to John James Piatt, the Ohio poet. George D. Prentice, of course, was the first to praise and print Mrs. Piatt's poems and start her upon a literary career. Her husband, too, has been her chief critic, and responsible for the publication of her work in book form. From the first Mrs. Piatt's poems have been deeply introspective, voicing the heart of a woman in every line. Her work has been cordially commended by Bayard Taylor, William Dean Howells, John Burroughs, Hamilton Wright Mabie, and many other well-known and capable critics in America and Europe. Several of Mrs. Piatt's poems were published in _The Nests at Washington and Other Poems_ (Cincinnati, 1861), but her first independent volume, issued anonymously, was _A Woman's Poems_ (Boston, 1871). This is her best known work, made famous by Bayard Taylor in his delightful little book, _The Echo Club_. This was followed by _A Voyage to the Fortunate Isles and Other Poems_ (1874); _That New World and Other Poems_ (1876); _Poems in Company with Children_ (1877); _Dramatic Persons and Moods_ (1880); _The Children Out of Doors and Other Poems_ (with her husband, 1885); _An Irish Garland_ (1885); _Selected Poems_ (1885); _In Primrose Time_ (1886); _Child's-World Ballads_ (1887); _The Witch in the Glass_ (1889); _An Irish Wild-Flower_ (1891); _An Enchanted Castle_ (1893); _Complete Poems_ (1894, two vols.); _Child's-World Ballads_ (1896, second series); and _The Gift of Tears_ (Cincinnati, 1906). These volumes prove Mrs. Piatt to be one of the most prolific and finest female poets America has produced. English reviewers have often linked her name with Mrs. Browning's and Miss Rossetti's, and if she has not actually reached their rank, she has surely shown work worthy of a high place in the literature of her native country. Mrs. Piatt is at the present time residing at North Bend, Ohio, near Cincinnati.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Echo Club_, by Bayard Taylor (Boston, 1876); _The Poets of Ohio_, by Emerson Venable (Cincinnati, 1909).

IN CLONMEL PARISH CHURCHYARD

AT THE GRAVE OF CHARLES WOLFE

[From _An Irish Garland_ (North Bend, Ohio, 1885)]

Where the graves were many, we looked for one. Oh, the Irish rose was red, And the dark stones saddened the setting sun With the names of the early dead. Then, a child who, somehow, had heard of him In the land we love so well, Kept lifting the grass till the dew was dim In the churchyard of Clonmel.

But the sexton came. "Can you tell us where Charles Wolfe is buried?" "I can-- See, that is his grave in the corner there. (Ay, he was a clever man, If God had spared him!) It's many that come To be asking for him," said he. But the boy kept whispering, "Not a drum Was heard,"--in the dusk to me.

(Then the gray man tore a vine from the wall Of the roofless church where he lay, And the leaves that the withering year let fall He swept, with the ivy away; And, as we read on the rock the words That, writ in the moss, we found, Right over his bosom a shower of birds In music fell to the ground).

... Young poet, I wonder did you care, Did it move you in your rest To hear that child in his golden hair, From the mighty woods of the West, Repeating your verse of his own sweet will, To the sound of the twilight bell, Years after your beating heart was still In the churchyard of Clonmel?

A WORD WITH A SKYLARK (A CAPRICE OF HOMESICKNESS)[21]

[From _Songs of Nature_, edited by John Burroughs (New York, 1901)]

If this be all, for which I've listened long, Oh, spirit of the dew! You did not sing to Shelley such a song As Shelley sung to you.

Yet, with this ruined Old World for a nest, Worm-eaten through and through,-- This waste of grave-dust stamped with crown and crest,-- What better could you do?

Ah me! but when the world and I were young, There was an apple-tree, There was a voice came in the dawn and sung The buds awake--ah me!

Oh, Lark of Europe, downward fluttering near, Like some spent leaf at best, You'd never sing again if you could hear My Blue-Bird of the West!

THE GIFT OF TEARS[22]

[From _The Gift of Tears_ (Cincinnati, Ohio, 1906)]

The legend says: In Paradise God gave the world to man. Ah me! The woman lifted up her eyes: "Woman, I have but tears for thee." But tears? And she began to shed, Thereat, the tears that comforted.

(No other beautiful woman breathed, No rival among men had he, The seraph's sword of fire was sheathed, The golden fruit hung on the tree. Her lord was lord of all the earth, Wherein no child had wailed its birth),

Tears to a bride? Yea, therefore tears. In Eden? Yea, and tears therefore. Ah, bride in Eden, there were fears In the first blush your young cheek wore, Lest that first kiss had been too sweet, Lest Eden withered from your feet!

Mother of women! Did you see How brief your beauty, and how brief, Therefore, the love of it must be, In that first garden, that first grief? Did those first drops of sorrow fall To move God's pity for us all? Oh, sobbing mourner by the dead-- One watcher at the grave grass-grown! Oh, sleepless for some darling head Cold-pillowed on the prison-stone, Or wet with drowning seas! He knew, Who gave the gift of tears to you!

FOOTNOTES:

[21] Copyright, 1901, by McClure, Phillips and Company.

[22] Copyright, 1906, by John James Piatt.

BOYD WINCHESTER

Boyd Winchester, author of a charming book on Switzerland, was born in Ascension Parish, Louisiana, September 23, 1836. He came to Kentucky when a youth and entered Centre College, Danville, where he studied for three years. He subsequently spent two years at the University of Virginia. Mr. Winchester was graduated from the Law School of Louisville, Kentucky, in 1858, and that city has been his home ever since. He rose rapidly in his profession; and he later served a single term in the Kentucky legislature, and two terms in the lower House of Congress. President Cleveland appointed Mr. Winchester United States Minister to Switzerland, in 1885, and the next four years he resided at Berne. While in Switzerland Mr. Winchester was an ardent student of the country's history and a keen observer of its aspects and institutions. On his return to the United States he wrote his well-known book, _The Swiss Republic_ (Philadelphia, 1891). A fire his publishers, the Lippincotts, suffered shortly after his volume was issued, destroyed the unsold copies, and the small first edition was soon exhausted. The work has thus become exceedingly scarce.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _National Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1906, v. xiii); _General Catalogue of Centre College_.

LAKE GENEVA[23]

[From _The Swiss Republic_ (Philadelphia, 1891)]

The Lake of Geneva is the largest of Western Europe, being fifty-seven miles long, and its greatest width nine miles; it has its storms, its waves, and its surge; now placid as a mirror, now furious as the Atlantic; at times a deep-blue sea curling before the gentle waves, then a turbid ocean dark with the mud and sand from its lowest depths; the peasants on its banks still laugh at the idea of there being sufficient cordage in the world to reach the bottom of the _Genfer-See_. It is eleven hundred and fifty-four feet above the sea, and having the same depth, its bottom coincides with the sea-level; the water is of such exceeding purity that when analyzed only 0.157 in 1000 contain foreign elements. The lake lies nearly in the form of a crescent stretching from the southwest towards the northeast. Mountains rise on every side, groups of the Alps of Savoy, Valais, and Jura. The northern or the Swiss shore is chiefly what is known as a _cote_, or a declivity that admits of cultivation, with spots of verdant pasture scattered at its feet and sometimes on its breast, with a cheery range of garden, chalet, wood, and spire; villas, hamlets, and villages seem to touch each other down by the banks, and to form but one town, whilst higher up, they peep out from among the vineyards or nestle under the shade of walnut-trees. At the foot of the lake is the white city of Geneva, of which Bancroft wrote, "Had their cause been lost, Alexander Hamilton would have retired with his bride to Geneva, where nature and society were in their greatest perfection." The city is divided into two parts by the Rhone as it glides out of the basin of the lake on its course towards the Mediterranean. The Arve pours its turbid stream into the Rhone soon after that river issues from the lake. The contrast between the two rivers is very striking, the one being as pure and limpid as the other is foul and muddy. The Rhone seems to scorn the alliance and keeps as long as possible unmingled with his dirty spouse; two miles below the place of their junction a difference and opposition between this ill-assorted couple is still observable; these, however, gradually abate by long habit, till at last, yielding to necessity, and to the unrelenting law which joined them together, they mix imperfect union and flow in a common stream to the end of their course. At the head of the lake begins the valley of the Rhone, where George Eliot said, "that the very sunshine seemed dreary mid the desolation of ruin and of waste in this long, marshy, squalid valley; and yet, on either side of the weary valley are noble ranges of granite mountains, and hill resorts of charm and health...." Standing at almost any point on the Lake of Geneva, to the one side towers Dent-du-Midi, calm, proud, and dazzling, like a queen of brightness; on the other side is seen the Jura through her misty shroud extending in mellow lines, and a cloudless sky vying in depths of color with the azure waters. So graceful the outlines, so varied the details, so imposing the framework in which this lake is set, well might Voltaire exclaim, "Mon lac est le premier," (my lake is the first). For richness combined with grandeur, for softness around and impressiveness above, for a correspondence of contours on which the eye reposes with unwearied admiration, from the smiling aspect of fertility and cultivation at its lower extremity to the sublimity of a savage nature at its upper, no lake is superior to that of Geneva. Numberless almost are the distinguished men and women who have lived, labored, and died upon the shores of this fair lake; every spot has a tale to tell of genius, or records some history. In the calm retirement of Lausanne, Gibbon contemplated the decay of empires; Rousseau and Byron found inspiration on these shores; there is

"Clarens, sweet Clarens, birthplace of deep love! Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought; Thy trees take root in love."

Here is Chillon, with its great white wall sinking into the deep calm of the water, while its very stones echo memorable events, from the era of barbarism in 830, when Count Wala, who had held command of Charlemagne's forces, was incarcerated within the tower of this desolate rock during the reign of Louis le Debonnaire, to the imprisonment of the Salvation Army captain.

"Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls; A thousand feet in depth below, Its massy waters meet and flow; Below the surface of the lake The dark vault lies"

where Bonnivard, the prior of St. Victor and the great asserter of the independence of Geneva, was found when the castle was wrested from the Duke of Savoy by the Bernese.

FOOTNOTE:

[23] Copyright, 1891, by J. B. Lippincott Company.

THOMAS M. GREEN

Thomas Marshall Green, journalist and historian, was born near Danville, Kentucky, November 23, 1836, the son of Judge John Green, an early Kentucky jurist of repute, who died when his son was but two years old. Green was graduated from Centre College, Danville, in what is now known as the famous class of '55, which included several men afterwards distinguished. In 1856 Green joined the staff of the _Frankfort Commonwealth_, then a political journal of wide influence; and in the following year he became editor of that paper. He left the _Commonwealth_ in 1860, to become editor of the _Maysville Eagle_, of which he made a pronounced success, its screams smacking not at all of the dignified days of its first editors, the Collinses, father and son. His _Historic Families of Kentucky_ (Cincinnati, 1889), gave him a place among Kentucky historians, but the late Colonel John Mason Brown, of Louisville, gave to Green his greatest opportunity when he published his _The Political Beginnings of Kentucky_ (Louisville, 1889). This work of Colonel Brown's was, in effect, an avowed vindication of the reputation of his grandfather, John Brown, first United States Senator from Kentucky, who, in the stormy days in which his lot had been cast, had been violently attacked for his alleged connection with the Spanish Conspiracy of Aaron Burr, which was charged in a controversy running through many years of violent disputation, to have been an attempt in connection with General James Wilkinson, Judges Sebastian, Wallace, and Innes of the Kentucky Court of Appeals and others to detach Kentucky from her allegiance to the United States, and annex her territory to the Spanish dominions of the South and South-west, through which the much-desired free navigation of the Mississippi would be assured. Colonel Brown was a brilliant man of unusual scholarly attainments and deeply read in American history. These qualities with his large legal training enabled him to present a strong case in the vindication of his grandfather's reputation. His arguments, theories, and proofs were illuminating, able, and to many minds most convincing, while they fell with small effect upon Green and many others who held the opposite view. For this reason Green wrote and published _The Spanish Conspiracy_ (Cincinnati 1891), a wonderfully well informed and clever work, and the one upon which he takes his place among Western historians. Students who would be fully informed as to the many phases--the charges and matter relied upon for defense, pro and con, in this bitter controversy which marshalled Kentucky into two hostile camps, whose alignments were more or less maintained through many strenuous years--must study these two books. They present the last word on either side. Colonel Brown's untimely death, which occurred in 1890, some months before the appearance of Green's book, probably lost Kentucky a reply to the Maysville historian that would have added to the flood of light thrown on this early and vital crisis. _The Spanish Conspiracy_ was supplemented and supported in its conclusions by Mr. Anderson C. Quisenberry's _The Life and Times of Hon. Humphrey Marshall_ (Winchester, Kentucky, 1892). Thomas M. Green died at Danville, Kentucky, April 7, 1904.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Biographical Encyclopaedia of Kentucky_ (Cincinnati, 1878); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v, xv).

