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Title: Kentucky in American Letters, v. 1 of 2 - 1784-1912
Author: Townsend, John Wilson, 1885-1968
Language: English
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_Richard Hickman Menefee_. 1907
_Kentuckians in History and Literature_. 1907
_The Life of James Francis Leonard_. 1909
_Kentucky: Mother of Governors_. 1910
_Lore of the Meadowland_. 1911







_Of this edition one thousand sets have been printed, of which
this is number_



[Illustration: (Printers' Union Logo)]

To My Mother


Mr. Townsend's fellow countrymen must feel themselves to be put under
a beautiful obligation to him by his work entitled _Kentucky in
American Letters_. He has thus fenced off for the lovers of New World
literature a well watered bluegrass pasture of prose and verse, which
they may enter and range through according to their appetites for its
peculiar green provender and their thirst for the limestone spring.
This strip of pasture is a hundred years long; its breadth may not be
politely questioned!

For the backward-looking and for the forward-looking students of
American literature, not its merely browsing readers, he has wrought a
service of larger and more lasting account. Whether his patiently done
and richly crowned work be the first of its class and kind, there is
slight need to consider here: fitly enough it might be a pioneer, a
path-blazer, as coming from the land of pioneers, path-blazers.

But whether or not other works of like character be already in the
field of national observation, it is inevitable that many others soon
will be. There must in time and in the natural course of events come
about a complete marshalling of the American commonwealths, especially
of the older American commonwealths, attended each by its women and
men of letters; with the final result that the entire pageant of our
literary creativeness as a people will thus be exhibited and reviewed
within those barriers and divisions, which from the beginning have
constituted the peculiar genius of our civilization.

When this has been done, when the States have severally made their
profoundly significant showing, when the evidence up to some century
mark or half-century mark is all presented, then for the first time
we, as a reading and thoughtful self-studying people, may for the
first time be advanced to the position of beginning to understand what
as a whole our cis-Atlantic branch of English literature really is.

Thus Mr. Townsend's work and the work of his fellow-craftsmen are all
stations on the long road but the right road. They are aids to the
marshalling of the American commonwealths at a great meeting-point of
the higher influences of our nation.

Now, already American literature has long been a subject in regard to
which a library of books has been written. The authors of by far the
most of these books are themselves Americans, and they have thus
looked at our literature and at our civilization from within; the
authors of the rest are foreigners who have investigated and
philosophized from the outside. Altogether, native and foreign, they
have approached their theme from divergent directions, with diverse
aims, and under the influence of deep differences in their critical
methods and in their own natures. But so far as the writer of these
words is aware, no one of them either native or foreign has ever set
about the study of American literature, enlightened with the only
solvent principle that can ever furnish its solution.

That solvent principle is contained within a single proposition. That
single proposition is the one upon which our forefathers deliberately
chose to found the civilization of the Anglo-Saxon race in the New
World: that it should not be a civilization of States which were not a
Nation; that it should not be the civilization of a nation without
states; but that it should be a Nation of States.

Now, if any man aspires to draw from American literature the
philosophy of its traits, if he sets it as the goal of his wisdom to
explain its breadth and its narrowness, its plenty here and its lack
there, its color in one place and its pallor in another, let him go
back to the will of the fathers in the foundation of the Republic and
find the explanation of our literature at the basis of our whole
civilization. He will never find it anywhere else. He will find it
there as he there finds the origin of our system of government, of our
system of industry, of our system of political barriers, of our system
of education: in the entire nature of our institutions as derived and
unfolded from the idea that we should be a nation of states. Our
literature--our novels and our poetry--have been as rigorously
included in this development as all the other elements of our life.

For the first time in this way he may come to see a great light; and
with that light shining about him he may be prepared to write the
first history of American literature.

None has yet been written.




What is a Kentucky book, is the one great question this work has
elicited. Surely a Kentucky book is one written by a Kentuckian about
Kentucky or Kentuckians and printed in Kentucky; surely it is a book
written by a Kentuckian upon any subject under the sun, and published
in any clime; surely it is one written in Kentucky by a citizen of any
other state or country, regardless of the subject or place of
publication, for, "in general, I have regarded the birthplace of a
piece of literature more important than that of the author." But is a
book, though treating of Kentucky or Kentuckians, regardless of its
place of publication, whose author was not born in, nor for any
appreciable period resided in, this state, entitled to be properly
classified as a Kentucky work? The writer has responded in the
negative to this question in the present work.

There have been several noted American authors who have written volumes
about Kentucky or Kentuckians, and they themselves were not natives of
this state, nor resided within its confines. Those early Western
travelers rarely omitted Kentucky from their journeys. The first of
them, F. A. Michaux, published his famous _Travels to the West of the
Alleghany Mountains, in the States of Ohio, Kentucky, and Tennessee_, at
London, in 1805; two years later F. Cuming's _Tour to the Western
Country, through Ohio and Kentucky_, was printed at Pittsburg; and in
1817 John Bradbury got out the first edition of his now noted _Travels
in the Interior of America_, at London. Bradbury died in 1823 and
to-day lies buried in the cemetery at Middletown, Kentucky, near
Louisville. George W. Ogden's _Letters from the West_ (New Bedford,
1823); W. Bullock's _Sketch of a Journey through the Western States_
(London, 1827); and Tilly Buttrick's _Voyages, Travels, and Discoveries_
(Boston, 1831), round out fairly well that group of Scotchmen,
Englishmen, New Englanders, and what not, who found many interesting
things in Kentucky a hundred years and more ago. Ogden spent two summers
in Kentucky; Bullock owned a river-side tract near Ludlow, Kentucky, and
old Bradbury sleeps in a quiet Kentucky hamlet, but neither of them may
be properly classified as a real Kentuckian.

The Beauchamp-Sharp tragedy of 1825 was the one Kentucky event that
kindled the imaginations of more alien writers than any other happening
in our history. Edgar Allan Poe, William Gilmore Simms, Charles Fenno
Hoffman, G. P. R. James, James Hall, and several others, wrote plays,
novels, and poems based upon this tragedy. In 1832 James Kirke Paulding,
the friend of Washington Irving, published one of the earliest Kentucky
romances, entitled _Westward Ho!_ which name he got from the old
Elizabethan drama of John Webster and Thomas Dekker. Two years after the
appearance of Paulding's tale, William A. Caruthers, the Virginia
novelist, printed _The Kentuckian in New York_; and in the same year
Thomas Chandler Haliburton ("Sam Slick"), put forth one of his earliest
works, _Kentucky, a Tale_ (London, 1834). In 1845 Charles Winterfield's
_My First Days With the Rangers_, appeared, to be followed the next year
by William T. Porter's _A Quarter Race in Kentucky_.

These writers hardly did more than point the way to Kentucky for Mrs.
Harriet Beecher Stowe, whose world-famous novel, _Uncle Tom's Cabin_
(Boston, 1852), was set against a background of slave-holding
Kentucky. This is the most famous example our literature affords of a
writer of another state or country coming to Kentucky for the
materials out of which to build a book.

In 1860 David Ross Locke, the Ohio journalist and satirist, discovered
the _Rev. Petroleum V. Nasby_, postmaster at "Confedrit X Roads,
Kentucky," and his political satires on Kentucky, the _Nasby Letters_,
tickled the readers of his paper, _The Toledo Blade_, through many
years. These alleged communications from poor Petroleum may be read
to-day in Locke's _Swingin' Round the Cirkel_, and _Ekkoes from
Kentucky_. J. G. Marshall's _The Outlaw Brothers_ (New York, 1864); Miss
Martha Remick's _Millicent Halford: a Tale of the Dark Days of Kentucky
in the year 1861_ (Boston, 1865); two novels by Edward Willett, entitled
_Kentucky Border Foes_, and _Old Honesty: a Tale of the Early Days of
Kentucky_, both of which were issued in the late sixties; Constance F.
Woolson's _Two Women_ (New York, 1877), and Mrs. Anna Bowman Dodd's
story, _Glorinda_ (Boston, 1888), concludes the group of writers of the
comparatively modern school who did not linger long in the "meadowland,"
but who found it good literary soil, and helped themselves accordingly.

In recent years Mr. Winston Churchill's _The Crossing_, Dr. James Ball
Naylor's _The Kentuckian_, Mr. Augustus Thomas's _The Witching Hour_,
and the Kentucky lyrics of Mrs. Alice Williams Brotherton, the Ohio
poet, have drawn fresh attention to Kentucky as a background for
literary productions, although they are written by those who cannot
qualify as Kentuckians. But to claim any of these writers for the
Commonwealth, would be to make one's self absurd. Dr. Naylor's lines
upon this point are _apropos_:

      I must admit--although it hurts!--
        That I was born unlucky;
      I've never, literally, had
        A home in Old Kentucky.
      And yet I feel should wayward Chance
        Direct my steps to roam there,
      I'd meet you all and greet you all--
        And find myself _at home_ there!

As has already been indicated, the good physician-poet is not by any
manner of means the only alien bard who has remembered Kentucky in his
work. No less a poet than the great Sir Walter Scott celebrated
Kentucky in _Marmion_--the State's first appearance in English poetry.
The passage may be found near the close of the ninth stanza in the
third canto. Lord Marmion and his followers have ridden "the livelong
day," and are now quartered at a well-known Scottish hostelry. They
have all eaten and drunk until they are on the borderland of dreams
when their leader, seeing their condition,

      ... called upon a squire:--
      "Fitz-Eustace, know'st thou not some lay,
      To speed the lingering night away?
      We slumber by the fire."--


      "So please you," thus the youth rejoined
      "Our choicest minstrel's left behind."

And while Fitz realizes that he cannot, in any degree, equal the famous
singer to whom he has referred, he now further praises him, calls down
curses on the cause that kept him from following Marmion, and ventures

      "To sing his favourite roundelay."


      A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had,
      The air he chose was wild and sad;
      Such have I heard, in Scottish land,
      Rise from the busy harvest band,
      When falls before the mountaineer,
      On lowland plains, the ripened ear.
      Now one shrill voice the notes prolong,
      Now a wild chorus swells the song:
      Oft have I listened, and stood still,
      As it came soften'd up the hill,
      And deem'd it the lament of men
      Who languish'd for their native glen;
      And thought how sad would be such sound,
      On Susquehannah's swampy ground,
      _Kentucky's wood-encumber'd brake_,
      Or wild Ontario's boundless lake,
      Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain,
      Recall'd fair Scotland's hills again!

After Sir Walter, the next English poet to tell the world of Kentucky
and one of her sons, was George Gordon (Lord) Byron. His references
are found in the eighth canto and the sixty-first to the sixty-seventh
stanzas inclusive, of _Don Juan_. This poem was begun in 1819 and
published, several cantos at a time, until the final sixteenth
appeared in 1824. The sixty-first stanza will serve our purpose.


      Of all men, saving Sylla, the man-slayer,
        Who passes for in life and death most lucky,
      Of the greatest names which in our faces stare,
        _The General Boone, back-woodsman of Kentucky_,
      Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere;
        For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he
      Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days
      Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze.

In 1827 Alfred Tennyson, with his brother Charles, published a slender
sheaf of juvenile verses, entitled _Poems By Two Brothers_. _On
Sublimity_ contains eleven stanzas of ten lines each. The poet
disdains "vales in tenderest green," and asks for "the wild cascade,
the rugged scene," the sea, the mountains, dark cathedrals, storms,
"Niagara's flood of matchless might," and Mammoth Cave.

      The hurricane fair earth to darkness changing,
        _Kentucky's chambers of eternal gloom_,[1]
      The swift-pac'd columns of the desert ranging
        Th' uneven waste, the violent Simoom
      The snow-clad peaks, stupendous Gungo-tree!
        Whence springs the hallow'd Jumna's echoing tide,
      Hear Cotopaxi's cloud-capt majesty,
        Enormous Chimborazo's naked pride,
      The dizzy Cape of winds that cleaves the sky,
        Whence we look down into eternity,
      The pillar'd cave of Morven's giant king
        The Yanar, and the Geyser's boiling fountain,
      The deep volcano's inward murmuring,
        The shadowy Colossus of the mountain;
      Antiparos, where sun-beams never enter;
        Loud Stromboli, amid the quaking isles;
      The terrible Maelstroom, around his centre
        Wheeling his circuit of unnumber'd miles:
      These, these are sights and sounds that freeze the blood,
      Yet charm the awe-struck soul which doats on solitude.

Tennyson was the third and last English poet of the nineteenth century
to make mention of Kentucky in his works.

Much writing has been done by Kentuckians from the beginning until the
present time, but most of what is usually termed literature is the work
of the school of today. That much, however, of the early productions,
especially the anonymous and fugitive poems, have been forever lost, may
be gathered from a letter written to Edwin Bryant, editor of _The
Lexington Intelligencer_, by an Ohio correspondent, which appeared in
that paper in January, 1834, a part of which is as follows:

    There were a vast number of rural and sentimental songs, sung by
    the hunters and pioneers, that, in this our day, to the present
    generation would be truly interesting. Would it not be wise for
    you, Messrs. Editors, to publish a note in your valuable paper,
    offering the "Poets' Corner," and save what you can of the
    fragments of "Olden Times?"... I know that there were many
    sentimental pieces--some written by a Mr. Bullock--many war songs;
    one on St. Clair's defeat; and there was a wonderful flow of
    poetical effusions on the first discovery of a settlement of
    Kentucky. There was a wooing song of the hunter--one stanza I can
    only repeat:

          "I will plough and live, and you may knit and sowe,
           And through the wild woods, I'll hunt the buffaloe!"

    To many these things may appear as ... light as empty air, but
    look to the future, and you will at once discover the inquisitive
    mind will earnestly desire to look into such matters and things.

The pity is, this admonition passed unheeded by Bryant and his
contemporaries, and much that "the inquisitive mind" would revel in
to-day, was thus lost. The most famous, however, of the pioneer songs
that the above quoted writer probably had in mind, _The Hunters of
Kentucky_, the celebrated ballad of the Battle of New Orleans, has come
down to us, but it was written by the alien hand of Samuel Woodworth,
who achieved a double triumph over oblivion by also writing _The Old
Oaken Bucket_. And were other "wooing songs of the hunter" extant, we
would certainly discover that many of them were done by non-Kentuckians.
Even _Kentucky Belle_, ballad of Morgan and his men, was the work of
Constance Fenimore Woolson, the famous author of _Anne_.