THE CONSPIRATORS[24]

[From _The Spanish Conspiracy_ (Cincinnati, 1891)]

The grief of the reader in learning from the _Political Beginnings_, that Humphrey Marshall was "violent, irreligious and profane," will be mollified by the assurance given in the same work that Harry Innes "was a sincerely religious man." It might with equal truth have been stated that Caleb Wallace, who had abandoned the Presbyterian pulpit to go into politics, kept up his church relations, and practiced his devotions with the utmost regularity. Sebastian also, who had cast off the gown of the Episcopal ministry in his pursuit of the "flesh pots of Egypt," continued, it is believed, the exercise of all religious observations, and, in the depth of his piety, deemed a treasonable overture entirely too good to be communicated to an infidel. While John Brown, who had absorbed faith as he sat under the very droppings of the sanctuary, it will be cheerfully conceded was the most devout of the four. On the other hand, John Wood, one of the editors of the _Western World_, whom they afterwards bought, was a reprobate; and young Joseph M. Street, whom they could neither bribe nor intimidate, and the attempt to assassinate whom proved a failure, was a sinner. It is distressing to think that, like Gavin Hamilton, the latter "drank, and swore, and played at cards." It may be that the wickedness of the editors of the _Western World_, and the contemplation of their own saintliness, justified in the eyes of the four Christian jurists and statesmen the several little stratagems they devised, and paid Littell for introducing into his "Narrative," in order to obtain the advantage of the wicked editors in the argument. The contrast of their characters made innocent those little mutilations by Innes of his own letter to Randolph! The same process of reasoning made laudable John Brown's suppression of his Muter letter, his assertion that it was identical with the "sliding letter," and his claim that the acceptance of Gardoqui's proposition would have been consistent with the alleged purpose to make some future application for the admission of Kentucky into the new Union! While the suppression of the resolution of Wallace and Wilkinson in the July convention, and the declaration that such a _motion never was made_, in order to prove the unhappy editors to be liars, became as praiseworthy as the spoiling of the Egyptians by the Israelites! The scene of those four distinguished gentlemen seated around a table, with a prayer-book in the center, planning the screen for themselves and the discomfiture of the editors, would be a subject worthy of the brush of a Hogarth.

FOOTNOTE:

[24] Copyright, 1891, by Robert Clarke Company.

FORCEYTHE WILLSON

Forceythe Willson, "the William Blake of Western letters," was born at Little Genesee, New York, April 10, 1837, the elder brother of the latest Republican governor of Kentucky, Augustus E. Willson. When Forceythe was nine years old, his family packed their household goods upon an "ark," or Kentucky flatboat, at Pittsburgh, and drifted down the Ohio river, landing at Maysville, Kentucky, where they resided for a year, and in which town the future governor of Kentucky was born. In 1847 the Willsons removed to Covington, Kentucky, and there Forceythe's education was begun. The family lived at Covington for six years, at the end of which time Forceythe entered Harvard University, but an attack of tuberculosis compelled him to leave without his degree. He returned to the West, making his home at New Albany, Indiana, a little town just across the Ohio river from Louisville. A year later Willson joined the editorial staff of the _Louisville Journal_, and together he and Prentice courted the muse and defended the cause of the Union. Willson's masterpiece, _The Old Sergeant_, was the "carrier's address" for January 1, 1863, printed anonymously on the front page of the _Journal_. The author's name was withheld until Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes pronounced it the best ballad the war had produced, when Willson was heralded as its author. _The Old Sergeant_ recites an almost literally true story, and it is wonderfully well done. In the fall of 1863 Willson was married to the New Albany poet, Elizabeth C. Smith, and they removed to Cambridge, Massachusetts, where the future executive of the Commonwealth of Kentucky was a student in Harvard University. The Willsons purchased a home near Lowell's, and they were soon on friendly terms with all of the famous New England writers. In 1866 _The Old Sergeant and Other Poems_ appeared at Boston, but it did not make an appeal to the general public. Forceythe Willson died at Alfred Centre, New York, February 2, 1867, but his body was brought back to Indiana, and buried on the banks of the Whitwater river. Willson believed it quite possible for the living to hold converse with the dead, and this, with other strange beliefs, entered largely into his poetry.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. His authoritative biographer, Mr. John James Piatt, the Ohio poet, has written illuminatingly of this rare fellow, with his "almond-shaped eyes," as Dr. Holmes called them, and his Oriental look and manner, in _The Atlantic Monthly_ (March, 1875); _Lexington Leader_ (September 13, 1908). His brother, Hon. Augustus E. Willson, will shortly utter the final word concerning him and his work.

THE OLD SERGEANT

[From _The Old Sergeant and Other Poems_ (Boston, 1867)]

The Carrier cannot sing to-day the ballads With which he used to go, Rhyming the glad rounds of the happy New Years That are now beneath the snow:

For the same awful and portentous Shadow That overcast the earth, And smote the land last year with desolation, Still darkens every hearth.

And the carrier hears Beethoven's mighty death-march Come up from every mart; And he hears and feels it breathing in his bosom, And beating in his heart.

And to-day, a scarred and weather-beaten veteran, Again he comes along, To tell the story of the Old Year's struggles In another New Year's song.

And the song is his, but not so with the story; For the story, you must know, Was told in prose to Assistant-Surgeon Austin, By a soldier of Shiloh;

By Robert Burton, who was brought up on the Adams, With his death-wound in his side; And who told the story to the Assistant-Surgeon, On the same night that he died.

But the singer feels it will better suit the ballad, If all should deem it right, To tell the story as if what it speaks of Had happened but last night.

"Come a little nearer, Doctor--thank you--let me take the cup: Draw your chair up--draw it closer--just another little sup! Maybe you may think I'm better; but I'm pretty well used up-- Doctor, you've done all you could do, but I'm just a-going up!

"Feel my pulse, sir, if you want to, but it ain't much use to try--" "Never say that," said the Surgeon, as he smothered down a sigh; "It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say die!" "What you _say_ will make no difference, Doctor, when you come to die."

"Doctor, what has been the matter?" "You were very faint, they say; You must try to get to sleep now." "Doctor, have I been away?" "Not that anybody knows of!" "Doctor--Doctor, please to stay! There is something I must tell you, and you won't have long to stay!

"I have got my marching orders, and I'm ready now to go; Doctor, did you say I fainted?--but it couldn't ha' been so-- For as sure as I'm a Sergeant, and was wounded at Shiloh, I've this very night been back there, on the old field of Shiloh!

"This is all that I remember: The last time the Lighter came, And the lights had all been lowered, and the noises much the same, He had not been gone five minutes before something called my name. 'Orderly Sergeant--Robert Burton!'--just that way it called my name.

"And I wondered who could call me so distinctly and so slow, Knew it couldn't be the Lighter--he could not have spoken so-- And I tried to answer, 'Here, sir!' but I couldn't make it go; For I couldn't move a muscle, and I couldn't make it go!

"Then I thought: It's all a nightmare, all a humbug and a bore; Just another foolish _grape-vine_[25]--and it won't come any more; "But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the same way as before: 'Orderly Sergeant--Robert Burton!'--even plainer than before.

"That is all that I remember, till a sudden burst of light, And I stood beside the River, where we stood that Sunday night, Waiting to be ferried over to the dark bluffs opposite, When the river was perdition and all hell was opposite!--

"And the same old palpitation came again in all its power, And I heard a Bugle sounding, as from some celestial Tower; And the same mysterious voice said: 'It is the eleventh hour! Orderly Sergeant--Robert Burton--it is the eleventh hour!'

"Doctor Austin!--what _day_ is this?" "It is Wednesday night, you know." "Yes--to-morrow will be New Year's, and a right good time below! What _time_ is it, Doctor Austin?" "Nearly Twelve." "Then don't you go! Can it be that all this happened--all this--not an hour ago!

"There was where the gunboats opened on the dark rebellious host; And where Webster semicircled his last guns upon the coast; There were still the two log-houses, just the same, or else their ghosts-- And the same old transport came and took me over--or its ghost!

"And the old field lay before me all deserted far and wide; There was where they fell on Prentiss--there McClernand met the tide; There was where stem Sherman rallied, and where Hurlbut's heroes died-- Lower down, where Wallace charged them, and kept charging till he died.

"There was where Lew Wallace showed them he was of the canny kin, There was where old Nelson thundered, and where Rousseau waded in; There McCook sent 'em to breakfast, and we all began to win-- There was where the grape-shot took me, just as we began to win.

"Now, a shroud of snow and silence over everything was spread; And but for this old blue mantle and the old hat on my head, I should not have even doubted, to this moment, I was dead-- For my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon the dead!

"Death and silence! Death and silence! all around me as I sped! And behold, a mighty Tower, as if builded to the dead-- To the Heaven of the heavens, lifted up its mighty head, Till the Stars and Stripes of Heaven all seemed waving from its head!

"Round and mighty-based it towered--up into the infinite-- And I knew no mortal mason could have built a shaft so bright; For it shone like solid sunshine; and a winding stair of light, Wound around it and around it till it wound clear out of sight!

"And, behold, as I approached it--with a rapt and dazzled stare-- Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending the great Stair-- Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of--'Halt, and who goes there!' 'I'm a friend,' I said, 'if you are.' 'Then advance, sir, to the Stair!'

"I advanced! That sentry, Doctor, was Elijah Ballantyne! First of all to fall on Monday, after we had formed the line! 'Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome! Welcome by that countersign!' And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak of mine!

"As he grasped my hand, I shuddered, thinking only of the grave; But he smiled and pointed upward with a bright and bloodless glaive: 'That's the way, sir, to Head-quarters.' 'What Head-quarters!' 'Of the Brave.' 'But the great Tower?' 'That,' he answered, 'Is the way, sir, of the Brave!'

"Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uniform of light; At my own so old and tattered, and at his so new and bright; 'Ah!' said he, 'you have forgotten the New Uniform to-night-- Hurry back, for you must be here at just twelve o'clock to-night!'

"And the next thing I remember, you were sitting _there_, and I-- Doctor--did you hear a footstep? Hark! God bless you all! Good by! Doctor, please to give my musket and my knapsack, when I die, To my Son--my Son that's coming--he won't get here till I die!

"Tell him his old father blessed him as he never did before-- And to carry that old musket"--Hark! a knock is at the door! "Till the Union--" See! it opens! "Father! Father! speak once more!" "_Bless you!_"--gasped the old, gray Sergeant, and he lay and said no more!

FOOTNOTE:

[25] Canard.

W. C. P. BRECKINRIDGE

William Campbell Preston Breckinridge, orator and journalist, was born at Baltimore, Maryland, August 28, 1837, the son of Rev. Robert J. Breckinridge (1800-1871), and an own cousin of John C. Breckinridge (1821-1875). He was graduated from Centre College, Danville, Kentucky, in the famous class of '55, after which he studied medicine for a year, when he abandoned it to enter the Louisville Law School. Before he was of age he was admitted to the Fayette County Bar, and he was a member of it when he died. In July, 1862, he entered the Confederate Army as a captain in John Hunt Morgan's command; and during the last two years of the war was colonel of the Ninth Kentucky Cavalry. The war over, Colonel Breckinridge returned to Lexington and became editor of _The Observer and Reporter_, which he relinquished a few years later in order to devote his entire attention to the law. In 1884 Colonel Breckinridge was elected to the lower House of Congress from the Ashland district, and he took his seat in December, 1885, which was the first session of the Forty-ninth Congress. One of his colleagues from Kentucky was the present Governor of the Commonwealth, James B. McCreary; another was John G. Carlise, who was chosen speaker over Thomas B. Reed of Maine. Colonel Breckinridge served ten years in the House, closing his career there in the Fifty-third Congress. In Washington he won a wide reputation as a public speaker, being commonly characterized as "the silver tongue orator from Kentucky." In 1894, after the most bitter congressional campaign of recent Kentucky history, he was defeated for re-election; and two years later as the "sound money" candidate he again met defeat, Evan E. Settle, who was also known in Congress as a very eloquent orator, and who hailed from the Kentucky county of "Sweet Owen," triumphing over him. Colonel Breckinridge was never again a candidate for public office. In 1897 he resumed his newspaper work, becoming chief editorial writer on _The Lexington Herald_, which paper was under the management of his son, Mr. Desha Breckinridge, the present editor. During the last eight years of his life Colonel Breckinridge achieved a new and fresh fame as a writer of large information upon State and national affairs. Simplicity was the goal toward which he seemed to strive in his discussions of great and small questions. His articles upon the Goebel tragedy were really State papers of importance. Upon more than one occasion his editorial utterances were wired to a New York paper, appearing simultaneously in that paper and in his own. He declined several offers to become editor of metropolitan newspapers. While at the present time Colonel Breckinridge is remembered by the great common people as an orator of unsurpassed gifts, and while a great memorial mass of legends have grown about his name, it is as a writer of real ability, who had all the requisites and inclinations of a man of letters save one of the chief essentials: leisure. When his speeches and writings are collected and his biography written his true position in the literature of Kentucky will be more clearly and generally appreciated than it now is. Colonel Breckinridge died at Lexington, Kentucky, November 19, 1904.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. The eulogy of John Rowan Allen is the finest summing up of Colonel Breckinridge's life and labors (_Lexington Leader_, November 23, 1904); _Kentucky Eloquence_, edited by Bennett H. Young (Louisville, Kentucky, 1907). His papers, together with those of his grandfather and father, are now in possession of the Library of Congress.

"IS NOT THIS THE CARPENTER'S SON?"

[From _The Lexington Herald_ (Christmas Day, 1899)]

"And they told him that Jesus of Nazareth passeth by." And this has been the universal truth since those days--the one unchangeable, pregnant, vital truth of development, of progress, of civilization, of happiness, of freedom, of charity. The perpetual presence, the ceaseless personal influence, the potent force of His continual association alone renders human history intelligible or makes possible the solution of any grave problem which man meets in his upward march to better life and more wholesome conditions. And to-day the accepted anniversary of the birth of the "carpenter's son" is the one day whose celebration is in all civilized nations, among all independent people and in all learned tongues. The world has not yet accepted Him; there are nations very large in numbers, very old in histories, very devout in their accepted religions, which have not accepted His claim to be divine, nor bowed to the reign of His supreme authority. And the contrast between such nations and those who have accepted His claim and modeled their laws upon His teachings form the profoundest reason for the verity of that claim and the beneficence of those teachings.

Millions to-day will assemble themselves in their accustomed houses of worship, and with songs and instruments of music, with garlands and wreaths, with glad countenances and uplifted hearts, render adoration to the carpenter's son of Nazareth; adoration to the lowly Jew who was born in a manger and died upon a cross. Many millions will not attend worship, but still render unconscious testimony to the wondrous power which He has exercised through the centuries in the glad happiness which springs from conditions which are only possible under His teachings and by the might of His perpetual presence. They will not know that "Jesus of Nazareth passeth by," but the day is full of joy, the homes are radiant with happiness, the cheer is jovial and the laughter jocund, the eye brightens under the glances of loved ones--because He has passed by and scattered love and charity with profuse prodigality along the pathway He trod.

He has walked through the gay hearts of little children, and joy has sprung up as wild flowers where His footsteps fell; He has lingered at the mother's bedside and ineffable love has filled the heart of her who felt His gentle presence. In carpenter shops like unto that in which He toiled for thirty years, in humble homes, in the counting rooms of bankers, in the offices of lawyers and doctors, in the charitable institutions which are memorials of His teachings, He has passed by; those within may not have been conscious thereof; they were possibly too absorbed to feel the sweet and pervading fragrance of the omnipotent force which He always exerts; yet over them and their thoughts He did exert that irresistible power; and to-day the world is better, sweeter, more joyful, more loving, because of Him.

It is in its secular aspect that we venture to submit these thoughts; it is His transforming power secularly to which we call attention this sweet Christmas morning. "Christ the Lord Has Risen," but it is Jesus the man--Jesus of Nazareth, the son of the carpenter, the new teacher of universal brotherhood, the man who went about doing good; the obscure Jew who brought the new and nobler era of charity and forgiveness and love into actual existence that _The Herald_, a mere secular paper, desires to hold up.

And peculiarly to that aspect of His life that was social; the friend of Lazarus; the diner at the table of Zaccheus; the pleased and kindly guest at the wedding of Cana; the man who leaned His head on the breast of His friend, the simple gentleman who took little children in His arms and loved them; the obedient son, the loyal friend, the forbearing associate, the forgiving master, the tender healer of disease, the loving man who was touched with a sense of all our infirmities.

To-day with jollity let us turn the water of our common lives into the wine of sweet domestic happiness; let us take the children of misfortune to our breast; let us be loyal to our weaker friends; let us share our fullness with our brethren who are lean in this world's goods, and, shedding smiles and kind words, and pleasant phrases through the day, it may be that some stricken heart made glad may say: "Jesus of Nazareth passeth by."

BASIL W. DUKE

General Basil Wilson Duke, historian of Morgan's men, was born near Georgetown, Kentucky, May 28, 1838. He was educated at Georgetown and Centre Colleges, after which he studied law at Transylvania University. He was admitted to the bar, in 1858, and entered upon the practice at St. Louis. In 1861 he was a member of the Kentucky legislature; and in June of that year he married the sister of John Hunt Morgan and enlisted in Morgan's command. Upon Morgan's death, in 1864, General Duke succeeded him as leader of the band. After the war he settled at Louisville, Kentucky, as a lawyer, and that city is his home today. From 1875 to 1880 General Duke was commonwealth's attorney for the Fifth Judicial District; and since 1895 he has been a commissioner of Shiloh Military Park. His _Morgan's Cavalry_ (Cincinnati, 1867; New York, 1906), is the authoritative biography of the noted partisan leader and history of his intrepid band. General Duke was one of the editors of _The Southern Bivouac_, a Louisville magazine, from 1885 to 1887. His _History of the Bank of Kentucky_ (Louisville, 1895), filled a gap in Kentucky history; and his _Reminiscences_ (New York, 1911), was a delightful volume of enormous proportions.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Lawyers and Lawmakers of Kentucky_ (Chicago, 1897); _The Bookman_ (December, 1907).

MORGAN, THE MAN

[From _Morgan's Cavalry_ (Cincinnati, 1867)]

General Morgan had more of those personal qualities which make a man's friends devoted to him than any one I have ever known. He was himself very warm and constant in the friendships which he formed. It seemed impossible for him to do enough for those to whom he was attached, or to ever give them up. His manner, when he wished, prepossessed every one in his favor. He was generally more courteous and attentive to his inferiors than to his equals and superiors. This may have proceeded in a great measure from his jealousy of dictation and impatience of restraint, but was the result also of warm and generous feeling. His greatest faults arose out of his kindness and easiness of disposition, which rendered it impossible for him to say or do unpleasant things, unless when under the influence of strong prejudice or resentment. This temperament made him a too lax disciplinarian, and caused him to be frequently imposed upon. He was exceedingly and unfeignedly modest. For a long time he sought, in every way, to avoid the applause and ovations which met him everywhere in the South, and he never learned to keep a bold countenance when receiving them.

His personal appearance and carriage were striking and graceful. His features were eminently handsome and adapted to the most pleasing expressions. His eyes were small, of a grayish blue color, and their glances keen and thoughtful. His figure on foot or on horseback was superb. He was exactly six feet in height, and although not at all corpulent, weighed one hundred and eighty-five pounds. His form was perfect and the rarest combination of strength, activity, and grace. His constitution seemed impervious to the effects of privation and exposure, and it was scarcely possible to perceive that he suffered from fatigue or lack of sleep.

Men are not often born who can wield such an influence as he exerted, apparently without an effort; who can so win men's hearts and stir their blood. He will, at least, be remembered until the Western cavalrymen and their children have all died. The bold riders who lived in the border-land, whose every acre he made historic, will leave many a story of his audacity and wily skill.

HENRY WATTERSON

Henry Watterson, the foremost Kentucky journalist, and one of the most widely known newspaper men in the United States, was born at Washington, D. C., February 16, 1840. This accident of birth was due to the fact that his father, Harvey McGee Watterson, with his wife, was in Washington as a member of the lower house of Congress from his native state, Tennessee. In consequence of defective vision, Henry Watterson was educated by private tutors; but he did attend the Episcopal School at Philadelphia for a short time. At the age of eighteen years he became a reporter on the Washington _States_; but, in 1861, he returned to Nashville, Tennessee, to edit the _Republican Banner_. Watterson was a staff officer in the Confederate Army, and in 1864 chief of scouts for General Joseph E. Johnston, but throughout the war he was also editing a newspaper. After the war he married and revived the _Banner_, which he edited for about two years, when he removed to Louisville, Kentucky, and succeeded George D. Prentice as editor of the _Journal_. In the following year Watterson, with Walter N. Haldeman, consolidated the _Journal_, _Courier_, and _Daily Democrat_ to form _The Courier-Journal_. The first issue of this paper appeared November 8, 1868, and Colonel Watterson has been its editor ever since. He has made it the greatest newspaper in Kentucky, if not in the South or West, and one of the best known papers printed in the English language. His editorials are unequalled by any other writer in America, either from the point of thought or construction; and his style is always more interesting than his substance. Colonel Watterson has held but one public office, having been a member of the Forty-fourth Congress, in 1876, and the personal friend and most ardent supporter of Samuel J. Tilden in the infamous Hayes-Tilden controversy of that year. Colonel Watterson has been a delegate-at-large from Kentucky in many Democratic presidential conventions, in all of which bodies he has been a conspicuous figure. He is famous as a journalist, orator, and author. His eulogy upon Abraham Lincoln has been listened to in almost every state in the Union, and it is his best known effort in oratory. Though now past his three score years and ten, Colonel Watterson is as vigorous and vindictive as ever in the handling of public questions and of his legion of enemies, as the country witnessed in the presidential campaign of 1912. He edited _Oddities of Southern Life and Character_ (Boston, 1882); and he has written _The History of the Spanish-American War_ (Louisville, 1898); _The Compromises of Life: Lectures and Addresses_ (New York, 1902), containing his ablest speeches delivered upon many occasions; and _Old London Town_ (Cedar Rapids, Iowa, 1911), a group of his European letters to _The Courier-Journal_, edited by Joseph Fort Newton. Colonel Watterson has an attractive country home near Louisville, "Mansfield," but in recent years his winters have been spent at Naples-on-the-Gulf, in Florida, and his summers in "grooming presidential candidates!"

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (February, 1904); _Harper's Weekly_ (November 12, 1904); _The Booklovers Magazine_ (March, 1905).

OLD LONDON TOWN[26]

[From _Old London Town, and Other Travel Sketches_ (Cedar Rapids, Iowa, 1910)]

London, less than any of the great capitals of the world--even less than Berlin--has changed its aspects in the last four decades of alteration and development. During the Second Empire, and under the wizard hand of Baron Hauseman, a new Paris sprang into existence. We know what has happened in New York and Chicago. But London, except the Thames Embankment and the opening of a street here and there betwixt the City and the West End--the mid-London of Soho and the Strand--is very much the London I became acquainted with nearly forty years ago. To be sure many of the ancient landmarks, such as Temple Bar, the Cock and the Cheshire Cheese, have gone to the ash heap of the forgotten, whilst some imposing hostelries have risen in the region about Trafalgar Square; but, in the main, the biggest village of Christendom has lost none of its familiar earmarks, so that the exile set down anywhere from Charing Cross and Picadilly Circus to the bustling region of the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street, blindfold, would, the instant the bandage were removed from his eyes, exclaim, "It is London!"

Yes, it is London; the same old London; the same old cries in the street; the same old whitey-brown atmosphere; even the same old Italian organ-grinders, the tunes merely a trifle varied. Nor yet without its charm, albeit to me of a rather ghostly, reminiscental sort. I came here in 1866, with a young wife and a roll of ambitious manuscript, found work to do and a publisher, lived for a time in the clouds of two worlds, that of Bohemia, of which the Savage Club was headquarters, and that of the New Apocalypse of Science which eddied about the School of Mines in Jermyn Street and the _Fortnightly Review_, then presided over by George Henry Lewes, my nearest friend and sponsor the late Professor Huxley. I alternated my days and nights between a somewhat familiar intimacy with Spencer and Tyndall and a wholly familiar intimacy with Tom Robertson and Andrew Halliday. Artemus Ward was in London and it was to him that I owed these later associations. Sir Henry Irving had not made his mark. Sir Charles Wyndham was still in America. There were Keenes and Kembles yet upon the stage. Charles Matthews ruled the roost of Comedy. George Eliot was in the glory of her powers and her popularity. Thackeray was gone, but Charles Dickens lived and wrote. Bulwer-Lytton lived and wrote. Wilkie Collins and Charles Reade vied with one another for current favor. Modern Frenchification had invaded neither the restaurants nor the music halls. Evans's Coffee House (Pendennis core of Harmony) prevailed after midnight in Covent Garden Market. In short, the solidarities of Old England, along with its roast, succulent, abundant and intact.