In recent years the ballads of the Kentucky mountains have been
investigated by a group of scholars, and Dr. Hubert Gibson Shearin
will shortly publish a collection of them. It is impossible to discuss
them at this time; and as nearly all of them are offshoots of the old
English ballads and Scottish songs, done over by their Kentucky
descendants, the ever-recurring question: "Are they Kentucky
productions?" will not down.



Kentucky has failed to produce and maintain a respectable literary
magazine for any considerable length of time. Many magazines have been
born in Kentucky with high hopes, and a few of them have braved the
storms for a number of years, but all of them have gone the way of all
the earth after a pathetic struggle for existence.

The reasons for this lie not far afield: the leading magazines and
periodicals of the east through the immensity of their circulation
secure that large patronage necessary to maintain a publication
conducted on a generous basis, ensuring variety and excellence.
Experience has long since demonstrated even to the bravest of the
inland publishers that the point of distribution is the controlling
factor in success. The means of transportation which have so
miraculously improved, have annihilated distance and along with it to
no small extent the Western and Southern periodical of literary
flavor. The opulent publications are enabled through their very
prosperity to command contributors not to be approached by a
periodical circumscribed in moans and constituency. Again, the
Kentucky magazines have all along made the fatal mistake of truckling
to dead prejudices and sectionalism. The material and the moulders
have long been with us, but the wide popular support, which after all
is the first essential, has failed to materialise, and it may be
regretfully apprehended that it now lies as far away as ever.

The first magazine issued in Kentucky or the West was _The Medley, or
Monthly Miscellany, for the year 1803_, which was edited and published
by Daniel Bradford, son of old John Bradford, the editor of _The
Kentucky Gazette_. _The Medley_ lived through the year of 1803, but in
January, 1804, Editor Bradford announced that he was compelled, from
lack of appreciation, to abandon its publication. The twelve parts were
bound for those of the subscribers who cared to have them made into a
single volume, and probably not more than two copies are extant to-day.
_The Medley's_ literary merit was not impressive, and its death can only
be deplored because it happened to be the first Western magazine.

_The Almoner_, a religious periodical, the first issue of which was
dated from Lexington, April, 1814, and which died a twelvemonth later,
was published by Thomas T. Skillman, the pioneer printer. Its account
of the preacher, John Poage Campbell, and his many theological works,
is about all one finds of interest in it.

William Gibbes Hunt, a Harvard man, who later took a degree from
Transylvania University, established _The Western Review_ at
Lexington, in August, 1819, and this was the first literary magazine
in the West worthy the name. Hunt was a man of fine tastes, and he had
a proper conception of what a magazine should be. He worked hard for
two years, but in July, 1821,--the number for which month is notable
as having contained the first draft of General William O. Butler's
famous poem, _The Boatman's Horn_, which is there entitled _The Boat
Horn_,--Hunt rehearsed the pathetic tale of the lack of support and
appreciation for a Western magazine, and, without any expressed
regret, entitled it his valedictory. He had survived twice as long as
any of his predecessors, and he probably felt that he had done fairly
well, as he undoubtedly had. The four bound volumes of _The Western
Review_ may be read to-day with more than an historical interest. Hunt
returned to his home in New England; and the only other thing of his
that is preserved is _An Address on the Principles of Masonry_
(Lexington, 1821), and a very excellent oration it is, too.

There were brave men after Hunt, however. _The Literary Pamphleteer_ was
born and died at Paris, Kentucky, in 1823; and in the following year
Thomas T. Skillman established _The Western Luminary_ at Lexington. This
was a semi-religious journal, but its publication was shortly suspended.
_The Microscope_ seems to have been the first magazine published at
Louisville, it being founded in 1824, but its life was ephemeral. Under
a half a dozen different names, with many lapses between the miles, _The
Transylvanian_, which Professor Thomas Johnson Matthews, of Transylvania
University, established at Lexington in 1829, has survived until the
present time. It is now the literary magazine of Transylvania
University. Mr. James Lane Allen, Mr. Frank Waller Allen, and one or two
other well-known Kentucky writers saw their earliest essays and stories
first published in _The Transylvanian_. John Clark's _Lexington Literary
Journal_, a twice-a-week affair, was founded in 1833; and the
_Louisville Literary News-Letter_, edited by Edmund Flagg and issued by
George D. Prentice, lived in the Kentucky metropolis from December,
1838, to November, 1840.

Far and away the most famous literary periodical ever published in
Kentucky, was _The Western Messenger_, founded at Cincinnati in 1835,
and removed to Louisville in April, 1836. James Freeman Clarke
(1810-1888), the noted Boston Unitarian preacher and author, was editor,
publisher, and agent of _The Messenger_ while it was at Louisville; and
he solicited subscriptions throughout Kentucky. Ralph Waldo Emerson
first appeared as a poet in his friend Clarke's magazine. His _Goodby
Proud World_, _The Rhodora_, _The Humble Bee_, and several of his other
now noted poems, were printed for the first time in _The Messenger_.
Clarke also published papers from the hands of Hawthorne, Oliver Wendell
Holmes, William Ellery Channing, Margaret Fuller, and nearly all of the
writers now grouped as the New England school. He printed a poem of John
Keats, which had never been previously published, the manuscript of
which was furnished by George Keats, brother of the poet, who lived at
Louisville for many years. Clarke later wrote an interesting sketch of
George Keats for his magazine. During parts of the four years he
published _The Messenger_ at Louisville he had as assistant editors
Christopher P. Cranch and Samuel Osgood, now well-known names in
American letters. Clarke returned to Boston in 1840, and _The Messenger_
returned to Cincinnati, where it was suspended in April, 1841. "The
periodical was an exotic," wrote William Henry Venable, "a Boston flower
blooming in the Ohio Valley;" and this is the one-line history of it.
Its like was never seen before, never since, and will never be seen
again in the West.

Thirteen years after _The Western Messenger_ left Louisville, _The
Western Literary Magazine_, a monthly publication, was begun; and
three years later, or in 1856, _The Louisville Review_, another
monthly, was established. But the war clouds of civil strife were
gradually gathering, and the endless pen scratching of the Kentucky
magazinist was lost in the cannon's roar. Newspapers were the only
things Kentuckians had time to peruse.

Since the war Kentucky periodicals have been, almost without exception,
rather tame affairs. They have all been most mushroomish. A few of them
may be singled out, such as _The Southern Bivouac_, which was conducted
at Louisville for several years by General Basil W. Duke and Richard W.
Knott; _The Illustrated Kentuckian_, founded at Lexington, in 1892; _The
Southern Magazine_, of Louisville, published papers by Mr. Allen,
stories by Mr. John Fox, Jr., and several other now well-known writers;
and Charles J. O'Malley's _Midland Review_ ran for some time. These are
the comparatively recent Kentucky periodicals which have bloomed in a
day and wilted with the earliest winter. _The Register_, official organ
of the State Historical Society, is still being issued three times a
year. It is unique among Kentucky magazines in that it is the only one
that has had adequate financial support, which, however, comes to it in
the form of a State appropriation. For the last twenty-five years _The
Courier-Journal_, of Louisville, has devoted space in its Saturday
edition to reviews of new books; and in recent years _The Evening Post_,
also of Louisville, has maintained a similar department.

                                                   J. W. T.

  Lexington, Kentucky
    June 13, 1913


[1] The italics in which the three Kentucky lines are set, are my own.


The last several years have been devoted to the collecting and
classifying of Kentucky books and authors from Filson, in 1784, to Mr.
Allen, in 1912. While the author has done other things, this has been
his most serious business.

Of the more than a thousand Kentucky writers, one hundred and
ninety-six, or those who achieved considerable reputation in their day
and generation, or others to whom fame came late, are now discussed.
The author hopes to publish within the next two or three years a
_Dictionary of Kentucky Writers_, which will attempt to bring together
in brief biographical and critical notes all of Kentucky's literary
workers from the beginning until the present time. The crossroads poet
is a most elusive, most diffident figure, but I shall do my best to
bring him into the _Dictionary_ that is to be.

I have received assistance from many quarters. Colonel Reuben T.
Durrett, Dr. Henry A. Cottell, General Bennett H. Young, Colonel
Robert M. Kelly, Mrs. Evelyn Snead Barnett, Mrs. Elvira Miller
Slaughter, and Mr. George T. Settle, of Louisville, Kentucky, have
aided me in many directions. Mr. George McCalla Spears, of Dallas,
Texas, author of _Dear Old Kentucky_, and the owner of one of the best
collections of Kentucky books ever gotten together, I have to thank
for a catalogue of his library and a dozen informing letters. Judge
James H. Mulligan, Miss Anna Totten, Mrs. Annie Gratz Clay, Miss Jo
Peter, and Mr. James M. Roach, of Lexington, Kentucky, have loaned and
given me many rare Kentucky items; to Mr. William Kavanaugh Doty, of
Richmond, Kentucky, Mrs. Daniel Henry Holmes, of Covington, Kentucky,
Mrs. Lucien Beckner, of Winchester, Kentucky, Dr. Thomas E. Pickett,
of Maysville, Kentucky, State Librarian Frank K. Kavanaugh, of
Frankfort, Kentucky, Mr. Alexander Hill, and Miss Marian Prentice
Piatt, of Cincinnati, Ohio, Mr. Henry Cleveland Wood, of Harrodsburg,
Kentucky, Mr. Paul Weir, of Owensboro, Kentucky, Mr. Ingram Crockett,
of Henderson, Kentucky, Mrs. Mary Addams Bayne, of Shelbyville,
Kentucky, Miss Leigh Gordon Giltner, of Eminence, Kentucky, and Mrs.
Caroline S. Valentine, of New Castle, Kentucky, the majority of whom
are writers, I am doubly indebted for facts regarding their own work,
as well as for what I now more especially thank them--information
concerning other Kentucky writers.

Death found the two best friends, perhaps, this work had during the
course of its preparation, when it took Charles J. O'Malley, the
Kentucky poet and critic, and Jahu Dewitt Miller, the Philadelphia
lecturer and bookman. Both of these men had just gotten into the
spirit of the work when they died within a year of each other.
O'Malley wrote the most illuminating letters concerning Kentucky
authors it has been my good fortune to receive; Miller made the most
gratifying and surprising additions to my collection of Kentuckiana,
exceedingly scarce volumes and pamphlets which he alone seemed able to
unearth from the old bookshops of the country. The memories of them
both must be ever green with me and in this work.

I have to thank Mr. Allen for his very fine introduction. To have
one's name associated with his is reward sufficient for the years of
toil and sacrifice this work has demanded of its author.


JOHN FILSON                                        1
  THE AIR AND CLIMATE OF KENTUCKY                  2
  QUADRUPEDS                                       3
  BOONE'S FIRST VIEW OF KENTUCKY                   4

JOHN BRADFORD                                      5
  NOTES ON KENTUCKY. SECTION I                     6

MATTHEW LYON                                       8

GILBERT IMLAY                                     11
  THE FLIGHT OF A FLORID LOVER                    13

ADAM RANKIN                                       17
  UPON MARRIAGE BY LICENSE                        18

THOMAS JOHNSON                                    19
  EXTEMPORE GRACE                                 21
  DANVILLE                                        21
  KENTUCKY                                        21
  HUDSON, WIFE-MURDERER                           22
  PARSON RICE                                     22
  THE POET'S EPITAPH                              22

GEORGE BECK                                       23
  FIFTEENTH ODE OF HORACE                         24
  ANACREON'S FIFTY-FIFTH ODE                      25
  ANACREON'S FIRST ODE                            26

HUMPHREY MARSHALL                                 26
  PRIMEVAL KENTUCKY                               28

STEPHEN T. BADIN                                  30
  EPICEDIUM                                       31

CHARLES CALDWELL                                  34
  GENERAL GREENE'S EARLY LIFE                     35

ALLAN B. MAGRUDER                                 37
  CITIZEN GENET AND JEFFERSON                     38

HENRY CLAY                                        39
  REPLY TO JOHN RANDOLPH                          42
  ADDRESS TO LA FAYETTE                           43

JOHN J. AUDUBON                                   45
  INDIAN SUMMER ON THE OHIO                       48

HORACE HOLLEY                                     52
  MR. CLAY AND COL. MEADE                         53

CONSTANTINE S. RAFINESQUE                         56
  GEOLOGICAL ANNALS                               58

MANN BUTLER                                       59
  PIONEER VISITORS                                60

ZACHARY TAYLOR                                    62
  A LETTER TO HENRY CLAY                          63

DANIEL DRAKE                                      65
  MAYSLICK, KENTUCKY, IN 1800                     67

MARY A. HOLLEY                                    69
  TEXAS WOMEN                                     70

JOHN J. CRITTENDEN                                71
  EULOGY UPON JUSTICE MCKINLEY                    73

JOHN M. HARNEY                                    74
  ECHO AND THE LOVER                              76
  THE WIPPOWIL                                    77
  SYLPHS BATHING                                  78

GEORGE ROBERTSON                                  78
  ANNIVERSARY ADDRESS                             80
  EARLY STRUGGLES                                 80
  LITERARY FAME                                   81

SHADRACH PENN                                     82
  THE COMING OF GEORGE D. PRENTICE                83

WILLIAM O. BUTLER                                 84
  THE BOATMAN'S HORN                              86

HEW AINSLIE                                       87
  THE BOUROCKS O' BARGENY                         89
  THE HAUGHS O' AULD KENTUCK                      89
  THE INGLE SIDE                                  90
  THE HINT O' HAIRST                              91

JAMES G. BIRNEY                                   91
  THE NO-GOVERNMENT DOCTRINES                     93

THOMAS CORWIN                                     95
  THE MEXICAN WAR                                 96

HENRY B. BASCOM                                   98
  A CLERGYMAN'S VIEW OF NIAGARA                   99

JAMES T. MOREHEAD                                102
  JOHN FINLEY                                    103

LEWIS COLLINS                                    104
  PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION                   105

JULIA A. TEVIS                                   107
  THE MAY QUEEN                                  108

ROBERT J. BRECKINRIDGE                           112
  SANCTIFICATION                                 113

CAROLINE L. HENTZ                                114
  BESIDE THE LONG MOSS SPRING                    115

JOHN P. DURBIN                                   117
  IMPRESSIONS OF LONDON                          118

FORTUNATUS COSBY, JR.                            119
  FIRESIDE FANCIES                               120

THOMAS F. MARSHALL                               123
  TEMPERANCE: AN ADDRESS                         124

JEFFERSON J. POLK                                126
  THE BATTLE OF THE BOARDS                       127

GEORGE D. PRENTICE                               129
  THE CLOSING YEAR                               131
  PARAGRAPHS                                     135