* * * * *

To me London was Mecca. The look of it, the very smell of it, was inspiration. Incidentally--I don't mind saying--there were some cakes and ale. The nights were jolly enough down in the Adelphi, where the barbarians of the Savage Club held high revel, and George Augustus Sala was Primate, and Edmund Yates and Tom Robertson were High Priests. Temple Bar blocked the passage from Belgravia to the Bank of England, and there was no Holborn Viaduct nor Victorian Embankment.

Aye, long ago! How far away it seems, and how queer! To me it was the London of story-books; of Whittington and his cat and Goody Two-Shoes and the Canterbury Shades; of Otway and Marlowe and Chatterton; of Nell Gwynne and Dick Steele and poor Goldsmith; of all that was bizarre and fanciful in history, that was strange and romantic in legend; and not the London of the Tower, the Museum and Westminster Abbey; not the London of Cremorne Gardens, newly opened, nor the Argyle Rooms, which should have been burned to the ground before they were opened at all.

Since then I have been in and out of London many times. I have been amused here and bored here; but give me back my old fool's paradise and I shall care for naught else.

One may doubt which holds him closest, the London of History or the London of Fiction, or that London which is a mingling of both, and may be called simply the London of Literature, in which Oliver Goldsmith carouses with Tom Jones, and Harry Fielding discusses philosophy with the Vicar of Wakefield, where Nicholas Nickleby makes so bold as to present himself to Mr. William Makepeace Thackeray and to ask his intercession in favor of a poor artist, the son of a hairdresser of the name of Turner in Maiden Lane, and even where "Boz," as he passes through Longacre, is tripped up by the Artful Dodger, and would perchance fall upon the siding if not caught in the friendly arms of Sir Richard Steele on his way to pay a call upon the once famous beauty, the Lady Beatrix Esmond.

But yesterday I strolled into Mitre Court, and threading my way through the labyrinth of those dingy old law chambers known as the Middle and Inner Temple, found myself in the little graveyard of the Temple Church and by the side of the grave of Oliver Goldsmith. Though less than a stone's throw from Fleet Street and the Strand, the place is quiet enough, only a faint hum of wheels penetrating the cool precincts and gloomy walls. There, beneath three oblong slabs, put together like an outer stone coffin, lies the most richly endowed of all the vagabonds, with the simple but sufficient legend:

"Here lies Oliver Goldsmith, "Born Nov. 10th, 1728. Died April 4th, 1774."

to tell a story which for all its vagrancy and folly, is somewhat dear to loving hearts. He died leaving many debts and a few friends. He lived a lucky-go-devil, who could squander in a night of debauch more than he could earn in a month of labor. Yet he gave us the good Primrose and _The Deserted Village_ and _The Traveler_, and many a care-dispelling screed beside.

The Frenchman would say "his destiny." The less fanciful Briton, "his temperament." Poor Noll! He seemed to know himself fairly well in spite of his dissipations and his vanity, and he sleeps sound enough now, perhaps as soundly as the rest of those who in life held him in a rather equivocal admiration and affectionate contempt. There are a few other tombs--an effigy or two--round about, the weird old Chapel of the Templars, shut in by great walls from the streets beyond, to keep them solemn company. For Goldsmith, at least, there seems a fitness; for his life, and such labor as he did, eddied round these sad precincts. Nigh at hand was the Mitre tavern, across the way the Cock, and down the street the Cheshire Cheese. Without the Vandal has been busy enough, within all remains as it was the day they buried him. Perhaps he was not a desirable visiting acquaintance. I dare say he was rather a trying familiar friend. Pen-craft and purse-making are often wide apart. The charm of authorship ends in most cases upon the printed page. The man carries his sentiment in a globule of ink and it evaporates by exposure to the atmosphere of the world of action. The song of Dickens died by its own fireside. Kipling, for all his word-painting, is hardly a miracle of grace. Why should one wish to have known Goldsmith, or grudge him his place by the side of the great old Doctor, and Burke, and Reynolds, and Garrick? He lived his own life, and, though it was not very clean and wholly unprosperous, perhaps he enjoyed it. He left us some rich fruitage dangling over a wall, which may well conceal all else. Of the dead, no ill! Their faults to the past. The rest to Eternity!

Gradually, but surely, a new London is showing itself above the debris of the old. Miles of roundabout are reduced by short cuts. Thoroughfares are ruthlessly cut through sacred precincts and landmarks obliterated to make room for imposing edifices and widened streets. In the end, London will be rebuilt to rival Paris in the splendor, without the uniformity of its architecture. The grime will, of course, attach itself in time to the modern city as it did in the ancient, so that the London that is to be will grow old to the coming generations as the London that was grew old to the generations that went before.

"To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow Creeps on this petty pace from day to day, And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death."

Ever and ever the old times, the dear old times! Were they really any better than these? I don't think so--we only fancy them so. They had their displacements. It was then, as now, "eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow ye die," life the same old walking shadow, the same old play, or, lagging superfluous, or laughing his hour upon the stage and seen no more, the same old

"... tale told by an idiot, Full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing."

Somehow, London has a tendency to call up such reflections; sombre, serious itself, to provoke moralizing, albeit a turmoil, with incessant flashes of light and shade, the contrasts the vividest and most precipitate on earth, deep and penetrating, even from Hyde Park corner to St. Martins-in-the-Field, and on eastward beyond the Tower and into the purlieus of Whitechapel and the solitudes of Bethnal Green.

FOOTNOTE:

[26] Copyright, 1910, by The Torch Press.

GILDEROY W. GRIFFIN

Gilderoy Wells Griffin, essayist, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, March 6, 1840, the son of a merchant. He was educated in the University of Louisville, and admitted to the bar just as he attained his majority. He soon became private secretary for George D. Prentice, and this pointed his path from law to letters. Griffin was dramatic critic of the Louisville _Journal_ until after Prentice's death; and his first book was a biographical study of the great editor. His _Studies in Literature_ (Baltimore, 1870), a small group of essays, was followed by the final edition of _Prenticeana_ (Philadelphia, 1871), which he revised and to which he also contributed a new sketch of Prentice. Griffin was appointed United States Consul to Copenhagen, in 1871. His _Memoir of Col. Charles S. Todd_ (Philadelphia, 1872), was an excellent piece of writing. The most tangible result of his sojourn in Copenhagen was _My Danish Days_ (1875), one of the most delightful of his works. In Denmark his most intimate friend, perhaps, was Hans Christian Anderson. His _A Visit to Stratford_ (1875), was worth while. The year following its publication, Griffin was transferred to a similar position in the Samoan Islands, and he left in manuscript a work on the Islands which has never been published. In 1879 Griffin was again transferred, this time being sent to Aukland, New Zealand, where he remained until 1884; and the time of his departure witnessed the appearance of his last work, _New Zealand: Her Commerce and Resources_ (Wellington, N. Z., 1884). President Arthur sent him as consul to Sydney, which post he held for seven years. Griffin's death occurred while he was visiting his old home, Louisville, Kentucky, October 21, 1891. His brother was the step-father of the famous Mary Anderson, the former actress, and she has a goodly word for the memory of Griffin in her autobiography. He was a patron of the drama, a faithful and far-seeing diplomat, and a very able writer. His wife, Alice M. Griffin, published a volume of _Poems_ (Cincinnati, 1864).

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Courier-Journal_ (October 22, 1891); _A Few Memories_, by Mary Anderson de Navarro (London, 1896).

THE GYPSIES

[From _Studies in Literature_ (Baltimore, 1870)]

The Gypsies are wholly ignorant of their origin, and have kept but an imperfect record of their migrations; but it is evident that they are a distinct race of people. Like the Jews, they have no country of their own, and are scattered over all parts of the globe. Time has made little or no change in their peculiarities. They have the same language, personal appearance, habits, and customs, that they had centuries ago. The name of Gypsies (meaning Egyptians) is doubtless an incorrect one. At least we know of nothing to justify them in the assumption of the title. In Italy they are called "Zingari," in Germany "Zigeuner," in Spain "Gitanos," in Turkey "Tchengenler," in Persia "Sisech Hindu," in Sweden "Tartars," and in France "Bohemiens."

Borrow expresses the opinion that the name of Gypsies originated among the priests and learned men of Europe, who expected to find in Scripture some account of their origin and some clew to their skill in the occult sciences.

Simson, the author of a recent work entitled the _History of the Gypsies_, believes that they are a mixture of the shepherd-kings and the native Egyptians, who formed part of the "mixed multitude" mentioned in the Biblical account of the expulsion of the Jews from Egypt. Grellman, however, traces their origin to India. He says that they belong to the Soodra caste. Vulcanius describes them simply as robbers and outlaws, and Hervas regards their language as "a mere jargon of banditti."

Their keen black eyes, swarthy complexion, long raven locks, high cheek-bones, and projecting lower jaws evidently indicate Asiatic origin. It is certain that neither their language nor physiognomy are African. It is argued that if really Egyptians, they would in all probability have preserved a religion, or some of the forms of worship so characteristic of the descendants of that people; whereas, the Gypsies have no religion at all.

Indeed, it is a proverb with them that "the Gypsy church was built of lard, and the dogs ate it."

Whether Egyptians or not, they are doubtless what they claim to be, "Rommany Chals," and not "Gorgios." Very few who have seen them will refuse to believe that they do not understand the art of making horse-shoes, and of snake-charming, fortunetelling, poisoning with the drows, and of singing such songs as the following:

"The Rommany chi And the Rommany chal Shall jaw tasaulor To drab the bawlor, And dook the gry Of the farming rye.

"The Rommany churl And the Rommany girl To-morrow shall hie To poison the sty, And bewitch on the mead The farmer's stead."

JOHN L. SPALDING

John Lancaster Spalding, the poet-priest, was born at Lebanon, Kentucky, June 2, 1840. He is a nephew of Archbishop Martin John Spalding. John L. Spalding was graduated from St. Mary's College, Maryland, in 1859; and a short time later he was ordained as a priest in the Roman Catholic church. In 1865 he was secretary to the bishop of Louisville; and four years later he built St. Augustine's church for the Catholic negroes of Louisville. In 1871 Spalding was chancellor of the diocese of Louisville. From 1872 to 1877 he was stationed in New York City. He was consecrated bishop of Peoria, Illinois, May 1, 1877, which position he held until 1908, when ill-health compelled his retirement. Bishop Spalding was appointed by President Roosevelt as one of the arbitrators to settle the anthracite coal strike of 1902, and this appointment brought him before the whole country for a time. In 1909 he was created titular archbishop of Scyphopolis. Bishop Spalding continues his residence at Peoria, but recently his health has broken so badly that his life has been despaired of more than once. For many years it has been his custom to spend his summers in Kentucky with his boyhood friends and neighbors. He is the author of _The Life of the Most Rev. Martin John Spalding, Archbishop_ (New York, 1872); _Essays and Reviews_ (1876); _Religious Mission of the Irish People_ (1880); _Lectures and Discourses_ (1882); _America and Other Poems_ (1885); _Education and the Higher Life_ (Chicago, 1891); _The Poet's Praise_ (1891); _Things of the Mind_ (Chicago, 1894); _Means and End of Education; Thoughts and Theories of Life and Education_ (Chicago, 1897); _Songs: Chiefly from the German_ (1896); _God and the Soul; Opportunity and Other Essays_ (Chicago, 1901); _Religion, Agnosticism, and Education_ (Chicago, 1902); _Aphorisms and Reflections_ (Chicago, 1901); _Socialism and Labor_ (Chicago, 1902); _Glimpses of Truth_ (Chicago, 1903); _The Spalding Year Book_ (1905); _Religion and Art, and other Essays_ (Chicago, 1905). Bishop Spalding's biography of his famous kinsman, Archbishop Spalding, is his finest prose work, and as a poet he has done some pleasing verse, most of which, of course, is marred by being woven into his religion.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Harper's Weekly_ (October 25, 1902); _The Dial_ (January 1, 1904).

AN IVORY PAPER-KNIFE.[27]

[From _The Hesperian Tree_, edited by J. J. Piatt (Columbus, Ohio, 1903)]

O snow-white blade, thou openest for me So many a page filled with delightful lore Where deathless minds have left the precious store Of words that breathe and truth that makes us free. To hold thee in my hand, or but to see Thee lying on my desk, O ivory oar, Waiting to drive my bark to any shore, Is fortaste of fresh joy and liberty. Thou bringest dreams of the Dark Continent Where herded elephants in freedom roam, Or blow their trumpets when they danger scent, Or in wide rivers shoot the pearly foam, Yet art of vital books all redolent, Where highest thoughts have made themselves a home.

FOOTNOTE:

[27] Copyright, 1902, by John James Piatt.

NATHANIEL S. SHALER

Nathaniel Southgate Shaler, the distinguished Harvard geologist, poet, historian, and sociologist, was born at Newport, Kentucky, February 20, 1841. He was graduated from Harvard in 1862, where he had the benefit of almost private instruction from the great Agassiz. Shaler returned to Kentucky, and for the next two years he served in the Union army. In 1864 he was appointed assistant in palentology at Harvard; and four years later he became assistant in zoology and geology in the Lawrence Scientific School and head of the department of palentology. In 1873 the Governor of Kentucky appointed Professor Shaler director of the Kentucky Geological Survey, and he devoted parts of the next seven years to this work. He was the most efficient State geologist Kentucky has ever known, and his work for the Survey pointed out the path trodden by his successors. His assistant, Professor John R. Proctor, followed him as Director, and he stands next to his chief in the work he accomplished. _The Kentucky Geological Survey_ (1874-1880, 6 vols.), volume three of which, entitled _A General Account of the Commonwealth of Kentucky_ (Cambridge, Mass., 1876), was written entirely by Shaler, are excellent memorials of the work he did for his native state. In 1884 Shaler was placed in charge of the Atlantic division of the United States Geological Survey; and in 1891 he was chosen dean of the Lawrence Scientific School at Harvard. This position he held until a year or two before his death. Dean Shaler published _Thoughts on the Nature of Intellectual Property_ (Boston, 1878); _Glaciers_ (Boston, 1881); _The First Book of Geology_ (Boston, 1884); _Kentucky: A Pioneer Commonwealth_ (Boston, 1885), the philosophy of Kentucky history summarized; _Aspects of the Earth_ (New York, 1889); _Nature and Man in America_ (New York, 1891); _The Story of Our Continent_ (Boston, 1892); _Sea and Land_ (New York, 1892); _The United States_ (New York, 1893); _The Interpretation of Nature_ (Boston, 1893); _Domesticated Animals_ (New York, 1895); _American Highways_ (New York, 1896); _Outlines of the Earth's History_ (New York, 1898); _The Individual_ (New York, 1900); _Elizabeth of England_ (Boston, 1903, five vols.), a "dramatic romance," celebrating "the spacious times of great Elizabeth"; _The Neighbor_ (Boston, 1904); _The Citizen_ (New York, 1904); _Man and the Earth_ (New York, 1905); and _From Old Fields_ (Boston, 1906), a book of short poems. Besides these books, Dean Shaler wrote hundreds of magazine articles, reports, scientific memoirs, miscellaneous essays. He died at Cambridge, Massachusetts, April 10, 1906, just as he was about to make ready for a final journey to Kentucky. Dean Shaler was loved and honored more at Harvard, perhaps, than any other teacher the University has ever known.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The World's Work_ (June, 1906); _Science_ (June 8, 1906); _The Autobiography of Nathaniel Southgate Shaler, with a Supplementary Memoir by his Wife_, published posthumously (Boston, 1909), is a charming record of his days at Harvard and in Kentucky.

THE ORPHAN BRIGADE[28]

[From _From Old Fields_ (Boston, 1906)]

Eighteen hundred and sixty-one: There in the echo of Sumter's gun Marches the host of the Orphan Brigade, Lit by their banners, in hope's best arrayed. Five thousand strong, never legion hath borne Might as this bears it forth in that morn: Hastings and Cressy, Naseby, Dunbar, Cowpens and Yorktown, Thousand Years' War, Is writ on their hearts as onward afar They shout to the roar of their drums.

Eighteen hundred and sixty-two: Well have they paid to the earth its due. Close up, steady! the half are yet here And all of the might, for the living bear The dead in their hearts over Shiloh's field-- Rich, O God, is thy harvest's yield! Where faith swings the sickle, trust binds the sheaves, To the roll of the surging drums.

Eighteen hundred and sixty-three: Barring Sherman's march to the sea-- Shorn to a thousand; face to the foe Back, ever back, but stubborn and slow. Nineteen hundred wounds they take In that service of Hell, yet the hills they shake With the roar of their charge as onward they go To the roll of their throbbing drums.

Eighteen hundred and sixty-four: Their banners are tattered, and scarce twelve score, Battered and wearied and seared and old, Stay by the staves where the Orphans hold Firm as a rock when the surges break-- Shield of a land where men die for His sake, For the sake of the brothers whom they have laid low, To the roll of their muffled drums.

Eighteen hundred and sixty-five: The Devil is dead and the Lord is alive, In the earth that springs where the heroes sleep, And in love new born where the stricken weep. That legion hath marched past the setting of sun: Beaten? nay, victors: the realms they have won Are the hearts of men who forever shall hear The throb of their far-off drums.

"TOM" MARSHALL[29]

[From _The Autobiography of Nathaniel Southgate Shaler_ (Boston, 1909)]

I have referred above to Thomas F. Marshall, a man of singular attractiveness and talents with whom I had a curious relation. I first met him when I was about fourteen years of age, when he, for some time a congressman, had through drunkenness fallen into a curious half-abandoned mode of life. He was then an oldish fellow, but retained much of his youthful splendor. He was about six feet three inches high, but so well built that he did not seem large, until you stood beside him. His face, even when marred by drink, had something of majesty in it. Marshall, when I knew him, picked up a scanty living as a lecturer. When sober, which he often was for months at a time, his favorite subject was temperance. On this theme he was as eloquent as Gough; in his season of spree, he turned to history. The gradations were not sharp, for he would, as I have seen him, preach most admirably of the evil of drink while he supported himself in his fervent oratory with whiskey from a silver mug. In matters of history, he had read widely. One of his favorite themes was the mediæval history of Italy. I recall with a distinctness which shows the impressiveness of his discourses his story of Florence, so well told that ten years after, when I saw the town for the first time, the shape of it and of the neighboring places was curiously familiar. Along with some other youths, I noted down the dates of events as he gave them and looked them up. We never caught him in an error, though at times he was so drunk that he could hardly stand up. I have known many historians who doubtless much exceeded him in learning, but never another who seemed to have such a capacity for living in the events he narrated.

I had no sooner met "Tom" Marshall than we became friends. He at once took a curious fancy to me, talked to me as though we were of an age, and gave me my first chance of such contact with a man of learning and imagination. The relation, while on one side largely profitable to me, became embarrassing, for the unhappy man got the notion that I could stop his drinking if I would stay with him. A number of times when he had his dipsomaniac fury upon him I found that by sitting by his bed and talking with him on some historical subject, or rather listening to his talk, he would apparently forget about his drink and in a few hours drop asleep and awake to be sober for some months.

Sometimes these quiet interviews were most interesting to me. I recall one of them when I found him in an attack of half delirium. His memory, always active, took him back to the days when he was in Congress and to the scene when he, a very young member of the House, had been chosen by some careful elders to lead an attack on John Quincy Adams. They, the elders, were to come to his support when he had drawn the enemy's fire. It all became so real to him, that he sprang out of bed and in his tattered nightgown gave, first his own speech with all the actions of a young orator, and then the deliberate, crushing rejoinder of his mighty antagonist. At the end of it he fell back upon his bed, cursing the villains who led him into the fight and left him to take the consequences.

My relations with Marshall continued until I went to Cambridge but my influence over his drinking gradually lessened as he sank lower, and his able mind began to be permanently clouded. When I had been some months at college, I espied the poor fellow in the street, carpet-bag in hand, evidently making for my quarters. I sent word by a messenger to my chum, Hyatt, to receive and care for him, but to say that I had left town, which was true, for I went at once to Greenfield, where I had friends. Hyatt was also to provide the wanderer with a suit of clothes and a railway ticket back to Kentucky. I stayed away until I learned that Marshall was on his way home. I have always been ashamed of my conduct in this matter, but the unhappy man was at that time of his degradation an impossible burthen for me to carry; once ensconced in my quarters it would have been impossible to provide him with a dignified exit, and there was no longer hope that I might reform him. Yet the cowardice of the action has grieved me to this day.

Two years afterwards, in 1862, I saw Marshall for the last time. I was with a column of troops going through the town of Versailles, Kentucky. He was seated in front of a bar-room, with his chin upon the top of his cane. He was so far gone that the sight merely troubled his wits without affording him any explanation of what it meant. His bleared though still noble face stays in my memories as one of the saddest of those weary years.

LINCOLN IN KENTUCKY

[From the same]

Among the interesting and in a way shaping incidents of my boyhood, was a brief contact with Abraham Lincoln about 1856. He was coming on foot from the town of Covington; I was on horseback, and met him near the bridge over the Licking River. He asked the way to my grandfather's house, which was about a mile off. Attracted by his appearance, I dismounted and asked him to get on my horse, which he declined to do; so I walked beside him. Probably because he knew how to talk to a lad--few know the art, and those the large natures alone--we became at once friendly. When I had shown him into the house, I hung about to find his name. As I had never heard of Mr. Lincoln of Illinois, it was explained to me that he was the man who was "running against" the Little Giant. We lads all knew Stephen A. Douglas, who was so popular that farm tools were named for him: the Little Giant this and that of cornshellers or ploughs. While Mr. Lincoln was with my grandfather, my mother dined or supped with him. When she came home she said: "I have had a long talk with Mr. Lincoln, who is called an Abolitionist; if he is an Abolitionist, I am an Abolitionist." I well remember the horror with which this remark inspired the household: if my mother had said she was Satan, it could not have been worse. The droll part of the matter is that all the reasonable people about me were in heart haters of slavery. They saw and deplored its evils, and were full of fanciful schemes for making an end of it. But the name Abolitionist was abominated.

I never knew what brought Mr. Lincoln to my grandfather's house. It is likely that he came because a certain doctor of central Kentucky, an uncle of Mr. Lincoln, a widower, had recently married an aunt of mine, a widow. This union of two middle-aged people, each with large families, brought trouble; since family traditions were against divorce, a separation was effected which had an amusing though tragic finish. When all other matters of property had been arranged and P. had betaken himself to his plantation in Mississippi, as an afterthought he set up a supplementary claim to a saddle mule belonging to my aunt which he had forgotten to demand in the settlement. This reopened the question, and it was determined in family council that the grasping doctor should not be satisfied. We boys had the notion that Mr. Lincoln's visit related to this episode of the mule, for shortly after the "critter" was sent with a servant by steamboat, to be delivered to the claimant at the landing of his plantation on the Mississippi River. In due time the negro returned and made report: It was that the unworthy suitor came with a group of his friends to witness his success, mounted, and started to ride away, but the beast, frisky from its long confinement, "stooped up behind," as the darkeys phrase it, and threw his master and killed him. Whether Lincoln had a hand in the negotiations which led to this finish or not, I am sure that the humor of it must have tickled him.

FOOTNOTES:

[28] Copyright, 1906, by Houghton, Mifflin Company.

[29] Copyright, 1909, by Houghton, Mifflin Company.

WILLIAM L. VISSCHER

William Lightfoot Visscher, poet, was born at Owingsville, Kentucky, November 25, 1842. He was educated at the Bath Seminary, Owingsville, and graduated in law from the University of Louisville, but he never practiced. He was a soldier in the Civil War for four years. Colonel Visscher--which title he did not win upon the battlefield!--has been connected with more newspapers than he now cares to count; and he has written hundreds of verses which have appeared in periodicals and in book form. He is the author of five novels: _Carlisle of Colorado_; _Way Out Yonder_; _Thou Art Peter_; _Fetch Over the Canoe_ (Chicago, 1908); and _Amos Hudson's Motto_. The first of these is the best known work he has done in prose fiction. His _Thrilling and Truthful History of the Pony Express_ (Chicago, 1908), filled a small gap in American history. A little group of biographical sketches and newspaper reminiscences, called _Ten Wise Men and Some More_ (Chicago, 1909), is interesting. Colonel Visscher has also published five books of verse: _Black Mammy; Harp of the South; Blue Grass Ballads and Other Verse_ (Chicago, 1900); _Chicago: an Epic_, and his most recent volume, _Poems of the South and Other Verses_ (Chicago, 1911). The colonel is also a popular lecturer; and he has actually put paint on his face and essayed acting. He is a poet of the Old South, one reading his verse would at once conclude that not to have been born in Kentucky before the war, one might as well never have lived at all. He is a versified, pocket-edition of Mr. Thomas Nelson Page; and while he has not reached the sublime heights of true poesy, he has written some delicious dialect and much pleasing verse. _Proem_, printed in two of his books, is certainly the best thing he has done hitherto.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Century Magazine_ (July, 1902); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).