ROBERT M. BIRD                                   135
  NICK OF THE WOODS                              137

JOHN A. MCCLUNG                                  139
  THE WOMEN OF BRYANT'S STATION                  140

JAMES O. PATTIE                                  142
  THE SANTA FE COUNTRY                           143

WILLIAM F. MARVIN                                145
  EPIGRAM                                        146
  THE FIRST ROSES OF SPRING                      146
  SONG                                           147

ELISHA BARTLETT                                  147

SAMUEL D. GROSS                                  150
  KENTUCKY                                       151
  THE DEATH OF HENRY CLAY                        152

THOMAS H. CHIVERS                                152
  THE DEATH OF ALONZO                            154
  GEORGIA WATERS                                 156

JEFFERSON DAVIS                                  156
  FROM THE FAREWELL SPEECH                       158

WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER                             160
  THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST                        162

THOMAS H. SHREVE                                 163
  I HAVE NO WIFE                                 164

ORMSBY M. MITCHEL                                166
  ASTRONOMICAL EVIDENCES OF GOD                  167

ALBERT T. BLEDSOE                                169

RICHARD H. MENEFEE                               173
  KENTUCKY: A TOAST                              174

GEORGE W. CUTTER                                 176
  THE SONG OF STEAM                              177

MARY P. SHINDLER                                 179
  THE FADED FLOWER                               180

MARTIN J. SPALDING                               181
  A BISHOP'S ARRIVAL                             182

JOHN W. AUDUBON                                  185
  LOS ANGELES                                    186
  TULARE VALLEY                                  186
  CHRISTMAS IN 'FRISCO                           187

ADRIEN E. ROUQUETTE                              187
  SOUVENIR DE KENTUCKY                           189

EMILY V. MASON                                   191
  THE DEATH OF LEE                               192

EDMUND FLAGG                                     194
  THE ANCIENT MOUNDS OF THE WEST                 195

CATHERINE A. WARFIELD                            197
  CAMILLA BOUVERIE'S DIARY                       198
  A PLEDGE TO LEE                                199

J. ROSS BROWNE                                   200
  LAPDOGS IN GERMANY                             201

ROBERT MORRIS                                    205
  THE LEVEL AND THE SQUARE                       206

AMELIA B. WELBY                                  207
  THE RAINBOW                                    209
  ON THE DEATH OF A SISTER POET                  210

CHARLES W. WEBBER                                211
  TROUTING ON JESSUP'S RIVER                     212

LEWIS J. FRAZEE                                  216
  HAVRE                                          217

THEODORE O'HARA                                  218
  THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD                        220
  THE OLD PIONEER                                223
  SECOND LOVE                                    225
  A ROLLICKING RHYME                             225
  THE FAME OF WILLIAM T. BARRY                   226

SARAH T. BOLTON                                  228
  PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE                          229

JOHN C. BRECKINRIDGE                             231
  HENRY CLAY                                     232

JAMES WEIR, SR.                                  234
  SIMON KENTON                                   235

MARY E. W. BETTS                                 237

REUBEN T. DURRETT                                239

RICHARD H. COLLINS                               244
  PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION                  245

ANNIE C. KETCHUM                                 247
  APRIL TWENTY-SIXTH                             248

FRANCIS H. UNDERWOOD                             250
  ALOYSIUS AND MR. FENTON                        252
  AN AMAZING PROPHECY                            254

STEPHEN C. FOSTER                                255
  MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME, GOOD-NIGHT               256

ZACHARIAH F. SMITH                               258
  EARLY KENTUCKY DOCTORS                         259

JOHN A. BROADUS                                  261
  OXFORD UNIVERSITY                              263

MARY J. HOLMES                                   265
  THE SCHOOLMASTER                               266

ROSA V. JEFFREY                                  269
  A GLOVE                                        270
  A MEMORY                                       271

SALLIE R. FORD                                   272
  OUR MINISTER MARRIES                           273

JOHN E. HATCHER                                  276
  NEWSPAPER PARAGRAPHS                           277

WILLIAM C. WATTS                                 279
  A WEDDING AND A DANCE                          280

J. PROCTOR KNOTT                                 282
  FROM THE DULUTH SPEECH                         283

GEORGE G. VEST                                   285
  EULOGY OF THE DOG                              286

WILLIAM P. JOHNSTON                              288

WILL WALLACE HARNEY                              291
  THE STAB                                       292

J. STODDARD JOHNSTON                             292
  "CAPTAIN MOLL"                                 293

JULIA S. DINSMORE                                295
  LOVE AMONG THE ROSES                           295

HENRY T. STANTON                                 297
  THE MONEYLESS MAN                              299
  "A MENSÁ ET THORO"                             300
  A SPECIAL PLEA                                 301
  SWEETHEART                                     301

SARAH M. PIATT                                   303
  IN CLONMEL PARISH CHURCHYARD                   304
  A WORD WITH A SKYLARK                          305
  THE GIFT OF TEARS                              306

BOYD WINCHESTER                                  307
  LAKE GENEVA                                    308

THOMAS GREEN                                     310
  THE CONSPIRATORS                               312

FORCEYTHE WILLSON                                313
  THE OLD SERGEANT                               314

W. C. P. BRECKINRIDGE                            319
  IS NOT THIS THE CARPENTER'S SON                321

BASIL W. DUKE                                    323
  MORGAN, THE MAN                                324

HENRY WATTERSON                                  325
  OLD LONDON TOWN                                327

GILDEROY W. GRIFFIN                              331
  THE GYPSIES                                    332

JOHN L. SPALDING                                 334
  AN IVORY PAPER-KNIFE                           335

NATHANIEL S. SHALER                              336
  THE ORPHAN BRIGADE                             337
  TOM MARSHALL                                   339
  LINCOLN IN KENTUCKY                            341

WILLIAM L. VISSCHER                              342
  PROEM                                          343

BENNETT H. YOUNG                                 344
  PREHISTORIC WEAPONS                            345

JAMES H. MULLIGAN                                348
  IN KENTUCKY                                    350
  OVER THE HILL TO HUSTONVILLE                   351

NELLY M. MCAFFEE                                 353
  FINALE                                         353

MARY F. CHILDS                                   356
  DE NAMIN' OB DE TWINS                          357

WILLIAM T. PRICE                                 359

GEORGE M. DAVIE                                  363
  "FRATER, AVE ATQUE VALE"                       363
  HADRIAN, DYING, TO HIS SOUL                    364

JOHN URI LLOYD                                   364
  "LET'S HAVE THE MERCY TEXT"                    366



John Filson, the first Kentucky historian, was born at East
Fallowfield, Pennsylvania, in 1747. He was educated at the academy of
the Rev. Samuel Finley, at Nottingham, Maryland. Finley was afterwards
president of Princeton University. John Filson looked askance at the
Revolutionary War, and came out to Kentucky about 1783. In Lexington
he conducted a school for a year, and spent his leisure hours in
collecting data for a history of Kentucky. He interviewed Daniel
Boone, Levi Todd, James Harrod, and many other Kentucky pioneers; and
the information they gave him was united with his own observations,
forming the material for his book. Filson did not remain in Kentucky
much over a year for, in 1784, he went to Wilmington, Delaware, and
persuaded James Adams, the town's chief printer, to issue his
manuscript as _The Discovery, Settlement, and Present State of
Kentucke_; and then he continued his journey to Philadelphia, where
his map of the three original counties of Kentucky--Jefferson,
Fayette, and Lincoln--was printed and dedicated to General Washington
and the United States Congress. This Wilmington edition of Filson's
history is far and away the most famous history of Kentucky ever
published. Though it contained but 118 pages, one of the six extant
copies recently fetched the fabulous sum of $1,250--the highest price
ever paid for a Kentucky book. The little work was divided into two
parts, the first part being devoted to the history of the country, and
the second part was the first biography of Daniel Boone ever
published. Boone dictated this famous story of his life to the
Pennsylvania pedagogue, who put it into shape for publication, yet
several Western writers refer to it as "Boone's autobiography." Boone
is the author's central hero straight through the work, and he is
happier when discussing him than in relating the country's meager
history. Filson's _Kentucky_ was translated into French by M. Parraud,
and issued at Paris in 1785; and in the same year a German version was
published. Gilbert Imlay incorporated it into the several editions of
his _Topographical Description of the Western Territory of North
America_ (London, 1793). And several subsequent Western writers also
reproduced it in their works, seldom giving Filson the proper credit
for it. The last three or four years of his life John Filson spent in
Kentucky, Illinois, and Indiana. He was one of the founders of
Cincinnati, which he named "Losantiville;" and a short time later, in
1788, he wandered into the Miami woods one day and was never seen
again. Col. Reuben T. Durrett, the Louisville historian, wrote his
biography, and established an historical organization, in 1884, which
he named the "Filson Club." Filson's fame is secure in Kentucky, and
Colonel Durrett and his work have made it so.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Life and Writings of John Filson_, by R. T.
    Durrett (Louisville, Kentucky, 1884); _Kentuckians in History and
    Literature_, by John Wilson Townsend (New York, 1907); _The First
    Map of Kentucky_, by P. Lee Phillips (Washington, 1908).


[From _The Discovery, Settlement, and Present State of Kentucky_
(Wilmington, Delaware, 1784)]

This country is more temperate and healthy than the other settled parts
of America. In summer it has not the sandy heats which Virginia and
Carolina experience, and receives a fine air from its rivers. In winter,
which at most lasts three months, commonly two, and is but seldom
severe, the people are safe in bad houses; and the beasts have a goodly
supply without fodder. The winter begins about Christmas, and ends about
the first of March, at farthest does not exceed the middle of that
month. Snow seldom falls deep or lies long. The west winds often bring
storms and the east winds clear the sky; but there is no steady rule of
weather in that respect, as in the northern states. The west winds are
sometimes cold and nitrous. The Ohio running in that direction, and
there being mountains on that quarter, the westerly winds, by sweeping
along their tops, in the cold regions of the air, and over a long tract
of frozen water, collect cold in their course, and convey it over the
Kentucky country; but the weather is not so intensely severe as these
winds bring with them in Pennsylvania. The air and seasons depend very
much on the winds as to heat and cold, dryness and moisture.


[From the same]

Among the native animals are the urus, bison, or zorax, described by
Cesar, which we call a buffalo, much resembling a large bull, of a
great size, with a large head, thick, short, crooked horns, and
broader in his forepart than behind. Upon his shoulder is a large lump
of flesh, covered with a thick boss of long wool and curly hair, of a
dark brown color. They do not rise from the ground as our cattle, but
spring up at once upon their feet; are of a broad make, and clumsy
appearance, with short legs, but run fast, and turn not aside for any
thing when chased, except a standing tree. They weigh from 500 to 1000
weight, are excellent meat, supplying the inhabitants in many parts
with beef, and their hides make good leather. I have heard a hunter
assert, he saw above 1000 buffaloes at the Blue Licks at once; so
numerous were they before the first settlers had wantonly sported away
their lives. There still remains a great number in the exterior parts
of the settlement. They feed upon cane and grass, as other cattle, and
are innocent, harmless creatures.

There are still to be found many deer, elks, and bears, within the
settlement, and many more on the borders of it. There are also
panthers, wild cats, and wolves.

The waters have plenty of beavers, otters, minks, and muskrats: nor
are the animals common to other parts wanting, such as foxes, rabbits,
squirrels, racoons, ground-hogs, pole-cats, and opossums. Most of the
species of the domestic quadrupeds have been introduced since the
settlement, such as horses, cows, sheep, and hogs, which are
prodigiously multiplied, suffered to run in the woods without a
keeper, and only brought home when wanted.


[From the same]

It was on the 1st of May, in the year 1769, that I resigned my
domestic happiness for a time, and left my family and peaceable
habitation on the Yadkin river, in North Carolina, to wander through
the wilderness of America, in quest of the country of Kentucky, in
company with John Finley, John Stewart, Joseph Holden, James Monay,
and William Cool. We proceeded successfully; and after a long and
fatiguing journey, through a mountainous wilderness, in a westward
direction, on the seventh day of June following we found ourselves on
Red river, where John Finley had formerly been trading with the
Indians, and, from the top of an eminence, saw with pleasure the
beautiful level of Kentucky. Here let me observe, that for some time
we had experienced the most uncomfortable weather as a prelibation of
our future sufferings. At this place we encamped, and made a shelter
to defend us from the inclement season, and began to hunt and
reconnoiter the country. We found everywhere abundance of wild beasts
of all sorts, through this vast forest. The buffaloe were more
frequent than I have seen cattle in the settlements, browsing on the
leaves of the cane, or cropping the herbage on those extensive plains,
fearless, because ignorant, of the violence of man. Sometimes we saw
hundreds in a drove, and the numbers about the salt springs were
amazing. In this forest, the habitation of beasts of every kind
natural to America, we practiced hunting with great success, until the
22d day of December following.


John Bradford, Kentucky's pioneer journalist, was born near Warrenton,
Virginia, in 1749. He saw service in the Revolutionary War, and came
to Kentucky when thirty years of age. He fought against the Indians at
Chillicothe, and, in 1785, brought his family out from Virginia to
Kentucky, locating at Cane Run, near Lexington. Two years later he and
his brother, Fielding Bradford, founded _The Kentucke Gazette_, the
first issue of which appeared Saturday, August 18, 1787--the second
newspaper west of the Alleghanies. The following year John Bradford
published _The Kentucke Almanac_, the first pamphlet from a Western
press; and this almanac was issued every twelvemonth for many years.
Fielding Bradford withdrew from the _Gazette_ in May, 1788, and "Old
Jawn," as he was called, carried the entire burden until 1802, when
his son, Daniel Bradford, assumed control. In March, 1789, under
instructions from the Virginia legislature, Bradford discarded
"Kentucke" for "Kentucky," one of the many interesting facts connected
with the _Gazette_. John Bradford was the first state printer; and the
first book he published was the laws passed by the first Kentucky
legislature, which assembled at Lexington in 1792. The Bradfords
published many of the most important early Western books, and a
"Bradford" brings joy to the heart of any present-day collector of
Kentuckiana. The column in the _Gazette_ devoted to verse, headed
"Sacred to the Muses," preserved many early Western poems; but the
little anecdotes which seldom failed to be tucked beneath the verse,
were nearly always coarse and vulgar, giving one a rather excellent
index to the editor's morals or the morals of his readers. Bradford
appears to have taken a great fancy to the poems of Philip Freneau
(1752-1832), the first real American poet, for he "picked up" more
than twenty of them from the _Freeman's Journal_. The most complete
files of the _Kentucky Gazette_ are preserved in the Lexington Public
Library, though the vandals that have consulted them from time to time
have cut and inked out many valuable things. John Bradford was a
public-spirited citizen, being, at different times, chairman of the
town trustees, and of the board of trustees of Transylvania
University. He was a profound mathematician, astronomer, and
philosopher, his contemporaries tell us, and in proof thereof they
have handed down another of his sobriquets, "Old Wisdom." Though his
fame as the first Kentucky editor is fixed, as an author his
reputation rests upon _The General Instructor; or, the Office, Duty,
and Authority of Justices of the Peace, Sheriffs, Coroners, and
Constables, in the State of Kentucky_ (Lexington, Ky., 1800), a legal
compilation; and upon his more famous work, _Notes on Kentucky_
(Xenia, Ohio, 1827). These sixty-two articles were originally printed
in the _Gazette_ between August 25, 1826, and January 9, 1829. Upon
this work John Bradford is ranked among the Kentucky historians. At
the time of his death, which occurred at Lexington, Kentucky, March
31, 1830, he was sheriff of Fayette county.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. No biography of Bradford has been written, but any
    of the histories of Kentucky contain extended notices of his life
    and work.


[From the _Kentucky Gazette_ (August 25, 1826)]

This country was well known to the Indian traders many years before
its settlement. They gave a description of it to Lewis Evans, who
published his first map of it as early as 1752.

In the year 1750,[2] Dr. Thomas Walker, Colby Chew, Ambrose Powell
and several others from the counties of Orange and Culpepper, in the
state of Virginia, set out on an excursion to the Western Waters; they
traveled down the Holstein river, and crossed over the Mountains into
Powell's valley, thence across the Cumberland mountain at the gap
where the road now crosses, proceeded on across what was formerly
known by the name of the Wilderness until they arrived at the
Hazlepath; here the company divided, Dr. Walker with a part continued
north until they came to the Kentucky river which they named Louisa or
Levisa river. After traveling down the excessive broken or hilly
margin some distance they became dissatisfied and returned and
continued up one of its branches to its head, and crossed over the
mountains to New River at the place called Walker's Meadows.

In the year 1754 James McBride with some others, passed down the Ohio
river in canoes, and landed at the mouth of the Kentucky river, where
they marked on a tree the initials of their names, and the date of the
year. These men passed through the country and were the first who gave
a particular account of its beauty and richness of soil to the
inhabitants of the British settlements in America.

No further notice seems to have been taken of Kentucky until the year
1767, when John Finlay with others (whilst trading with the Indians)
passed through a part of the rich lands of Kentucky. It was then
called by the Indians in their language, the Dark and Bloody Grounds.
Some difference took place between these traders and the Indians, and
Finlay deemed it prudent to return to his residence in North Carolina,
where he communicated his knowledge of the country to Col. Daniel
Boone and others. This seems to have been one of the most important
events in the history of Kentucky, as it was the exciting cause which
prompted Col. Boone shortly afterwards to make his first visit to the
Dark and Bloody Grounds.


[2] Marshall in his _History_, v. i, p. 7, says it was 1758. Mr. H.
Taylor thinks Dr. Walker informed him it was in 1752, but Col. Shelby
states implicitly that, in 1779 in company with Dr. Walker on Yellow
creek a mile or two from Cumberland mountain, the Doctor observed "upon
that tree," pointing to a beech across the road to the left hand,
"Ambrose Powell marked his name and the date of the year." I examined
the tree and found _A. Powell 1750_ cut in legible characters.


Matthew Lyon, "the Hampden of Congress," was born in County Wicklow,
Ireland, July 14, 1750. He emigrated to America when he was fifteen
years old, and settled in Woodbury, Connecticut, as an apprentice of
Jabez Bacon, the wealthiest merchant in all New England. Lyon left
Connecticut, in 1774, and removed to Vermont, where he became one of the
famous Green Mountain Boys of the Revolution. He was a member of the
Vermont legislature for four years; and in 1783 he founded the town of
Fair Haven, Vermont. Lyon became one of the great men of Vermont, a
disciple of Thomas Jefferson, "the pioneer Democrat of New England." In
1796 he was elected to Congress and he went to Philadelphia in May,
1797, to enter upon his duties. He at once became one of the powerful
men in that body. Lyon had published a newspaper at Fair Haven for
several years, besides issuing a number of books from his press, but
during the years of 1798 and 1799 he edited the now famous _Scourge of
Aristocracy_, a semi-monthly magazine. At the present day this is a rare
volume, and much to be desired. In 1801 Lyon cast Vermont's vote for
Thomas Jefferson against Aaron Burr for the presidency, and this vote is
said to have made certain Jefferson's election. Late in this year of
1801 Lyon left Vermont for Kentucky, and he later became the founder of
Eddyville, Lyon county, Kentucky. The county, however, was named in
honor of his son, Chittenden Lyon. In 1802 Matthew Lyon was a member of
the Kentucky legislature; and from 1803 to 1811 he was in the lower
House of Congress from his Kentucky district. His opposition to the War
of 1812 retired him to private life. At Eddyville he was engaged in
shipbuilding, in which he had great success, but after his defeat for
reëlection to Congress, in 1812, disasters came fast upon him, and he
was reduced from affluence to comparative poverty. At the age of
sixty-eight years, however, he recovered himself, paid all his debts,
and died in easy circumstances. In 1820 Lyon was appointed United States
Factor to the Cherokee Indians of Arkansas territory, and he set out for
his future home at Spadra Bluff, Arkansas. He was later elected as
Arkansas's second delegate to Congress, but he did not live to take his
seat, dying at Spadra Bluff, August 1, 1822. Eleven years later his
remains were returned to Kentucky, and re-interred at Eddyville, where a
proper monument marks the spot to-day. Matthew Lyon's reply to John
Randolph of Roanoke, in 1804, in regard to the old question of the Yazoo
frauds, is his only extant speech that is at all remembered at the
present time.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The History of Kentucky_, by R. H. Collins
    (Covington, Kentucky, 1882); _Matthew Lyon_, by J. F. McLaughlin
    (New York, 1900).


[From _Matthew Lyon_, by J. F. McLaughlin (New York, 1900)]

The Postmaster General [Gideon Granger] has not lost my esteem, nor do
I think his character can be injured by the braying of a jackal, or
the fulminations of a madman. But, sir, permit me to inquire from whom
these charges of bribery, of corruption, and of robbery, come? Is it
from one who has for forty years, in one shape or other, been
intrusted with the property and concerns of other people, and has
never wanted for confidence, one whose long and steady practice of
industry, integrity, and well doing, has obtained for him his standing
on this floor? Is it from one who sneered with contempt on the
importunity with which he has solicited to set a price on the
important vote he held in the last Presidential election? No, sir,
these charges have been fabricated in the disordered imagination of a
young man whose pride has been provoked by my refusing to sing encores
to all his political dogmas. I have had the impudence to differ from
him in some few points, and some few times to neglect his fiat. It is
long since I have observed that the very sight of my plebeian face has
had an unpleasant effect on the gentleman's nose, for out of respect
to this House and to the State he represents, I will yet occasionally
call him gentleman. I say, sir, these charges have been brought
against me by a person nursed in the bosom of opulence, inheriting the
life services of a numerous train of the human species, and extensive
fields, the original proprietors of which property, in all
probability, came no honester by it than the purchasers of the Georgia
lands did by what they claim. Let that gentleman apply the fable of
the thief and the receiver, in Dilworth's Spelling Book, so
ingeniously quoted by himself, in his own case, and give up the stolen
men in his possession. I say, sir, these charges have come from a
person whose fortune, leisure and genius have enabled him to obtain a
great share of the wisdom of the schools, but who in years,
experience, and the knowledge of the world and the ways of man, is
many, many years behind those he implicates--a person who, from his
rant in this House, seems to have got his head as full of British
contracts and British modes of corruption as ever Don Quixote's was
supposed to have been of chivalry, enchantments and knight errantry--a
person who seems to think no man can be honest and independent unless
he has inherited land and negroes, nor is he willing to allow a man to
vote in the people's elections unless he is a landholder.

I can tell that gentleman I am as far from offering or receiving a
bribe as he or any other member on this floor; it is a charge which no
man ever made against me before him, who from his insulated situation,
unconversant with the world, is perhaps as little acquainted with my
character as any member of this House, or almost any man in the
nation, and I do most cordially believe that, had my back and my mind
been supple enough to rise and fall with his motions, I should have
escaped his censure.

I, sir, have none of that pride which sets men above being merchants
and dealers; the calling of a merchant is, in my opinion, equally
dignified, and no more than equally dignified with that of a farmer,
or a manufacturer. I have a great part of my life been engaged in all
the stations of merchant, farmer and manufacturer, in which I have
honestly earned and lost a great deal of property, in the character of
a merchant. I act like other merchants, look out for customers with
whom I can make bargains advantageous to both parties; it is all the
same to me whether I contract with an individual or the public; I see
no constitutional impediment to a member of this House serving the
public for the same reward the public gives another. Whenever my
constituents or myself think I have contracts inconsistent with my
duties as a member of this House, I will retire from it.

I came to this House as a representative of a free, a brave, and a
generous people. I thank my Creator that He gave me the face of a man,
not that of an ape or a monkey, and that He gave me the heart of a man
also, a heart which will spare to its last drop in defence of the
dignity of the station my generous constituents have placed me in. I
shall trouble the House no farther at this time, than by observing
that I shall not be deterred by the threats of the member from
Virginia from giving the vote I think the interest and honor of the
nation require; and by saying if that member means to be understood
that I have offered contracts from the Postmaster-General, the
assertion or insinuation has no foundation in truth, and I challenge
him to bring forward his boasted proof.


[3] This reply was made in answer to one of Randolph's ranting Yazoo
philippics, several of which are among the bitterest speeches ever heard
in Congress. Lyon at this time (1804) was a member of Congress from
Kentucky. The Yazoo land grant frauds had aroused the public mind, and a
commission had endeavored to settle by compromise the claims of Georgia,
and those holding under the Georgia act of 1795, to the vast territory
in dispute. Randolph denounced the frauds committed, and opposed any
settlement of the controversy, while Lyon desired to see the country
settled, and the compromise of the commissioners carried out.


Gilbert Imlay, the first Kentucky novelist, was born in New Jersey,
about 1755. He was captain of a company in the Revolution. The war over,
Imlay turned his face toward the West; and he reached the Falls of the
Ohio--Louisville--in 1784. In the little river town he worked under
George May as a "commissioner for laying out lands in the back
settlements." Imlay had not been a Kentuckian many months before he had
obtained patents for many thousand acres of land--all of which he
subsequently lost. It is not certainly known how long he remained in
Kentucky, but it was about eight years. He went to London in 1792 and,
in that year, the first edition of his _Topographical Description of the
Western Territory of North America_ was published. This work is made up
of a series of descriptive letters which the author wrote from Kentucky
to an English friend. The second edition of 1793, and the third edition
of 1797, reproduced John Filson's _Kentucke_ and Thomas Hutchins's
_History_, together with much new material. While a resident of Kentucky
Gilbert Imlay wrote the first Kentucky novel, entitled _The Emigrants,
or the History of an Expatriated Family, being a Delineation of English
Manners drawn from Real Characters. Written in America, by G. Imlay,
Esq._ (London, 1793, 3 vols.; Dublin, 1794, 1 vol.). The epistolary form
is adopted throughout, and the narrative relates the fortunes of "an
eminent merchant in the city of London," Mr. T----n, who loses his great
fortune and emigrates with his family to America. His daughter, the
beautiful Caroline, is the heroine of the story. Landing in
Philadelphia, they travel to Pittsburgh, and from there drift down the
Ohio river in a Kentucky flatboat, or "ark," to Louisville. Caroline's
lover, Capt Arl----ton, had preceded the family and gone on to
Lexington, but he soon returned to Louisville when he learned that his
sweetheart awaited his coming. "The emigrants" remained in Kentucky some
three months, or from June until August. Caroline's capture by the
Indians in August decided the family to forsake the "dark and bloody
ground," though she was safely rescued. They finally find their way to
London, and all ends well. _The Emigrants_, in the three-volume edition,
is exceedingly scarce, but the Dublin one-volume edition may be
occasionally procured in the rare book shops of London. In 1793 Gilbert
Imlay went to Paris, where he met the famous Mary Wollstonecraft, with
whom he was soon living, as they both held mutual affection equivalent
to marriage. In 1794 a daughter was born to them, Fanny Imlay, who
committed suicide at Swansea, October 10, 1816. In April, 1796, Imlay
and Mary agreed to go separate paths after much stormy weather together;
and a short time later she became the wife of William Godwin, the
English philosopher and novelist. In giving birth to the future wife of
the poet Shelley, she surrendered her own life. Mary Wollstonecraft's _A
Vindication of the Rights of Woman_ is the chief memorial of her
pathetic and eventful career. After having parted on that April morning
of 1796 with the woman he had so outrageously treated, Gilbert Imlay,
"the handsome scoundrel," is lost to history. When, where, or how he
died is unknown.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _London Monthly Review_ (August, 1793); _Kentuckians
    in History and Literature_, by John Wilson Townsend (New York,
    1907); _Dictionary of National Biography_; biographies of Shelley,
    Godwin, and Mary Wollstonecraft.


[From _The Emigrants_ (Dublin, 1794)]


                                              Louisville, June.

It is impossible for me to see Caroline in the present state of my
mind, and therefore I hope you will not look upon it in the least
disrespectful, my friend, if I should happen to be absent when you
arrive; for to be candid with you, I shall make a journey purposely to

Your obliging favour from Pittsburg, which you meant should give me
spirits, has had quite a contrary effect.

By attempting to soothe my mind, I discover that secret poison,
flattery, ever contains, and which I consider the principal cause of
my present wretchedness.

The image you have given of Caroline makes her appear to me more
lovely than ever; and when you say that enchantment seems to spring up
where e'er she treads, I feel the full force of all her charms, and
conceive that I behold her in this season of fragrance and beauty,
decorating those gardens which you passed through on your return from
the fatal view upon the Allegany,

      While the blushing rose, drooping hides its head,
        As Caroline's sweets more odorous prove,
      And op'ning lilies look faint, sick, and dead,--
        For things inanimate, feel the force of love.