PROEM[30]

[From _Poems of the South and Other Verse_ (Chicago, 1911)]

In the evening of a lifetime While the shadows, growing long, Fall eastward, and the gloaming Brings the spell of vesper song, Fond memory turns backward To the bright light of the day, Where joys, like troops of fairies, Gaily dance along the way, Full-armed with mirth and music, Driving skirmishers of care Howling, back into the forest, And their dark, uncanny lair. So the pastures of Kentucky, And the fields of Tennessee, The bloom of all the Southland And the old-time melody; The vales, and streams, and mountains; The bay of trailing hounds; The neigh of blooded horses And the farm-yard's cheery sounds; The smiles of wholesome women And the hail of hearty men, Come sweeping back, in fancy, And, behold, I'm young again.

FOOTNOTE:

[30] Copyright, 1911, by the Author.

BENNETT H. YOUNG

Bennett Henderson Young, historian and antiquarian, was born at Nicholasville, Kentucky, May 25, 1843, the son of blue-stocking Presbyterians. His academic training was received at Centre College, Danville, Kentucky, and Queen's College, Toronto, Canada. He was graduated in law from Queen's College, Belfast, Ireland. Colonel Young was with General John Hunt Morgan and his men during the Civil War, being in charge of the raid through St. Alban's, Vermont. He was a member of the fourth Constitutional convention which formulated Kentucky's present constitution. Colonel Young is now one of the leading lawyers of Louisville, and commander-in-chief of the United Confederate Veterans. He has published _The History of the Kentucky Constitutions_ (1890); _The History of Evangelistic Work in Kentucky_ (1891); _History of the Battle of the Blue Licks_ (Louisville, 1897); _The History of Jessamine County, Kentucky_ (Louisville, 1898); _The History of the Division of the Presbyterian Church in Kentucky_ (1898); _The Battle of the Thames_ (Louisville, 1901); _Kentucky Eloquence_ (Louisville, 1907); and _The Prehistoric Men of Kentucky_ (Louisville, 1910). Colonel Young has taken a keen interest in "the prehistoric men of Kentucky," the mound-builders; and his collection is one of the finest in the country. His work upon these ancient people is far and away the ablest volume he has written. It represented the researches of a life-time, and the results of his labors are quite obvious.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Lawyers and Lawmakers of Kentucky_ (Chicago, 1897); _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).

PREHISTORIC WEAPONS[31]

[From _The Prehistoric Men of Kentucky_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1910)]

The life of prehistoric man, judging from the large number of fortifications existing in Kentucky to this day, must have been one of constant and general warfare. His weapons were all constructed for conflict at short range.

First was his ax of two kinds, grooved and grooveless. The indications are that these were used contemporaneously, and though this is not certain, their proximity to each other in so many places would tend to show that they were made during the same period. The grooved ax would be more reliable either in domestic use or in war than the grooveless ax, because of the grip of the handle, aided materially by the groove, permitting it to be held much more closely and to admit of heavier strokes and more constant action. The battle-axes vary in weight from one to thirty-two pounds. They were doubtless so variant in weight by reason of the conditions that surrounded the makers, and also by reason of the ability of the user to carry either light or heavy weight. With handles from three to six feet and firmly bound with rawhide, which could be obtained from several animals, these men were enabled to fasten the handle tightly around the ax, either grooved or ungrooved. These axes would require close contact in battle. They had flint saws or knives which enabled them to cut the hickory withe or sapling from which these handles were made. After soaking the handle in hot water, or for that matter in cold water, it could easily have been bent around the ax and tied with rawhide, which, by its contraction when drying, would press the handle closely in the groove.

They also used what is known as a battle-ax blade, that is, a thin piece of flint, oval in shape, about five by three and a half inches. By splitting the handle and placing the flint blade between it, and then binding with rawhide, they were enabled to fasten it very securely. These handles were about two or two and a half feet in length, and with the blade projecting on either side, became a dangerous weapon at close range.

The most damage, however, done by these prehistoric people was doubtless accomplished by the bow and arrow. The bows were about six feet in length, judging by the strings which we have seen and one of which the writer has been able to secure from Salts Cave. They would be made of many woods, preferably of hickory, cedar, or ash, but hickory usually possesses greater strength than other timbers of similar size. It is not probable that they had any tools with which they could split the hickory trees. They would, therefore, be compelled to use the hickory saplings in the manufacture of bow staves.

The penetrative force of the stone-tipped arrow, driven by the strong and skillful arms of these prehistoric men, must have been very great. Quite a number of instances are known and specimens preserved in which they were driven practically through the larger bones of the body. The author has a human pelvis found in a cave in Meade County. Imbedded in this is a portion of a flint arrow-point, the position of which shows that it had been driven through the body, penetrating the bone on the opposite side from which it entered. The point reached into the socket of the hip joint. There it remained, causing necrosis of the bone, until by processes of Nature the wastage was stopped, and the point remained in the bone until the death of the individual, which the indications show occurred long after receiving the wound. In one instance an arrowhead was driven three inches into the bone of the leg just below its union with the hip, and evidently caused the death of the party into whom it had been shot. A number of instances are known in which these arrowheads penetrated several inches into bone, and it was no unusual thing that they attained sufficient penetrative force to drive them through both coverings of the skull.

Three of these arrowheads that have come under the immediate observation of the author are not sharp at all, but rather blunt. The smaller triangular arrowheads, if sufficiently strong--and probably they were--could have been driven readily into bone without the use of any great force, but an arrow-point about three inches in length, and with a blunt point, thus driven into the bones of the body, demonstrates beyond all question that the power which was used in their propulsion must have been comparatively very great.

The wooden or cane shafts probably were tipped with many kinds of points, some beveled, some serrated, some triangular, some blunt, being fastened thereto with the sinew of the deer or other animal. There are some evidences, although not entirely conclusive, that these arrow-points were often tipped with poison. It is said that at one time the Shawnees in Western Kentucky were so well versed in the use of poisons that they could place them in springs and thus destroy their enemies, and also that quite large streams of water were impregnated with these dangerous elements. We sometimes comment upon the savageness of the methods of these people, but the poisoned arrow is no worse than the soft-nose or explosive bullet, which has been used by civilized nations in the memory of living people.

The next weapon was the spear. These carried points so large that they could not have been used with the ordinary bow. They must have been attached to a larger piece of wood or cane than the arrow-shaft. They were probably mounted upon cane or pieces of wood from four and one-half to seven feet in length. They were doubtless used also in the destruction of the larger animals, either bears or buffaloes, during the buffalo period in Kentucky. The spear would be much more formidable in close quarters with an animal even as large as the wildcat than the bow and arrow. It would be comparatively as efficient as the bayonet of modern times.

Many of the flint knives were mounted on wooden handles. These sometimes measure from one to ten inches in length, and at very close range would become formidable weapons--not as formidable, however, as the battle-ax blade which has been described above.

In Kentucky there are no evidences of the cross-bow having been used. The five weapons which we have described completed the military accoutrement of these men, who must have spent a large portion of their lives in warlike scenes and exploits.

FOOTNOTE:

[31] Copyright, 1910, by the Filson Club.

JAMES H. MULLIGAN

James Hilary Mulligan, the author of _In Kentucky_, was born at Lexington, Kentucky, November 21, 1844. He was graduated at St. Mary's College, Montreal, Canada, in 1864; and five years later Kentucky (Transylvania) University granted him his degree in law. For forty years Judge Mulligan has been known in Kentucky as a lawyer, orator, and maker of clever, humorous verse. He was editor of the old Lexington _Morning Transcript_ for a year; and for six years he was judge of the Recorder's Court of Lexington, from which work he won his title of "judge." From 1881 to 1888 Judge Mulligan was a member of the Kentucky House of Representatives; and from 1890 to 1894 he was in the State Senate. In 1894 President Cleveland appointed Judge Mulligan Consul-General at Samoa, and this post he held for two years. While in Samoa he saw much of Robert Louis Stevenson, who was working upon _Weir of Hermiston_, and well upon his way to the undiscovered country when the Kentucky diplomat met him. When Stevenson died, December 4, 1894, the first authoritative news of his passing came in a now rare and precious little booklet of thirty-seven pages which Lloyd Osbourne, Judge Mulligan, Bazett Haggard, brother of the English novelist, and another writer, sent out to the world, entitled _A Letter to Mr. Stevenson's Friends_ (Apia, Samoa, 1894). It contained a detailed account of the writer's last days, his death, and funeral. Mr. Osbourne "ventured also to reprint Mr. Gosse's beautiful lines, _To Tusitala in Vailima_, which reached Mr. Stevenson but three days before his death." President Cleveland offered to send Judge Mulligan to Cape Town, Africa, but he declined the appointment, and came home. For the past fifteen years he has devoted his attention to the law and to the writing of verse and prose. His _Samoa, the Government, Commerce, and People_ (Washington, 1896), is said to be the most exhaustive account of that island ever published. Judge Mulligan's little humorous poem, _In Kentucky_, has made him famous. First read at a banquet in the old Phoenix Hotel, Lexington, in 1902, it has been declaimed in the halls of Congress and gotten into the _Congressional Record_. It has been parodied a thousand times, reproduced in almost every newspaper in English, illustrated, and at least one Kentuckian has heard it chanted by an Englishman in the shadow of the Pyramids in Egypt! More than a million souvenir postal cards have been sold with the verses printed upon them; and had the author had _In Kentucky_ copyrighted, he would have reaped a harvest of golden coins. As poetry Judge Mulligan's _Over the Hills to Hustonville_, or _The Bells of Old St. Joseph's_, are superior to _In Kentucky_, but they are both comparatively unknown to the general public. Judge Mulligan's home, "Maxwell Place," on the outskirts of Lexington, was the birthplace of _In Kentucky_.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Lexington Leader_ (April 4, 1909); _Library of Southern Literature_ (Atlanta, 1910, v. xiv).

IN KENTUCKY

[From _The Lexington Herald_ (February 12, 1902)]

The moonlight falls the softest In Kentucky; The summer days come oftest In Kentucky; Friendship is the strongest, Love's light glows the longest, Yet, wrong is always wrongest In Kentucky.

Life's burdens bear the lightest In Kentucky; The home fires burn the brightest In Kentucky; While players are the keenest, Cards come out the meanest, The pocket empties cleanest In Kentucky.

The sun shines ever brightest In Kentucky; The breezes whisper lightest In Kentucky; Plain girls are the fewest, Their little hearts the truest, Maiden's eyes the bluest In Kentucky.

Orators are the grandest In Kentucky; Officials are the blandest In Kentucky; Boys are all the fliest, Danger ever nighest, Taxes are the highest In Kentucky.

The bluegrass waves the bluest In Kentucky; Yet, bluebloods are the fewest(?) In Kentucky; Moonshine is the clearest, By no means the dearest, And, yet, it acts the queerest In Kentucky.

The dovenotes are the saddest In Kentucky; The streams dance on the gladdest In Kentucky; Hip pockets are the thickest, Pistol hands the slickest, The cylinder turns quickest In Kentucky.

The song birds are the sweetest In Kentucky; The thoroughbreds are fleetest In Kentucky; Mountains tower proudest, Thunder peals the loudest, The landscape is the grandest-- And politics--the damnedest In Kentucky.

OVER THE HILL TO HUSTONVILLE

[From _The Lexington Leader_ (April 4, 1909)]

Over the hill to Hustonville, Past mead and vale and waving grain With fleecy clouds and glad sunshine And the balm of the coming rain; On where hidden beneath the hill, In the widening vale below-- Chime and smith and distant herd Sing a song of the long ago.

Over the hill to Hustonville Where silent fields are sad and brown, And the crow's lone call is blended With the anvil beat of the town; Where sweet the hamlet life flows on, And the doors ever open wide, Welcome the worn and wandering To the ingle and cheer inside.