She is irresistible--and it is only by absence that I shall ever be
enabled to forget my misfortunes, and therefore, my dear friend, I
must request that in your future letters, when you mention that divine
woman, you will not appreciate that beauty which has ten thousand
charms to fascinate and fetter the soul.

She has not only all the symmetry of form, the softness of love, and
the enchantment of a goddess; but she can assume an animation and that
surprising activity of motion, that while you are suspended in the
transports of astonishment, you are lost in admiration at the
gracefulness with which she moves--I have seen her bound over a rock,
and pluck a wild honey-suckle, that grew upon the side of a precipice,
and while I stood gazing at her in amazement, she has brought it as a
trophy of her exertions.

Believe, my friend, that if ever nature formed one woman to excel
another in personal charms, it must be Caroline.

       *       *       *       *       *

I leave this enclosed in a packet for General W----. I am this moment
informed there are boats making round Diamond Island. Who knows but one
of them contains the lovely Caroline? Ah! my friend, I feel every
emotion of love and shame so powerfully, that I must instantly fly to
avoid exposing myself--curse that mandate which banished me from the
lovely tyrant of my heart--curse the vanity which exposed my
weakness;--for damnable is that fate which compels a man to avoid the
object of all others, which to him is the most interesting--I must this
instant be off. O Caroline!--Caroline! while my soul deadens at the
thought, I abandon the spot which will be converted into elysium the
moment you arrive. Forgive me, my friend, this effusion of nature--this
weakness, for it prepares us for those delicious raptures, that flow
from the source of sympathy, and while it softens us to that tender
texture, which is congenial to feminine charms, it invigorates our
actions, and fosters every generous and noble sentiment.

The streamers of your vessels, for it must be you, are playing in the
wind, as if enraptured with the treasure over which they impend, seem
eradiated with the charms of Caroline; while the gentle Ohio, as if
conscious of its charge, proudly swells, and appears to vie with the
more elevated earth, in order to secure to its divinity, upon which to
tread at her disembarkation, the flowery carpet of its banks.

                                 Adieu. I am off. J. A.



                                          Louisville, June.

My dear James,

From the time we left Pittsburg until our arrival here, which was ten
days after our embarkation, we were all appreciating the pleasure we
should derive from finding you at this place.

I had expatiated largely upon the satisfaction we should experience
from the information you would give us of the country; and no sooner
were we in sight of the town that we hung out a flag of invitation;
not doubting that you would observe it, and immediately come off to us
in a barge; but what was the surprise of the whole part, and my
mortification, when we learned upon landing, you had left the place
not more than half an hour.

The letter you left enclosed for me in General W----'s packet, to be
sure, informed me of the cause of your absence; but it by no means
justified the action. And I demand as a proof of your respect for your
old friends, that you instantly return.

Remember, James, this is the command of a friend, who is anxious to
restore you to a state of reason, which it appears you have not
possessed for some time past.

Caroline was in tolerable spirits until within two days of our
arrival, when she suddenly appeared to be pensive and in a state of
extreme trepidation; and since we arrived she has been confined by

If you have a delicate and tender regard for this charming girl, you
will fly immediately to enquire after her health. But to put it out of
your power to frame a shadow for an excuse, I inform you that it is my
intention first to visit the Illinois, and to view this country on my

I waited during yesterday for an opportunity to send this, and as I
could not meet with one, I send a person I have hired for that
purpose, as my men are unacquainted with the country.

Believe me to be your sincere, but unhappy friend,

                                                 G. Il--ray.



                                             Lexington, June.

Your express has this moment reached me: and to convince you, my dear
Il--ray, that no man can be more alive to every sentiment of love and
friendship, I shall not defer my return to Louisville a single hour; and
I merely dispatch this by the return of your messenger, to let you know
I shall be with you tomorrow in the evening; and that in my present
distracted state of mind, I think it most advisable to make my _entre_
under the cover of the dark, to prevent my being perceived, as I wish to
devote the whole evening in sequestered converse with you, my friend.

Caroline is ill! Ah! Il--ray I am wretched in the extreme. I am burnt
up with a scorching fever--I am wrecked in the elements of every
painful passion, and my every effort to reason is baffled by my
reflections upon past occurrences.

But I am your indissoluble friend,

                                                J. Arl--ton.


Rev. Adam Rankin, author of the first book ever printed in Kentucky,
was born in Pennsylvania, March 24, 1755. He was graduated from
Liberty Hall, now Washington and Lee University, Lexington, Virginia,
when about twenty-five years of age; and two years later he was
licensed to preach by the Virginia Presbytery. Rev. Rankin came to
Lexington, Kentucky, in 1784, to accept the pastorate of the
Presbyterian church. He also conducted a school for some time, but his
one thought was Psalmody, which became "his monomania." He created a
schism in his church by insisting that Dr. Watts's imitation of the
Psalms of David be expelled from the church worship, and that the
Psalms in their most literal dress be chanted. His brethren
disapproved of his views, but they could not discourage him or cause
him to discard his contention. Everywhere he went he preached and
wrote upon his favorite subject. Rev. Rankin's Kentucky brethren made
life unbearable for him, and he went to London, where he remained for
two years. When he did return to Kentucky it was to face accusation
after accusation, and church trial after church trial, until he was
finally suspended. Rev. Rankin was a strange, eccentric man, a dreamer
of dreams, a Kentucky Luther, and, perhaps, a bit crazed with the
bitter opposition his views received. His latest, boldest dream was
that Jerusalem was about to be rebuilt and that he must hurry there in
order to assist in the rebuilding. He bade his Lexington flock
farewell, and started to the Holy City, but, on November 25, 1827,
death overtook him at Philadelphia. Rev. Rankin was the author of
several theological works, but his _A Process in the Transylvania
Presbytery, &c._ (Maxwell and Gooch, At the Sign of the Buffalo, Main
Street, Lexington, 1793), is the first book ever printed in Kentucky,
if the _Kentucky Acts_ which John Bradford published in the same year
be excepted. Many days were required to print this little book of
Rankin upon the hand-press of the publishers, though it contained but
ninety-six pages, divided into five parts. Although it is not great
literature, it is the first book that can, in any wise, come under
that term published in this State. It is surely of more literary
importance than Bradford's _Acts_. Rev. Rankin was, as were nearly all
of the early Kentucky theologians, a prolific pamphleteer. His
_Dialogues_ (Lexington, 1810), is really his most important
publication, but it has been greatly overlooked in the recent rush
among Kentucky historical writers to list _A Process_ as the first
book published in Kentucky. His eccentric career as a man and preacher
is, after all, of more interest than his work as an author.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _History of the Presbyterian Church in Kentucky_, by
    R. H. Davidson (New York, 1847); _The Centenary of Kentucky_, by
    R. T. Durrett (Louisville, Kentucky, 1892).


[From _A Process in the Transylvania Presbytery_ (Lexington, Ky.,

We believe, that as it respects the outward means, the ambassadors are
authorised to publish, proclaim, and declare the counsel of God, as it
stands connected with our salvation; and that all, who hear the sound,
have an equal and indefinite warrant, not only to embrace the means as
offered to them indiscriminately, by which comes faith, but have a
right to believe, that Christ, with all his benefits, is freely
offered to them, as sinners, without ever enquiring, into the secret
purposes of God, whether they are elect, or non-elect.


[From the same]

Seeing, under our government, it is not purchasing a liberty by
pecuniary rewards, further, than compensating a prothonotary, for
taking bond and security, that guardians are agreed, and keeping a
just register, for the credit and safety of the rising family. And as
the contract is partly civil in its nature, and civil government is
bound to defend the civil rights--we believe it perfectly consonant to
the analogy of faith, which might be evinced from the fourth chapter
of Ruth. But as it is partly social, and the parties contracting come
under the mutual obligations to fulfil their relative duties, it ought
to be consummated before witnesses. And as it is partly religious,
every family appertaining to the Church of Christ, commences a
nursery, or infant society, to train up their family in the nurture
and admonition of the Lord. We believe it right, that whenever a
church in full order exists, that the pastor, or church officer should
consecrate them, to the business assigned them as a Church of Christ,
taking their obligations for the due performance of their duty.


Thomas Johnson, Junior, the first Kentucky poet, who, for many years,
enjoyed the sobriquet of the "Drunken Poet of Danville," was born in
Virginia about 1760, and he came to Kentucky when twenty-five years of
age. He settled at Danville, then a village, and immediately entered
into the role of poet, punster, and ne'er-do-weel. Documentary
evidence is extant to prove that Danville was a gay little town when
the young Virginian arrived there about 1785; and he was early drawn
into excesses, or led others into them. Johnson was a rather prolific
maker of coarse satirical rhymes, which he finally assembled into a
small pamphlet, and published them as _The Kentucky Miscellany_
(Lexington, 1796). This was the first book of poems, if they may be so
termed, printed in Kentucky. The original price of this pamphlet was
nine pence the copy, but it is impossible to procure it today for any
price, and there is not an extant copy of this first edition. _The
Kentucky Miscellany_ went into a second edition in 1815, and a third
edition was published a few years later, but no copies of either
edition are extant. The fourth and final edition appeared from the
_Advertiser_ office at Lexington, in 1821, and a dog-eared,
much-mutilated copy of this is in the collection of the Filson Club in
Louisville--perhaps the only copy in the world. _The Miscellany_
contained but thirty-six small pages, about the size of the medical
almanacs of to-day. Many of the little verses are very vulgar and
actually obscene, perhaps due to the fact that Johnson could never
quite bury John Barleycorn alive. The most famous of them is the
_Extempore Grace_, which the bard delivered one day in the tavern of
old Erasmus Gill in Danville. In his cups he stumbled into the tavern
dining-room, where he found the meal over, and the guests gone,
nothing being left but the crumbs. He glanced at the tables, then at
Gill, and offered _Extempore Grace_. His lines on Danville, on
Kentucky, and on several other subjects reveal the satirist; and the
verses to Polly, his sweetheart, and to his favorite physician the
better elements in his nature. That these rather vulgar verses of
Johnson did not escape the censorship of Western advocates of the pure
food law in literature, is made certain by a letter from an Ohio
critic which appeared in the _Lexington Intelligencer_ for January 28,
1834. After having made a strong plea for the preservation of early
Western verse, the writer added: "I do not mean to embrace the low
doggerel of _Tom Johnson_; this was published some years ago, and I
never felt _decency_ more outraged than when it was handed me to read
by _mine landlady_! My stars! Save us from the _blackguardism_, for
the world is sufficiently demoralized." Had this early critic of Tom's
verses presented a bundle of them to some library, how many Western
writers would rise up and call him blessed! Johnson died and was
buried at Danville, but the date of his death or the exact place of
his burial is unknown. He had passed and was almost forgotten by 1830.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _History of the Presbyterian Church in Kentucky_, by
    R. H. Davidson (New York, 1847); _History of Kentucky_, by R. H.
    Collins (Covington, Kentucky, 1882); _Centre College Cento_
    (Danville, Kentucky, January, 1907); _Kentuckians in History and
    Literature_, by J. W. Townsend (New York, 1907).


[From _The Kentucky Miscellany_ (Lexington, Kentucky, 1821)]

      O! Thou who blest the loaves and fishes
      Look down upon these empty dishes;
      And that same power that did them fill,
      Bless each of us, but d---- old Gill!


[From the same]

      Accursed Danville, vile, detested spot,
      Where knaves inhabit, and where fools resort--
      Thy roguish cunning, and thy deep design,
      Would shame a Bluebeard or an Algerine.
      O, may thy fatal day be ever curst,
      When by blind error led, I entered first.


[From the same]

      I hate Kentucky, curse the place,
      And all her vile and miscreant race!
      Who make religion's sacred tie
      A mask thro' which they cheat and lie.
      Proteus could not change his shape,
      Nor Jupiter commit a rape
      With half the ease those villains can
      Send prayers to God and cheat their man!
      I hate all Judges here of late,
      And every Lawyer in the State.
      Each quack that is called Physician,
      And all blockheads in Commission--
      Worse than the Baptist roaring rant,
      I hate the Presbyterian cant--
      Their Parsons, Elders, nay, the whole,
      And wish them gone with all my soul.


[From the same]

      Strange things of Orpheus poets tell,
      How for a wife he went to Hell;
      Hudson, a wiser man no doubt,
      Would go to Hell to be without!


[From the same]

      Ye fools! I told you once or twice,
      You'd hear no more from canting R----e;
      He cannot settle his affairs,
      Nor pay attention unto prayers,
      Unless you pay up your arrears.
      Oh, how in pulpit he would storm,
      And fill all Hell with dire alarm!
      Vengeance pronounced against each vice,
      And, more than all, curs'd avarice;
      Preach'd money was the root of ill;
      Consigned each rich man unto Hell;
      But since he finds you will not pay,
      Both rich and poor may go that way.
      'Tis no more than I expected--
      The meeting-house is now neglected:
      All trades are subject to this chance,
      No longer pipe, no longer dance.


[From the same]

      Underneath this marble tomb,
      In endless shades lies drunken Tom;
      Here safely moored, dead as a log,
      Who got his death by drinking grog.
      By whiskey grog he lost his breath--
      Who would not die so sweet a death?


George Beck, classicist, born in England in 1749, became instructor of
mathematics at Woolwich Academy, near London, at the age of
twenty-seven years; but he was later dismissed. Beck married an
English woman of culture and emigrated to the United States in 1795,
reaching these shores in time to serve "Mad Anthony" Wayne as a scout
in his Indian campaign. The wanderlust was upon George Beck, and he
became one of the first of that little band of nomadic painters that
came early to the Blue Grass country, and having once come remained.
He arrived at Lexington in 1800; and it was not long before he began
to send short original poems and spirited translations of Anacreon,
Homer, Horace, and Virgil to old John Bradford's _Gazette_. At about
this time, too, Beck was doing many portraits and a group of
landscapes in oils of the Kentucky river country, a few of which have
come down to posterity. Eighteen hundred and six seems to have been
Beck's best year in Kentucky from the literary viewpoint, as the
_Gazette_ is full of his verses and translations. He was widely known
as the "Lexington Horace." Besides painting and poetry, George Beck
was a rather learned astronomer, as his _Observations on the Comet_ of
1811 prove. With his wife he conducted an "Academy for Young Ladies"
for several years. His last years were much embittered by the lack of
appreciation upon the part of the Western public. The Kentucky of 1800
was not a whirlpool of art or literature by any means, and this
cultured man languished and finally died among a people who cared
very little for his fine learning or his manners. George Beck, poet,
translator, mathematician, astronomer, artist, died in Lexington,
Kentucky, December 14, 1812. His wife survived him until the cholera
year of 1833, which swept away nearly two thousand citizens of
Lexington and the Blue Grass.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Kentucky Gazette_ (Lexington, December 22, 1812);
    Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New York, 1887, v.


    A New Translation of the Fifteenth Ode of Horace, or Prophecy of
    Nerceus, from which (according to Count Algorotti and Dr. Johnson)
    Gray took his beautiful Ode, _The Bard_.

[From _The Kentucky Gazette_ (October 27, 1806)]

      What time the fair perfidious shepherd bore
      The beauteous Helen back to Ilion's shore,
        To sleep the howling waves were won
        By Nerceus, Ocean's hoary son,
      While round the liquid realms he sung,
      From guilty love, what dire disasters sprung.

      Thee, tainted Youth, what omens dire attend!
      Thy neck and Ilion's soon to Greece shall bend.
        To man and horse what sweat and blood,
        What carnage float down Xanthus' flood!
      What wrath on Troy shall Greece infuriate turn!
      What glittering domes, and spires, and temples burn!

      In vain you boast the Queen of beauty's smiles,
      Her charms, her floating curls, her amourous wiles,
        These, these alas! will nought avail
        While Cretan arrows round you sail!
      And, tho' the fates awhile such guilt may spare,
      Vile dust at length shall smear that golden hair!

      Trace back, vain Youth! sad Ilion's fate of old!
      Ulysses' sons and Nestor's yet behold,
        Teucer's and Diomede's more dread
        Horrific war shall round you shed;
      Then shall ye trembling fly like timid deer
      When hungry wolves are howling in their rear.

      By promise Vain of Universal Sway
      Lur'd you from Greece the beauteous Queen away?
        In less than ten revolving years
        Achilles' dreadful fleet appears!
      His bloody trains of Myrmidonians dire
      Shall wrap proud Ilion's domes in Grecian fire!


[From _The Kentucky Gazette_ (November 3, 1806)]

      What deathless Artist's mimic hand
      Shall paint me here the Ocean bland,
      Shall give the waves such kindling glows
      As when immortal Venus rose?
      Who, in phrenzy's flight of mind
      Such touch and tinctures bright may find
      To match her form and golden hair
      And naked paint the heavenly fair?
      While every amorous rival billow
      Strives her buoyant breast to pillow?
      'Tis done! behold the wavelets green
      Softly press the Paphian Queen,
      Around her heavenly bosom play,
      Kiss its warm blush and melt away.
      Her graceful neck of pearl behold,
      Her wavy curls of floating gold:
      But none but lips divine may tell
      What Graces on that bosom dwell!
      Such bloom a bed of lilies shows
      Illumin'd by the crimson'd rose.
      Rounding off with grace divine
      Like hills of snow her shoulders shine.
      While streaming thro' the waves she swims
      The silvery maze half veils her limbs,
      Else where's the eye that durst behold
      Such beauty stream'd on heavenly mold?
      Th' enamour'd Triton's glittering train
      Sporting round the liquid main
      Waving their gold and silver pinions,
      Bear her o'er their deep dominions,
      While infant Loves and young desires
      Dancing 'mid the choral choirs
      Clasp the beauteous Queen around
      And sail in triumph o'er the bright profound.


[From _The Western Review_ (Lexington, March, 1821)]

      I would Atrides' glory tell,
      I would to Cadmus strike my shell;
      I try the vocal cords--in vain!
      Love, only love, breathes through the strain.
      I strip away the truant wire,
      And string with deeper chords the lyre,
      Then great Alcides' toils would sing:
      Soft love still sighs through every string.
      Hence, themes of Glory, hence! adieu!
      For what have I to do with you?
      My heart and lyre in union make
      Resounding Love and only Love.


Humphrey Marshall, author of the first _History of Kentucky_ that was
in any wise comprehensive, was born near Warrenton, Virginia, in 1760.
What little school instruction he received was from the young woman
whom he afterwards married. Marshall removed to Kentucky in 1782,
after having served as an officer in the Revolutionary War. He was a
member of the Virginia convention of 1788, as a representative of the
district of Kentucky, which adopted the Federal constitution.
Marshall was in the Kentucky legislature for several terms and, from
1795 to 1801, he was United States Senator from Kentucky. Some years
later he was again in the State legislature; and at about that time
his famous duel with Henry Clay took place. The first edition of his
_History of Kentucky_ (Frankfort, 1812), appeared in a single volume
of 407 pages; but the second and final edition was greatly revised and
augmented and published in two octavo volumes (Frankfort, 1824).
Humphrey Marshall's pen was pointed with poison for his enemies (and
he had more of them than any other Kentuckian of his time, perhaps),
and in his book he lashed them ruthlessly. He was the first as well as
the last of Kentucky's "personal" historians. He first endeavored to
silence his foes with newspapers and pamphlets, but, not being
satisfied with the results, he poured out his wrath in book form to
the extent of a thousand pages and more. While prejudice is the most
descriptive word possible to use in characterizing Marshall's work, it
is not all prejudice. He wrote with wonderful keenness concerning the
Spanish conspiracy in Kentucky, his views upon the men that were
guilty of bartering Kentucky to Spain in order to obtain free
navigation of the Mississippi river having been abundantly affirmed by
the latest historical work upon that subject. He also wrote of the
Burr conspiracy with great clearness of vision, all of which is very
remarkable when one stops to consider that nearly every one of the men
connected with these two conspiracies were his bitterest enemies. That
Marshall was an able writer all of the Kentucky historians have freely
admitted, notwithstanding the fact they have quarreled with his "copy"
many times. He is, as his biographer writes, "the stormy petrel of
Kentucky's earlier years," a most remarkable man from several points
of view. His _History of Kentucky_, in either edition, is rather
scarce at this time, and it is not to be found in many of the rare
book shops of the country. Humphrey Marshall died at Lexington,
Kentucky, July 3, 1841. He lies buried upon the banks of the Kentucky
river, near the capitol of the Commonwealth, Frankfort.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _History of Kentucky_, by R. H. Collins (Covington,
    Kentucky, 1882); _Life and Times of Hon. Humphrey Marshall_, by A.
    C. Quisenberry (Winchester, Kentucky, 1892).


[From _The History of Kentucky_ (Frankfort, Kentucky, 1824, v. i)]

The country, once seen, held out abundant inducements to be re-visited,
and better known. Among the circumstances best adapted to engage the
attention, and impress the feelings of the adventurous hunters of North
Carolina, may be selected the uncommon fertility of the soil, and the
great abundance of wild game, so conspicuous at that time. And we are
assured that the effect lost nothing of the cause. Forests those hunters
had seen--mountains they had ascended--valleys they had traversed--deer
they had killed--and bears they had successfully hunted. They had heard
the howl of the wolf; the whine of the panther; and the heart-rending
yell of the savage man; with correspondent sensations of delight, or
horror. But these were all lost to memory, in the contemplation of
Kentucky; animated with all the enchanting variety, and adorned with all
the majestic grace and boldness of nature's creative energy. To nature's
children, she herself is eloquent, and affecting. Never before had the
feelings of these rude hunters experienced so much of the pathetic, the
sublime, or the marvellous. Their arrival on the plains of Elkhorn was
in the dawn of summer; when the forests, composed of oaks of various
kinds, of ash, of walnut, cherry, buck-eye, hackberry, sugar trees,
locust, sycamore, coffee tree, and an indefinite number of other trees,
towering aloft to the clouds, overspread the luxuriant undergrowth, with
their daily shade; while beneath, the class of trees--the shrubs, the
cane, the herbage, and the different kinds of grass, and clover,
interspersed with flowers, filled the eye, and overlaid the soil, with
the forest's richest carpet. The soil itself, more unctuous and fertile
than Egypt's boasted Delta, from her maternal bosom, gave copious
nutriment; and in rich exuberance sustained the whole, in matchless

Here it was, if Pan ever existed, that without the aid of fiction, he
held his sole dominion, and Sylvan empire, unmolested by Ceres, or
Lucina, for centuries.

The proud face of creation here presented itself, without the disguise
of art. No wood had been felled; no field cleared; no human habitation
raised: even the red man of the forest had not put up his wigwam of
poles and bark for habitation. But that mysterious Being, whose
productive power we call Nature, ever bountiful, and ever great--had
not spread out this replete and luxurious pasture without stocking it
with numerous flocks and herds: nor were their ferocious attendants,
who prey upon them, wanting, to fill up the circle of created beings.
Here was seen the timid deer; the towering elk; the fleet stag; the
surly bear; the crafty fox; the ravenous wolf; the devouring panther;
the insidious wild-cat; and the haughty buffaloe: besides innumerable
other creatures, winged, fourfooted, or creeping. And here, at some
time unknown, had been, for his bones are yet here, the leviathan of
the forest, the monstrous mammoth; whose trunk, like that of the
famous Trojan horse, would have held an host of men; and whose teeth,
nine feet in length, inflicted death and destruction, on both animals
and vegetable substances--until exhausting all within its range,
itself became extinct. Nor is it known, although the race must have
abounded in the country, from the great number of bones belonging to
the species, found in different places, that there is one of the kind
living on the American continent, if in the universe.


Stephen Theodore Badin, Kentucky's earliest Catholic bard, was born at
Orleans, France, in 1768. Though very poor he received a classical and
theological training in Paris and Tours; and in 1792 he emigrated to
America. In the following year Badin was ordained by Bishop John Carroll
at Baltimore, he being the first Roman Catholic priest ordained in the
United States. He was subsequently appointed to do missionary work in
Kentucky, which was then in the old Baltimore diocese, and he made his
home at Georgetown, Kentucky. During the next few years Badin rode more
than one hundred thousand miles on horseback in order to meet all of his
appointments. He was then the only Catholic priest in Kentucky, though
he did have assistants from time to time. In 1797 Badin was made
vicar-general, and the large Catholic emigrations from Maryland to
Kentucky about this time greatly increased his labors. His _Principles
of Catholics_ (1805) was the first Catholic book published in the West,
and it gave him a larger audience than his voice could well reach. Badin
later organized missions and built churches in Louisville and Lexington,
St. Peter's in Lexington being made possible by the generosity of his
Protestant friends, of whom he had many. Badin and Bishop Benedict
Joseph Flaget, of the Bardstown diocese, had a misunderstanding as to
the settlement of titles to certain church properties which Badin had
acquired before Flaget came to Kentucky, and, rather than to have an
acrimonious argument with the Bishop, he quit Kentucky, in 1819, and
spent the next nine years in European travel. From 1830 to 1836 he
worked among the Pottawatomie Indians in Indiana with marked success.
Father Badin died at Cincinnati, Ohio, in 1853. He was the author of
several Latin poems in hexameters, among them being _Carmen Sacrum_, a
translation of which was published at Frankfort; _Epicedium_, an elegy
upon the death of Col. Joseph Hamilton Daviess at the battle of
Tippecanoe; and _Sanctissimae Trinitatis Laudes et Invocatis_
(Louisville, 1843). His brief in memoriam for Colonel Daviess is his
best known work and, perhaps, his masterpiece.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Sketches of Early Catholic Missions in Kentucky_,
    by M. J. Spalding (Louisville, 1846); _The Centenary of
    Catholicity in Kentucky_, by B. J. Webb (Louisville, 1884).


             In Gloriosam Mortem
           Magnanimi Equitum Ducis
  Joseph Hamilton Daviess, Patrii Amoris Victimæ
         In Tippecanoe Pugna ad Amnem
           Wabaschum, 7. Die Nov. 1811.
         Honorabili Viro Joanni Rowan
         Meo Ipsiusque Amico Dicatum.

[From _The Kentucky Gazette_ (February 18, 1812)]

        Autumnus felix aderat granaria complens
      Frugibus; umbrosas patulis jam frondibus ulmos
      Exuerat brumoe proprior, cum Fama per orbem
      Non rumore vago fatalia nuncia defert:
      "Sub specie pacis Slyvæcola perfidus atra
      "Nocte viros inopino plumbo occidit et hasta;
      "Dux equitum triplici confossus vulnere, fortis
      "Occubuit; turmoe hostiles periere fugatoe,
      "Hostilesque casas merito ultrix flamma voravit."
      Mensibus Æstivis portenderat ista Cometes
      Funera; Terra quatit repetitis motibus; ægre
      Volvit sanguineas Wabaschus tardior undas
      Ingeminant Dryades suspiria longa; Hymenoeus
      Deficit audita clade, et solatia spernit
      Omnia; triste silet Musarum turba; fidelis
      Luget Amicities, lugubri tegmine vestit
      Et caput et lævam, desiderioque dalentis
      Non pudor aut modus est. Lacrymas at fundere inanes
      Quid juvat? Heu lacrymis nil Fata moventur acerba!
      Ergo piæ Themidis meliora oracula poscunt
      Unanimes; diram causam Themis aure benigna
      Excipit, et mox decretum pronunciat oequum:
      "Davidis effigies nostra appendatur in aula;
      "Tempora sacra viri quercus civilis adornet,
      "Ac non immeritam jungat Victoria laurum.
      "Signa sui Legislator det publica luctus;
      Historioe chartis referat memorabile Clio.
      "Prælium, et alta locum cyparissus contegat umbra.
      "Tristis Hymen pretiosa urna cor nobile servet;
      "Marmoreo reliquos cineres sincera sepulcro
      "Condat Amicities; præsens venturaque laudet
      "Ætas magnanimum David, virtute potentem
      "Eloquii, belli et pacis decus immortale."
        Vita habet angustos fines, et gloria nullos:
      Qui patrioe reddunt vitam, illi morte nec ipsa
      Vincuntur; virtutum exempla nepotibus extant.
      Pro Patria vitam profundere maxima laus est.

                  Stephanus Theodorus Badin,
                        Cathol. Mission.

  Moerens canebat 15. Dec. 1811.


[From the same]

  On the glorious death of Joseph Hamilton Daviess, Commander
    of the Horse, who fell a victim to his love of country, in
        the late battle on the Wabash, the 7th. Nov., 1811.
                  Dedicated to John Rowan, Esq.

      'Twas late in autumn, and the thrifty swain
      In spacious barns secur'd the golden grain;
      November's chilly mornings breath'd full keen;
      No leafy honors crown'd the sylvan scene.
      When Fame with those sad tidings quickly flew
      Throughout our land; (her tale, alas! too true):
      "The savage Indian, our perfidious foe,
      Pretending peace with hypocritic show,
      Surpris'd our legions in the dead of night
      And urg'd with lead and steel the mortal fight;
      Our valiant warriors strew th' ensanguin'd plain,
      Ev'n our great Captain of the Horse is slain
      With triple wound!!! At length the foe retires,
      With loss; and leaves his town to our avenging fires."