Over the hill to Hustonville I knew and loved as a child, A scene that yet lights up to me With a radiant glow and mild; With drowsy lane and quiet street, Gables quaint and the houses gray, Ancient inn with battered sign, And an air of the far-away.

Over the hill to Hustonville Where men are yet sturdy and strong As were their sires in days long past-- As true as their flint-locks long. And maids are shy and soft of speech-- As the wild-rose, lithsome and true, Eyes alight as the coming dawn, Softly blue, as their skies are blue.

Some--sometime--in the bye and bye, With all my life-won riches rare-- Dead hopes and faded memories-- A silken floss of baby hair; Fast locked close within my heart-- Worn of strife and the empty quest-- I'll over the hill to Hustonville, To dream ever--and rest--and rest.

NELLY M. McAFEE

Mrs. Nelly (Nichol) Marshall McAfee, novelist and verse writer, was born at Louisville, Kentucky, May 8, 1845, the daughter of Humphrey Marshall, the younger. When but eighteen years of age she embarked upon a literary career. Her verse and short-stories appeared in many of the best American newspapers and magazines, and they brought her a wide reputation. On February 13, 1871, after a romantic courtship of some years, Miss Marshall was married to Captain John J. McAfee, a former Confederate soldier, then a member of the Kentucky legislature. Mrs. McAfee published two volumes of verse, entitled _A Bunch of Violets_, and _Leaves From the Book of My Heart_. Her novels include _Eleanor Morton, or Life in Dixie_ (New York, 1865); _Sodom Apples_ (1866); _Fireside Gleamings_ (Chicago, 1866); _Dead Under the Roses_ (1867); _Wearing the Cross_ (Cincinnati, 1868); _As by Fire_ (New York, 1869); _Passion, or Bartered and Sold_ (Louisville, 1876); and _A Criminal Through Love_ (Louisville, 1882). Mrs. McAfee died at Washington, D. C., about 1895.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Woods-McAfee Memorial History_, by N. M. Woods (Louisville, 1905); _Dictionary of American Authors_, by O. F. Adams (Boston, 1905).

FINALE

[From _A Criminal Through Love_ (Louisville, Kentucky, 1882)]

Many years have been gathered to the illimitable past, and we find ourselves, with undiminished interest, seeking to learn all we can in regard to the positions and attainments of the characters who have been with us for so long.

This is the gist of what we have learned about them.

Walter Floor's firm has grown and flourished; the dark cloud of sorrow that so long overshadowed his sky, has rolled away, and he is nevermore melancholy or oppressed. His home is the resting-place and haven for everybody who chooses to enjoy shelter and repose. Constant and Valentine are standing guests at the Floor mansion; the talented painter has no longer any need to work for money. The mention of his name opens every door to him, and Fortune and Fame await him with their arms laden with golden sheaves and shining laurel wreaths. His greatest work of art--his masterpiece--was taken from Mozart's Opera of _Don Juan_. At a glance any one could tell that the artist painted the portrait _con amore_, for Donna Anna was nothing more than a portrait of Margarethe Heinold--whom we must ever after this moment remember only as Margarethe Hendrik. More happiness than came with this name to her could scarcely be enjoyed by mortal. Great sums were offered again and again to Constant for this picture, but he refused to sell it; it now graces the elegant _Salon_ of Julian Hendrik in his magnificent villa, which stands on the banks of the Rhine.

Margarethe, after the night of her brilliant _debut_, never stepped upon the boards. She was often urged to let the world hear her splendid voice, which returned to her in all its volume and beauty after she regained her health, but she refused to entertain the proposition for an instant, declaring that public life, however glorious, had no charms for her; that she lived only for her husband, to whom she becomes ever more tenderly attached the better she became acquainted with his noble heart, elevated mind, and peerless character as a man and a gentleman.

Didier Mametin is still in Paris; at the death of old Vincent he became his heir, and was at last able to open such a photographer's _Atelier_ as other artists pronounced perfect in every detail. The lighthearted Frenchman, never accustomed to an extravagant mode of living, is just as merry in humor and abstemious in diet as of yore. Henriette often declares that he acts as if he were afraid of starving--he is such a hoarder for "rainy days." But Didier had a varied experience, and the lessons he learned were not easily forgotten. One happy fact remains: He and Henriette love each other dearly, and would not exchange their places or give up their home to be a king and queen and live in a palace.

Roderick Martens attends to the ship-building interests of Jyphoven, in Amsterdam, and occupies the old Jyphoven mansion. Herr and Madame Jyphoven continue to reside in Paris. Bella is enchanted with life in the French city, and declares that to be mistress of the whole world--if she would go but for a day--could be no inducement to her to set her foot in the old Holland fishery, as she now describes it to be. She is entirely reconciled to Francisca. The beauty and happiness of the young wife would captivate the most callous heart.

And Von Kluyden? This man who devoted himself to intrigue and rascality for so long, knew not, while he lived, how otherwise to occupy his time. He was never satisfied. Nemesis held him fast in her cruel clutches. When the time came for Hendrik to assert and prove his rights, he did so most successfully; and that for which Isabella bartered her honor, and beauty, and youth, passed like sand through the fingers, and was hers no more. Von Kluyden was successful in nothing that he undertook to accomplish; the ghost of the murdered Horst followed him day and night;--he finally died in a madhouse! Isabella had, a little while before his dementia, entrusted herself and her million of money into the hands of a young man of the titled nobility--who in his turn did not love the young widow even for her marvelous beauty--but for the _thalers_ and _gulden_ that brought plenty to his empty coffers and luxury to his impoverished home. In this marriage Isabella did not find the happiness she expected to find, and for which she had so long waited. The Prince squandered her enormous fortune, as Princes are usually supposed to squander fortunes, in about the half of a year's duration, and by that time, having found out and enjoyed all that life held for him of pleasure or excitement, he closed his career by putting a pistol-ball through his head, early one morning, while the sun was shining, and the birds were singing, and flowers were blooming on every side.

So it has come to pass that Isabella--although not yet twenty-five years of age, has been twice a widow--(and a very charming one she is!) not likely now ever to be aught else! The sale of her beauty, her honor, her peace of mind, has brought to her, as a recompense for what she has lost, a varied and rich experience, which will save her forever hereafter from the chance of being deceived and betrayed through the tenderest and noblest impulses of the human heart.

And so the curtain goes down forever between us and those with whom we have whiled away some pleasant hours, and gathered, it may be, profit or amusement from their acting on the stage of life.

_Voila tout._

MARY F. CHILDS

Mrs. Mary Fairfax Childs, maker of dialect verse, was born at Lexington, Kentucky, May 25, 1846. She is the daughter of the Rev. Edward Fairfax Berkley (1813-1897), who was rector of Christ Church, Lexington, for nineteen years. Dr. Berkley baptized Henry Clay, in 1847, and buried him five years later. Miss Berkley was a pupil at the Misses Jackson's Seminary for young ladies until her thirteenth year, or, in 1858, when her father accepted a call to St. Louis, in which city he labored for the following forty years. In St. Louis, she continued her studies at a private school for girls, when she left prior to her graduation in order to devote herself more especially to music, Latin, and French. Miss Berkley was married, in 1870, to William Ward Childs, a returned Confederate soldier; and in 1884 they removed to Clinton, Missouri, where they resided for seven years, when business called them to New York, their home until Mr. Child's death in 1911. Mrs. Childs's life in New York was a very busy one. She was prominent in several social and literary groups; and for many years she was corresponding secretary of the New York Chapter of the United Daughters of the Confederacy. Her first poem that attracted wide attention was entitled _De Namin' ob de Twins_, which originally appeared in _The Century Magazine_ for December, 1903. It was the second in a group of _Eleven Negro Songs_, written by Joel Chandler Harris, Grace MacGowan Cooke, Paul Lawrence Dunbar, and one or two other poets. That Mrs. Childs's masterpiece was the flower of the flock admits of little question: it is one of the best negro dialect poems yet written by a Southern woman. Exactly a year later the same periodical published her _A Christmas Warning_, with the well-known refrain, _Roos' high, chicken--roos' high_. These, with many others, were brought together in an attractive volume, entitled _De Namin' ob de Twins, and Other Sketches from the Cotton Land_ (New York, 1908). This collection is highly esteemed by that rather small company of lovers of dialect verse. Mrs. Childs's poem, _The Boys Who Wore the Gray_, has been printed, and is well-known throughout the South. She has recently completed another collection of sketches, called _Absolute Monarchy_, which will appear in 1913. At the present time Mrs. Childs is historian of the Society of Kentucky Women of New York, although she is residing at Kirkwood, Missouri, near St. Louis.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mrs. Childs to the present writer; _The Century Magazine_ (January, 1906).

DE NAMIN' OB DE TWINS[32]

[From _De Namin' ob de Twins, and Other Sketches from the Cotton Land_ (New York, 1908)]

What I gwine name mah Ceely's twins? I dunno, honey, yit, But I is jes er-waitin' fer de fines' I kin git, De names is purty nigh run out, So many niggahs heah, I 'clar' dey's t'ick as cotton-bolls in pickin'-time o' yeah.

But 't ain' no use to 'pose to me Ole secondary names, Lak 'Liza_beth_ an' Jose_phine_, or Caesah, Torm, an' James, 'Ca'se dese heah twinses ob mah gal's Is sech a diff'ent kind, Dey's 'titled to do grandes' names dat ary one kin find.

Fer sho dese little shiny brats Is got de fus'-cut look, So mammy wants fine city names, lak you gits out a book; I ax Marse Rob, an' he done say Some 'rageous stuff lak dis: He'd call de bruddah Be'lze_bub_, de sistah Gene_sis_;

Or Alphy an' Omegy--de Beginnin' an' de en'-- But den, ob co'se no man kin tell, what mo' de Lawd 'll sen'; Fer de pappy ob dese orphans-- You heah me?--I'll be boun', While dey's er-crawlin' on de flo', he'll be er-lookin' roun';

'Ca'se I done seen dem Judas teahs He drap at Ceely's grabe, A-peepin' 'hind his han'kercher, at ole Tim's yaller Gabe; A-mekin' out to moan an' groan, Lak he was gwine 'o bus'-- Lawd! honey, dem dat howls de mos,' gits ober it de fus'.

Annynias an' Saphiry, Sis Tab done say to me, But he'p me, Lawd! what _do_ she 'spec' dese chillum gwine o' be? 'Sides, dem names 's got er cur'us soun'-- You says I's hard to please? Well, so 'ould any granny be, wid sech a pa'r as dese.

Ole Pahson Bob he 'low dat I Will suttinly be sinnin', Onless I gibs 'em names dat starts 'em right in de beginnin'; "Iwilla" fer de gal, he say, F'om de tex' "I will a-rise," An' dat 'ould show she's startin' up, todes glory in de skies;

An' fer dis man chile, Aberham-- De fardah ob' em all-- Or else Belshazzah, who done writ dat writin' on de wall; But Pahson Bob--axcuse me, Lawd!-- Hed bettah sabe his bref To preach de gospel, an' jes keep his "visin" to hiss'f;

Per nary pusson, white nor black, Ain' gib no p'int to me 'Bout namin' dese heah Chris'mus gifs, asleep on granny's knee; (Now heshaby--don' squirm an' twis', Be still you varmints, do! You anin' gwine hab no niggah names to tote aroun' wide you!)

'Ca'se on de question ob dese names I sho is hed mah mine _Per_zactly an' _per_cidedly done med up all de time; Fer mah po' Ceely Ann--yas, Lawd, Jes nigh afo' she died, She name' dis gal, "Neu-ral-gy," her boy twin, "Hom-i-cide."

FOOTNOTE:

[32] Copyright, 1908, by B. W. Dodge and Company.