      When summer gilded our nocturnal sky
      With astral gems; a comet blazed on high,
      Portentous of these fates!--the earth, in throes
      Repeated labors; rueful Wabash flows
      With slower current, stain'd with mingling blood!
      The _Dryads_ fill with plaints the echoing wood!
      Hymen, the slaughter heard, dissolves in grief!
      Naught can console him, naught can yield relief.
      In woeful silence sits the muses' train
      And Friendship mourns her fav'rite hero slain.
      The funeral crape, vain badge of grief! she wears
      Upon her head, her arms the emblem bears,
      Her sorrowing mind no moderation knows,
      Admits no measure to her boundless woes.

        Ah, what avails the vain expense of tears?
      Fate still unmov'd this fruitless anguish bears!
      Therefore to Themis' shrine, with one accord,
      They come to crave a more benign award.
      The direful cause the attentive Goddess hears,
      And soon this just decree her record bears:
      "Let Daviess still in semblance grace my halls,
      Let his bright portraiture adorn my walls;
      The civic oak his sacred brows entwine,
      And vict'ry to the wreath his laurel join.
      Let Legislative acts of mourning show
      The voted ensigns of the public woe;
      In the historic page be ever read
      The fierce encounter, when great Daviess bled,
      And be the fatal spot with cypress shade o'erspread;
      His noble heart let Hymen's care enclose
      In the rich urn, and friendship's hand compose
      His other relics in the marble tomb.
      Then let the ages present and to come
      Just praises render to his glorious name;
      Let honor'd Daviess gild the page of fame,
      A hero, fit a nation's pow'r to wield,
      In council wise, and mighty in the field."

        His mortal life a narrow space confines,
      But glory with unbounded lustre shines.
      Those virtuous souls, who shed their noble blood
      A willing off'ring to the public good,
      Who to their country's welfare freely give
      The sacrifice of life, forever live
      As bright examples to the unborn brave,
      To shew how virtue rescues from the grave.
      The noblest act the patriot's fame can tell,
      Is, that he bravely for his country fell.

      Thus sung the missionary bard, and paid
      This mournful tribute to the mighty dead.


Dr. Charles Caldwell, versatile and voluminous writer of prose, was
born at Caswell, North Carolina, May 14, 1772. He entered the medical
school of the University of Pennsylvania, in 1792; and he won the
city's gratitude in the following year by his medical services during
the yellow fever epidemic. In 1810 Dr. Caldwell became professor of
natural history in the University of Pennsylvania; and four years
later he succeeded Nicholas Biddle (1786-1844) as editor of _The
Port-Folio_, a Philadelphia magazine of high character. In 1819 Dr.
Caldwell came to Lexington, Kentucky, to accept the chair of materia
medica in Transylvania University. Some months later he was sent to
Europe to purchase books and apparatus for his department. He returned
to Transylvania and continued there until 1837, when he removed to
Louisville and established a medical institute. Some years later he
and the trustees disagreed and he left. After leaving the institute,
Dr. Caldwell continued to reside at Louisville, in which city he died,
July 9, 1853. Dr. Caldwell was the first distinguished American
practitioner of phrenology, if he did not actually discover this
alleged science. From 1794 until his death, Dr. Caldwell was an
indefatigable literary worker. He was the author of more than two
hundred pamphlets, essays, and books. He translated Blumenbach's
_Elements of Physiology_ (1795); _Bachtiar Nameh_ (1813), a Persian
tale which he translated from the Arabic; edited Cullen's _Practice of
Physic_ (1816); _Memoirs of the Life and Campaigns of the Hon._
[General] _Greene_ (Philadelphia, 1819); _Elements of Phrenology_
(1824); _A Discourse on the Genius and Character of the Rev. Horace
Holley, LL.D., late President of Transylvania University_ (Boston,
1828); and _Thoughts and Experiments on Mesmerism_ (1842).

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. His _Autobiography_ (Philadelphia, 1855), published
    posthumously, has been regarded by many as an unfortunate work, as
    in it he made some rather severe pictures of his contemporaries.
    That the work contains much excellent writing, and is often very
    happy in the descriptions of the country through which the author
    passed, no one has arisen to gainsay; _Autobiography of Samuel D.
    Gross, M. D._ (Philadelphia, 1887, v. ii).


[From _Memoirs of the Life and Campaigns of the Hon. Nathaniel Greene_
(Philadelphia, 1819)]

Nathaniel Greene, although descended from ancestors of elevated
standing, was not indebted to the condition of his family for any
part of the real lustre and reputation he possessed. As truly as is
the case with any individual, he was the founder of his own fortune,
and the author of his own fame. He was the second son of Nathaniel
Greene, an anchor-smith, of considerable note, who is believed to have
had the earliest establishment of the kind erected in America, and, by
persevering industry in the line of his profession, an extensive and
lucrative concern in iron-works, and some success in commercial
transactions, had acquired a sufficiency to render him comfortable, if
not wealthy.

He was born in the year 1741, in the town of Warwick, and county of
Kent, in the province of Rhode Island. As far as is known, his childhood
passed without any peculiar or unequivocal indications of future
greatness. But this is a point of little moment. The size of the oak it
is destined to produce, can rarely be foretold from an examination of
the acorn. Nor is it often that any well defined marks of genius in the
child afford a premonition of the eminence of the man.

Several of his contemporaries, however, who are still living, have a
perfect recollection that young Greene had neither the appearance nor
manners of a common boy; nor was he so considered by his elder, and
more discerning acquaintance.

       *       *       *       *       *

Being intended by his father for the business which he had himself
pursued, young Greene received at school nothing but the elements of a
common English education. But, to himself, an acquisition so humble
and limited, was unsatisfactory and mortifying. Even now, his aim was
lofty; and he had a noble ambition, not only to embark in high
pursuits, but to qualify himself for a manly and honourable
acquittance in them. Seeming, at this early period of life, to realize
the important truth that, knowledge is power, a desire to obtain it
became, in a short time, his ruling passion.

He accordingly procured, in part by his own economy, the necessary
books, and, at intervals of leisure, acquired, chiefly without the aid
of an instructor, a competent acquaintance with the Latin tongue.

This attainment, respectable in itself, was only preliminary to higher
efforts. With such funds as he was able to raise, he purchased a
small, but well selected library, and spent his evenings, and all the
time he could redeem from business, in regular study. He read with a
view to general improvement; but geography, travels, and military
history--the latter, more especially--constituted his delight. Having,
also, a predilection for mathematics and mechanical philosophy, and
pursuing, in most cases, the bent of his inclination, as far as
prudence and opportunity would admit, his knowledge, in the more
practical departments of these sciences, became highly respectable.


Allan Bowie Magruder, poet and historian, was born in Kentucky, about
1775. He received an academic education, studied law, and was admitted
to the Lexington bar in 1797. He contributed very fair verse to the
_Kentucky Gazette_ in 1802 and 1803, which attracted considerable
comment in the West. That his fame as a poet was wide-spread, is
indicated by a letter from an Ohio writer published in the _Lexington
Intelligencer_, January 28, 1834, in which Magruder's verse is highly
praised and further information concerning his career is sought. After
stabbing poor Tom Johnson's little pamphlet of rhymes to the heart,
Magruder is placed upon his pedestal as the first real Kentucky poet;
and that his work was superior to either Johnson's or George Beck's is
obvious, continues the caustic correspondent. The truth is, of course,
that the verses of neither of the three men merit mention for anything
save their priority; and the young Lexington lawyer's muse was not as
productive as Tom's or Beck's, no more than three or four of his poems
having come down to us. His first prose work was entitled _Reflections
on the late Cession of Louisiana to the United States_ (Lexington,
1803). This little volume of 150 pages was issued by Daniel Bradford,
for whose periodical, _The Medley_, Magruder wrote _The Character of
Thomas Jefferson_ (June; July, 1803). This essay attracted the attention
of the President, and he appointed Magruder commissioner of lands in
Louisiana, to which territory he shortly afterwards removed. He was
later a member of the State legislature; and from November 18, 1812, to
March 3, 1813, Magruder was United States Senator from his adopted
State. The next few years he devoted to collecting materials for a
history of the North American Indians; and he also made notes for many
years for a history of Kentucky, which he finally abandoned, and which
he turned over to his old friend, John Bradford, who made use of them in
his _Notes on Kentucky_. Allan B. Magruder died at Opelousas, Louisiana,
April 16, 1822, when but forty-seven years of age. He was a man of
culture and of high promise, but once in the politics of the country his
early literary triumphs were not repeated, and he appears to have never
done any writing worth while after his removal from Kentucky.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Lexington Intelligencer_ (Lexington, Kentucky,
    January 28, 1834); Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_
    (New York, 1888, v. iv).


[From _The Medley_ (Lexington, Ky., July, 1803)]

When Citizen Genet, the ex-minister of the Robesperian fanaticism,
appeared in America, he attempted to impose his new philosophy of
light and liberty upon the government. He had nothing to boast of, on
the score of superior diplomatic skill. His communications to the
secretary of state, were evidently of the tampering kind. They were
impressed with all the marks of that enthusiastic insanity, which
regulated the councils of the faction; and which, were calculated to
mistake their object, by disgusting their intended victims. The mind
of Mr. Jefferson, discovered itself, in an early period of his
correspondence with the French minister. The communications of Genet
were decorated with all the flowers of eloquence, without the force
and conviction of rhetorical energy. Accustomed to diplomatic
calculation, and intimately combining cause with effect, Mr. Jefferson
apprehended the subject, with strength and precision; considered
it--developed it--viewed it on all sides--listened to every appeal,
and attended to every charge--and in every communication, burst forth
with a strength of refutation, that at once detected and embarrassed,
the disappointed minister of a wily and fanatic faction.

It is, in most instances, useless to oppose enthusiasm with the
deliberate coolness of reason and argument. They are the antipodes of
each other; and of that imperious nature, which mutually solicit
triumph and disdain reconciliation. The tyranny of the Robesperian
principles, were calculated to inveigle within the vortex of European
politics, the American government and people. The coolness and
sagacity of the secretary of state, composed their defence and
protection. The appeal was mutually made to the government; and it is
a fortunate circumstance, that there existed this tribunal to
approbate the measures of the secretary, and to silence forever, the
declamatory oracle of an insidious faction. Checked and defeated on
all sides, his doctrines stripped of their visionary principles, and
himself betrayed into the labyrinth of diplomatic mystery, their
ex-divinity, shrank into the silence of contempt; declaring with his
last breath, that Mr. Jefferson was the only man in America, whose
talents he highly respected.


Henry Clay, the most famous Kentuckian ever born, first saw the light
in the "Slashes," Hanover county, Virginia, April 12, 1777. When
twenty years of age, he settled in Lexington, Kentucky, as a lawyer;
and Lexington was his home henceforth. In 1803 Henry Clay was elected
to the State legislature; and before he was thirty years old he was
filling an unexpired term in the United States Senate. In 1811 he was
sent to the National House of Representatives from the old Lexington
district. He was immediately chosen Speaker of that body, a position
to which he was subsequently elected five times. This was the period
of his greatest speeches. His utterances upon American rights did much
to bring about the War of 1812. In 1814 Henry Clay went to Europe as a
peace commissioner, and the Treaty of Ghent was signed on December 24,
1814. He had resigned the Speakership in order to go to Ghent, but on
his return in 1815, he found himself reëlected; and he presided as
Speaker until 1820, declining two diplomatic posts and two cabinet
offices in order to continue in the chair. In 1820 Henry Clay
advocated the Missouri Compromise, and a short time afterwards he
retired from public life to devote his attention to his private
affairs. He was, however, in 1823, again elected to the lower House of
Congress, and was again chosen Speaker, serving as such until 1825. In
1824 he announced himself as a candidate for president, but he was
defeated by John Quincy Adams, who made him his Secretary of State.
Andrew Jackson was elected president, in 1828, and Mr. Clay--to give
him the name he was always known by, regardless of the many positions
he held--once more retired from American politics. In 1831 the people
elected him United States Senator from Kentucky, and in that body he
fought Jackson's policies so strenuously that the Whig party was born,
with Mr. Clay as its legitimate parent. The Whigs nominated him as
their first candidate for president, but he was overwhelmingly
defeated by his old-time enemy, Andrew Jackson. He was the author of
the Compromise tariff of 1832-1833, which did much toward winning him
the sobriquet of the "Great Compromiser." Mr. Clay was reëlected to
the Senate, in 1837; and two years later his great debates with John
C. Calhoun took place. Late in this year of 1839, the Whig political
bosses set him aside and nominated William Henry Harrison for
president and he was elected. In 1842 Henry Clay was retired to
private life for the third time, but two years later he was again the
candidate of the Whigs for president, and he was defeated by a
comparatively unknown man, James K. Polk of Tennessee--the only
Speaker of the House who has ever been elected president of the United
States. The year of 1849 found Henry Clay once more in the Senate, but
he was now old and very feeble. The great Compromise of 1850 sapped
his rapidly waning strength, though it greatly added to his fame as a
statesman. On June 29, 1852, Henry Clay died at Washington City, in
the seventy-sixth year of his age. His body was brought back to the
land he loved so well, and to which he had brought world-wide fame,
and was buried at Lexington, where a grateful people have erected a
cloud-tipped monument to his memory. He is one of the American
immortals, though it is not at all difficult to quarrel with many of
his public acts. He carried the name and fame of Kentucky into the
remotest corners of the universe, and it would be indeed surprising if
it were not possible to find flaws in a record that was as long as
his. His connection with the Graves-Cilley duel in 1838 appears
unpardonable at this time, but perhaps the whole truth regarding this
infamous affair has not yet been brought out. Considering the patent
fact that few orators can stand the printed page, and that the methods
by which Clay's addresses were preserved were crude and
unsatisfactory, many of the speeches are very readable even unto this
day. They undoubtedly prove, however, that the man behind them, and
not the manner or matter of them, was the thing that made Henry Clay
the most lovable character in American history.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. There are many biographies of Clay, and numerous
    collections of his speeches. Carl Schurz's _Henry Clay_ (Boston,
    1887, two vols.), is the best account of the statesman; _Henry
    Clay_, by Thomas H. Clay (Philadelphia, 1910), is adequate for
    Clay the man; and Daniel Mallory's _Life and Speeches of the Hon.
    Henry Clay_ (New York, 1844), is the finest collection of his
    speeches made hitherto.