WILLIAM T. PRICE

William Thompson Price, dramatic critic, creator of playwrights, was born near Louisville, Kentucky, December 17, 1846. He was educated in the private schools of Louisville, but the Civil War proved more interesting than text-books, so he ran away with Colonel E. P. Clay, whom he left, in turn, for John H. Morgan, and Generals Forrest and Wheeler. He was finally captured and imprisoned but he, of course, escaped. After the war Mr. Price went to Germany and studied for three years at the Universities of Leipzig and Berlin. From 1875 to 1880 he was dramatic critic for the Louisville _Courier-Journal_; and the following five years he devoted to editorial work for various newspapers, and to collecting material for his enormous biography of the Rev. George O. Barnes, a noted and eccentric Kentucky evangelist, which appeared under the title of _Without Scrip or Purse_ (Louisville, 1883). Mr. Price went to New York in the early eighties, and that city has remained his home to this day. In 1885 he was dramatic critic for the now defunct New York _Star_, which he left after a year to become a reader of new plays for A. M. Palmer, the leading manager of his time, whom he was associated with for more than twenty years. Mr. Price's _The Technique of the Drama_ (New York, 1892), gave him a high position among the dramatic writers of the country. A new edition of it was called for in 1911, and it seems destined to remain the chief authority in its field for many years. In 1901 Mr. Price became playreader for Harrison Grey Fiske; and in the same year he founded the American School of Playwriting, in which men and women, whom the gods forgot, are transformed into great dramatists--perhaps! His second volume upon the stage, _The Analysis of Play Construction and Dramatic Principle_ (New York, 1908), is the text-book of his school. At the present time Mr. Price is editor of _The American Playwright_, a monthly magazine of dramatic discussion.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. Letters from Mr. Price to the present writer; _Who's Who in America_ (1912-1913).

THE OFFENBACH AND GILBERT OPERAS[33]

[From _The Technique of the Drama_ (New York, 1892)]

The light-hearted genius of Paris composed a new style of opera for the general merriment of the world. Who can describe the surprises, the quaintness of song, the drolleries of action of the Offenbach school? It was the intoxicating wine of music. Gladstone, when premier of England, found time to say that the world owed as much in its civilization to the discovery of the fiddle as it did to steam.

This cannot be applied in its whole sense to Offenbach, but this master of satire and the sensuous certainly expressed his times. He set laughter to song. It was democratic. It spared not king, courtier, or the rabble. It was wisdom and sentiment in disguise. It was born among despotisms, and jested when kingdoms fell. It was the stalking horse behind which Offenbach hunted the follies of the day and bagged the absurdities of the hour. If it had _double entendre_, its existence had a double meaning. Its music and purpose defied national prejudices. Under its laughter-compelling notes the sober bass-viol put on a merry disposition, and your cornet-a-piston became a wag. It was flippant, the glorification of youthful mirth and feelings, and it made many a melancholy Jacques sing again the song of Beranger,

"_Comme je regrette ma jambe si dodu._"

It is not the purpose here to commend its delirious dances, but to admit that there was genius in it. In a technical sense the dramatic part of them are models compared with the inane and vague compositions of a later school.

The opera bouffe is in a stage beyond decadence, and no longer regards consistency, even of nonsense, in its dramatic elements. Some of the conventionalisms of its technique remain.

We hear again and again the old choruses, the drinking songs, the letter songs, the wine songs, the conspirators' songs, the departure for the war, the lovers' duets, and what-not, with the old goblets, the old helmets and all in use; but order is lost, and the topical song often saves the public patience, apart from the _disjecta membra_, upon which are fed the eye and the ear.

The Gilbert opera. The delicate foolery of Gilbert and the interpreting melody of Sullivan created an inimitable form of opera that delighted its generations. In its way perfection marks it. There is much in it that ministers to inward quiet and enjoyment. "Pinafore," "The Mikado," and all the list, are products of genius. "Ruddygore" is structurally weak, proving that even nonsense must have a logical treatment. Successful in a manner as "Ruddygore" was, it was filled with characteristic quaintness. We accept Rose Maybud as a piece of good luck, from the moment her modest slippers demurely patter to the front; and it is a sober statement to say that our generation has seen nothing more charming than her artful artlessness and innocence. She is worthy of Gilbert. His taste is refined beyond the point of vulgarity in essence or by way of expediency. His fancy is not tainted with the corruption of flesh-tight limbs, and he holds fast only to such physical allurements as the "three little maids just from school" in the "Mikado" or the impossibly good and dainty Rose Maybud may tempt us with. In the dance there is no lasciviousness, only joy. Gilbert and Sullivan have called a halt to the can-can and bid the world be decent. The whole history of comic opera is filled with proof that music first consented to lend itself to foolery on condition that there should be some heart in it; and even Offenbach, the patriarch of libidinous absurdities, could not get along without stopping by the wayside to make his sinners sing love-songs filled with pure emotion.

Rose Maybud is a piece of delicate coquetry with the mysterious simplicity of maidenhood, giving offense in no way. These authors are satirists, not burlesquers and fakirs.

FOOTNOTE:

[33] Copyright, 1892, by Brentano's.

GEORGE M. DAVIE

George Montgomery Davie, a verse-maker of cleverness and charm, was born near Hopkinsville, Kentucky, March 16, 1848. He began his collegiate career at Centre College, Danville, Kentucky, but he later went to Princeton, from which institution he was graduated in 1868. Two years later he established himself as a lawyer at Louisville. Davie rose rapidly in his profession, and he was soon recognized as one of the ablest lawyers in Kentucky. Though busy with his practice, he found time to write verse and short prose papers for periodicals that were appreciated by many persons. Davie was a Latinist of decided ability, and he often employed himself in turning the odes of Horace into English. His original work, however, is very charming and clever, a smile being concealed in almost every line he wrote, though it is a very quiet and dignified smile, never boisterous. He was one of the founders of the now celebrated Filson Club, of Louisville. He died at New York, February 22, 1900, but he sleeps to-day in Louisville's beautiful Cave Hill cemetery. _Verses_ (Louisville, Kentucky, n. d.), a broadside, contains Davie's best original poems and translations and it is a very scarce item at this time.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Courier-Journal_ (February 23, 1900); _Kentucky Eloquence_ (Louisville, 1907).

"FRATER, AVE ATQUE VALE!"

(Catullus, Car. CI.)

[From _Verses_ (Louisville, Kentucky, n. d.)]

Through many nations, over many seas, Brother, I come to thy sad obsequies: To bring the last gifts for the dead to thee, And speak to thy mute ashes--left to me By the hard fate, that on a cruel day, From me, dear brother, called Thyself away. Receive these gifts, wet with fraternal tears; And the last rites, that custom old endears; These fond memorials would my sorrow tell-- Brother! forever, hail thee--and farewell!

HADRIAN, DYING, TO HIS SOUL

[From the same]

Animula vagula blandula, Hospes comesque corporis, Quae nunc abibis in loca, Pallidula rigida nudula; Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos?

Thou sprite! so charming, uncontrolled, Guest and companion of my clay, Into what places wilt thou stray, When thou art naked, pale, and cold? Wilt then make merry--as of old?

JOHN URI LLOYD

John Uri Lloyd, novelist and scientist, was born at West Bloomfield, New York, April 19, 1849. He is the son of a civil engineer who came West, in 1853, for the purpose of surveying a railroad between Covington and Louisville, known as the "River Route." Mr. Lloyd was thus four years old when his father settled at Burlington, Boone county, Kentucky, near the line of the road. The panic of 1854 came and the railroad company failed, but his parents preferred their new Kentucky home to the old home in the East, and they decided to remain, taking up their first vocations, that of teaching. For several years they taught in the village schools of the three little Kentucky towns of Burlington, Petersburg, and Florence. Mr. Lloyd lived at Florence until he was fourteen years of age, when he was apprenticed to a Cincinnati druggist, but he continued to be a resident of Kentucky until 1876, since which time he has lived at Cincinnati. In 1878 he became connected with the Cincinnati College of Pharmacy, and this connection has continued to the present day. In 1880 he was married to a Kentucky woman. Mr. Lloyd is one of the most distinguished pharmaceutical chemists in the United States. He has a magnificent library and museum upon his subjects; and he is generally conceded to be the world's highest authority on puff-balls. Mr. Lloyd's scientific works include _The Chemistry of Medicines_ (1881); _Drugs and Medicines of North America_ (1884); _King's American Dispensatory_ (1885); _Elixirs, their History and Preparation_ (1892); and he, as president, has edited the publications of the Lloyd Library, as follows: _Dr. B. S. Barton's Collections_ (1900); _Dr. Peter Smith's Indian Doctor's Dispensatory_ (1901); _A Study in Pharmacy_ (1902); _Dr. David Schopf's Materia Medica Americana_ (1903); _Dr. Manasseh Cutler's Vegetable Productions_ (1903); _Reproductions from the Works of William Downey, John Carver, and Anthony St. Storck_ (1907); _Hydrastis Canadensis_ (1908); _Samuel Thomson and Thomsonian Materia Medica_ (1909). Dr. Lloyd has won his general reputation as a writer of novels descriptive of life in northern Kentucky. His first work to attract wide attention was entitled _Etidorpha, or the End of Earth_ (New York, 1895), a work which involved speculative philosophy. This was followed by a little story, _The Right Side of the Car_ (Boston, 1897). Then came the Stringtown stories, which made his reputation. "Stringtown" is the fictional name for the Kentucky Florence of his boyhood. There are four of them: _Stringtown on the Pike_ (New York, 1900); _Warwick of the Knobs_ (New York, 1901); _Red Head_ (New York, 1903); and _Scroggins_ (New York, 1904). In these stories the author's aim was not to be engaged solely as a novelist, "but to portray to outsiders a phase of life unknown to the world at large, and to establish a folk-lore picture in which the scenes that occurred in times gone by, would be paralleled in the events therein narrated." _Stringtown on the Pike_ is Mr. Lloyd's best known book, but _Warwick of the Knobs_ is far and way the finest of the four.

BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Bookman_ (May, 1900); _The Outlook_ (November 16, 1901); _The Bookman_ (December, 1910).

"LET'S HAVE THE MERCY TEXT"[34]

[From _Warwick of the Knobs_ (New York, 1901)]

Warwick made no movement; no word of greeting came from his lips, no softening touch to his furrowed brow, no sparkle to his cold, gray eye. As though gazing upon a stranger, he sat and pierced the girl through and through with a formal stare, that drove despair deeper into her heart and caused her to cling closer to her brother.

"Pap, sister's home ag'in," the youth repeated.

"I know nothing of a sister who claims a home here."

Mary would have fallen but for the strong arm of her brother, who gently, tenderly guided her to a great rocking-chair. Then he turned on his father.

"I said thet sister's home agin, and I means it, pap."

Turning the leaves of the Book to a familiar passage, Warwick read aloud:

"'The lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life is not of the Father, but of the world.' This girl has no home here. She is of the world."

"Father, ef sister hes no home here, I hav'n't none, either. Ef she must go out into the world, I'll go with her."

The man of God gazed sternly at the rebellious youth. Then he turned to the girl.

"The good Book says, 'A fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.'"

Joshua stepped between the two and hid the child from her father.

"Pap, thet book says tough things to-night. The text you preached from to-day was a better one. I remember et, and I'll leave et to you ef I am not right. 'I am merciful, saith the Lord, and I will not keep my anger forever.' Thet's a better text, and I takes et, God was in a better humor when He wrote et."

"Joshua!" spoke the father, shocked at his son's irreverence.

"Listen, pap. I hate to say et, but I must. You preached one thing this morning, and you acts another thing now. Didn't you say thet God 'retaineth not His anger forever, because He delighteth in mercy?' I may not hev the words right, but I've got the sense."

"My son!"

"Pap, I axes the question on the square. Ain't thet what you preached?"

"That was the text."

"It ain't fair to preach one text in the meetin'-house and act another text at home."

"Joshua!"

"Let's hev the mercy text to-night. Pap, sister's home ag'in. Let's act the fergivin' text out."

Joshua stepped aside and the minister, touched in spite of himself, glanced at his daughter, a softened glance, that spoke of affection, but he made no movement. Then the girl slowly rose and turned toward the door, still keeping her eyes on her father's face. She edged backward step by step toward the door by which she had entered. Her hand grasped the latch; the door moved on its hinges.

"Stop, sister," said Joshua. "Pap, ef sister opens thet door I go with her, and then you will sit alone in this room ferever. You will be the last Warwick of the Knob."

Warwick, with all his coldness and strength, could not stand the ordeal.

"Come back, my children," he said. "It is also written, 'I will be merciful to their unrighteousness, and their sins and their iniquities will I remember no more.'" And then, as in former times, Mary's head rested on her father's knee.

FOOTNOTE:

[34] Copyright, 1901, by Dodd, Mead and Company.

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation and spelling errors have been fixed throughout.

The oe ligature in this etext has been replaced with oe.

Inconsistent hyphenation is as in the original.

Page xxi: The title of the Emerson poem "Goodby Proud World" is as in the original.

Page 251: 1833 has been changed to 1883 as this follows chronologically from the surrounding sentences. (... and in 1883 his study ...)

Page 273: A missing quote in (... to Write "Grace Truman: ...) is as in the original.