[From _The Life and Speeches of the Hon. Henry Clay_, edited by Daniel
Mallory (New York, 1844, v. i., 4th edition)]

Sir, I am growing old. I have had some little measure of experience in
public life, and the result of that experience has brought me to this
conclusion, that when business, of whatever nature, is to be transacted
in a deliberative assembly, or in private life, courtesy, forebearance,
and moderation, are best calculated to bring it to a successful
conclusion. Sir, my age admonishes me to abstain from involving myself
in personal difficulties; would to God that I could say, I am also
restrained by higher motives. I certainly never sought any collision
with the gentleman from Virginia. My situation at this time is peculiar,
if it be nothing else, and might, I should think, dissuade, at least, a
generous heart from any wish to draw me into circumstances of personal
altercation. I have experienced this magnanimity from some quarters of
the house. But I regret, that from others it appears to have no such
consideration. The gentleman from Virginia was pleased to say, that in
one point at least he coincided with me--in an humble estimate of my
grammatical and philological acquirements, I know my deficiencies. I was
born to no proud patrimonial estate; from my father I inherited only
infancy, ignorance, and indigence. I feel my defects; but, so far as my
situation in early life is concerned, I may, without presumption, say
they are more my misfortune than my fault. But, however I regret my want
of ability to furnish to the gentleman a better specimen of powers of
verbal criticism, I will venture to say, it is not greater than the
disappointment of this committee as to the strength of his argument.


[From the same]


The house of representatives of the United States, impelled alike by its
own feelings, and by those of the whole American people, could not have
assigned to me a more gratifying duty than that of presenting to you
cordial congratulations upon the occasion of your recent arrival in the
United States, in compliance with the wishes of Congress, and to assure
you of the very high satisfaction which your presence affords on this
early theatre of your glory and renown. Although but few of the members
who compose this body shared with you in the war of our revolution, all
have, from impartial history, or from faithful tradition, a knowledge of
the perils, the sufferings, and the sacrifices, which you voluntarily
encountered, and the signal services, in America and in Europe, which
you performed for an infant, a distant, and an alien people; and all
feel and own the very great extent of the obligations under which you
have placed our country. But the relations in which you have ever stood
to the United States, interesting and important as they have been, do
not constitute the only motive of the respect and admiration which the
house of representatives entertain for you. Your consistency of
character, your uniform devotion to regulated liberty, in all the
vicissitudes of a long and arduous life, also commands its admiration.
During all the recent convulsions of Europe, amidst, as after the
dispersion of, every political storm, the people of the United States
have beheld you, true to your old principles, firm and erect, cheering
and animating with your well-known voice, the votaries of liberty, its
faithful and fearless champion, ready to shed the last drop of that
blood which here you so freely and nobly spilt, in the same holy cause.

The vain wish has been sometimes indulged, that Providence would allow
the patriot, after death, to return to his country, and to contemplate
the intermediate changes which had taken place; to view the forest
felled, the cities built, the mountains levelled, the canals cut, the
highways constructed, the progress of the arts, advancement of learning,
and the increase of population. General, your present visit to the
United States is a realization of the consoling object of that wish. You
are in the midst of posterity. Every where, you must have been struck
with the great changes, physical and moral, which have occurred since
you left us. Even this very city, bearing a venerated name, alike
endeared to you and to us, has since emerged from the forest which then
covered its site. In one respect you behold us unaltered, and this is in
the sentiment of continued devotion to liberty, and of ardent affection
and profound gratitude to your departed friend, the father of his
country, and to you, and to your illustrious associates in the field and
in the cabinet, for the multiplied blessings which surround us, and for
the very privilege of addressing you which I now exercise. This
sentiment, now fondly cherished by more than ten millions of people,
will be transmitted, with unabated vigor, down the tide of time, through
the countless millions who are destined to inhabit this continent, to
the latest posterity.[5]


[4] This reply to Randolph was made in the House of Representatives,
in 1824, in the course of the debate between Clay and Randolph.
"During the session of 1823-4, attempts wore made to run at Mr. Clay,
on account of his peculiar situation in being named for the presidency
while Speaker of the House of Representatives, and for his zealous
support of the American system. In a debate on an improvement bill he
encountered Mr. Randolph of Virginia, who had endeavored to provoke
him to reply," and the bit of the debate reproduced here is the answer
the gentleman from Virginia received for his pains.

[5] After the above address, La Fayette rose, and in a tone influenced
by powerful feeling, made an eloquent reply. In 1824 La Fayette
visited the United States, as "the guest of the Nation," and he was
gladly welcomed in many parts of the country. And "on the tenth of
December, 1824, he was introduced in the House of Representatives by a
committee appointed for that purpose. The general, being conducted to
the sofa placed for his reception, the Speaker (Mr. Clay), addressed
him" in the very happy words given above.


John James Audubon, the celebrated ornithologist, was born at
Mandeville, Louisiana, May 5, 1780. He was educated in France under
private tutors, but his consuming love of Nature and especially of
bird-life, was too strong to keep him in a beaten path of study, so
most of his time was spent in the woods and fields. When seventeen
years old Audubon returned to the United States to settle upon his
father's estate, "Mill Grove," near Philadelphia. There he devoted his
entire time to hunting, fishing, drawing, and music. Some months later
he met and fell in love with his nearest neighbor, Lucy Bakewell, a
young English girl. "Too young and too useless to be married," as he
himself afterwards wrote, his about-to-be father-in-law, William
Bakewell, advised Audubon to become a New York business man. With his
friend, Ferdinand Rozier, whom he had met in France, and who was then
connected with a French firm in Philadelphia, he visited Kentucky,
late in 1806, "thought well of it, and liked it exceedingly." But his
great love of Nature was not to be denied, and his business suffered
accordingly. On April 8, 1808, Audubon was married to Miss Bakewell,
and the next morning left for Pittsburgh, where he and his bride,
accompanied by Rozier, floated down the Ohio river in a flatboat,
which was their bridal tour, with Louisville, Kentucky, as their
destination. Upon reaching Louisville Audubon and Rozier opened a
large store which prospered when Audubon attended to it; "but birds
were birds then as now, and my thoughts were ever and anon turning
toward them as the objects of my greatest delight." His first child,
Victor, was born at Louisville, in 1809. Rozier conducted the store,
and Audubon spent his days in "the darling forests." In 1810 Alexander
Wilson, the Scotch ornithologist and poet, called upon Audubon at his
store in Louisville hoping to obtain his subscription to his work
upon American birds, but Audubon showed him birds he had never seen
before, which seemingly angered the Scot as he afterwards wrote
slightingly of the Kentucky naturalist. Late in 1810 Audubon and
Rozier removed their stock of goods to Henderson, Kentucky, where
their trade was so poor that Rozier was left behind the counter, while
Audubon was compelled to fish and hunt for food. A short time after
their arrival in Henderson, the two partners decided to move to St.
Genevieve on the Mississippi river, but Audubon disliked the
community, sold out to Rozier, and returned to his home in Henderson.
His second son, John Woodhouse, was born at Henderson, in 1812. Two
daughters were also born at Henderson, the first of whom, Lucy, died
in infancy and was buried in her father's garden. His pecuniary
affairs were now greatly reduced, but he continued to draw birds and
quadrupeds. He disposed of Mill Grove and opened a small store in
Henderson, which prospered and put him on his feet again. Audubon was
doing so finely in business now that he purchased a small farm and was
adding to it from time to time. His brother-in-law, Thomas Bakewell,
arrived at Henderson about 1816, and finally persuaded Audubon to
erect a steam-mill on his property at a great expense. For a time this
mill did all the sawing for the country, but in the end it ruined
Audubon and his partners. He left Henderson in 1819, after having
resided in the town for nearly ten years, and set up as a portrait
painter in Louisville, where he was very successful. From Louisville
Audubon went to Cincinnati and from there to New Orleans. In October,
1823, he again settled at Louisville as a painter of "birds,
landscapes, portraits, and even signs." His wife was the only person
in the world who had any faith in his ultimate "arrival" as a famous
naturalist, and the outlook was indeed dark. Audubon quitted
Louisville in March, 1824, and two years later he went to England,
where the first public exhibition of his drawings was held. His first
and most famous work, _Birds of America_, was published at London from
1827 to 1838, issued in numbers, each containing five plates, without
text, the complete work consisting of four folio volumes. Audubon
returned to America in 1829, and he was with his sons at Louisville
for a short time, both of whom were engaged in business there. He went
to New Orleans to see his wife, and together they came to Louisville,
in 1830, to bid the "Kentucky lads," as he called them, goodbye,
before sailing for England. At "the fair Edinburgh," in the fall of
1830, Audubon began the _Ornithological Biographies_ (Edinburgh,
1831-39, 5 vols.), the text to the plates of the _Birds_. In 1840-44
the work was republished in seven volumes, text and plates together,
as _Birds of America_. In 1831 Audubon and his wife returned to
America, and they were again in Louisville with the boys for some
time. In 1833 his famous trip to Labrador was taken, and the following
year found the family in England. The next ten years were passed in
wandering from country to country in search of birds, but, in 1842,
Audubon purchased "Minniesland," now Audubon Park, New York. With his
sons and the Rev. John Bachman he planned the _Quadrupeds of America_,
the last volume of which was issued after his death, which occurred at
"Minniesland" on January 27, 1851. His wife, who wrote his life,
survived him many years, dying at Shelbyville, Kentucky, June 19,
1874, but she is buried by his side on the banks of the Hudson.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Life of John James Audubon_, edited by his Widow
    (New York, 1869); _Audubon and His Journals_, edited by Maria R.
    Audubon (New York, 1900); _John James Audubon_, by John Burroughs
    (Boston, 1902).


    [From _Audubon and His Journals_, edited by Maria R. Audubon (New
    York, 1900, v. ii)]

When my wife, my eldest son (then an infant), and myself were returning
from Pennsylvania to Kentucky, we found it expedient, the waters being
unusually low, to provide ourselves with a _skiff_, to enable us to
proceed to our abode at Henderson. I purchased a large, commodious, and
light boat of that denomination. We procured a mattress, and our friends
furnished us with ready prepared viands. We had two stout negro rowers,
and in this trim we left the village of Shippingport [now within the
corporate limits of Louisville], in expectation of reaching the place of
our destination in a very few days.

It was in the month of October. The autumnal tints already decorated the
shores of that queen of rivers, the Ohio. Every tree was hung with long
and flowing festoons of different species of vines, many loaded with
clustered fruits of varied brilliancy, their rich bronzed carmine
mingling beautifully with the yellow foliage which now predominated over
the yet green leaves, reflecting more lively tints from the clear stream
than ever landscape painter portrayed, or poet imagined. The days were
yet warm. The sun had assumed the rich and glowing hue which at that
season produces the singular phenomenon called there the "Indian
Summer." The moon had rather passed the meridian of her grandeur. We
glided down the river, meeting no other ripple of the water than that
formed by the propulsion of our boat. Leisurely we moved along, gazing
all day on the grandeur and beauty of the wild scenery around us.

Now and then a large catfish rose to the surface of the water, in
pursuit of a shoal of fry, which, starting simultaneously from the
liquid element like so many silver arrows, produced a shower of light,
while the pursuer with open jaws seized the stragglers, and, with a
splash of his tail, disappeared from our view. Other fishes we heard,
uttering beneath our bark a rumbling noise, the strange sound of which
we discovered to proceed from the white perch, for on casting our net
from the bow, we caught several of that species, when the noise ceased
for a time.

Nature, in her varied arrangements, seems to have felt a partiality
towards this portion of our country. As the traveler ascends or
descends the Ohio, he cannot help remarking that alternately, nearly
the whole length of the river, the margin, on one side, is bounded by
lofty hills and a rolling surface, while on the other, extensive
plains of the richest alluvial land are seen as far as the eye can
command the view. Islands of varied size and form rise here and there
from the bosom of the water, and the winding course of the stream
frequently brings you to places where the idea of being on a river of
great length changes to that of floating on a lake of moderate extent.
Some of these islands are of considerable size and value; while
others, small and insignificant, seem as if intended for contrast, and
as serving to enhance the general interest of the scenery. These
little islands are frequently overflowed during great freshets or
floods, and receive at their heads prodigious heaps of drifted timber.
We foresaw with great concern the alterations that cultivation would
soon produce along those delightful banks.

As night came, sinking in darkness the broader portions of the river,
our minds became affected by strong emotions, and wandered far beyond
the present moments. The tinkling of bells told us that the cattle
which bore them were gently roving from valley to valley in search of
food, or returning to their distant homes. The hooting of the Great
Owl, or the muffled noise of its wings, as it sailed smoothly over the
stream, were matters of interest to us; so was the sound of the
boatman's horn, as it came winding more and more softly from afar.
When daylight returned, many songsters burst forth with echoing notes,
more and more mellow to the listening ear. Here and there the lonely
cabin of a squatter struck the eye, giving note of commencing
civilization. The crossing of the stream by a Deer foretold how soon
the hills would be covered with snow.

Many sluggish flatboats we overtook and passed; some laden with
produce from the different head-waters of the small rivers that pour
their tributary streams into the Ohio; others, of less dimensions,
crowded with emigrants from distant parts, in search of a new home.
Purer pleasures I never felt; nor have you, reader, I ween, unless
indeed you have felt the like, and in such company.

The margins of the shores and of the river were, at this season amply
supplied with game. A Wild Turkey, a Grouse, or a Blue-winged Teal,
could be procured in a few moments; and we fared well, for, whenever
we pleased we landed, struck up a fire, and provided as we were with
the necessary utensils, procured a good repast.

Several of these happy days passed, and we neared our home, when, one
evening, not far from Pigeon Creek (a small stream which runs into the
Ohio from the State of Indiana), a loud and strange noise was heard,
so like the yells of Indian warfare, that we pulled at our oars, and
made for the opposite side as fast and as quietly as possible. The
sounds increased, we imagined we heard cries of "murder;" and as we
knew that some depredations had lately been committed in the country
by dissatisfied parties of aborigines, we felt for a while extremely
uncomfortable. Ere long, however, our minds became more calmed, and we
plainly discovered that the singular uproar was produced by an
enthusiastic set of Methodists, who had wandered thus far out of the
common way for the purpose of holding one of their annual
camp-meetings, under the shade of a beech forest. Without meeting with
any other interruption, we reached Henderson, distant from
Shippingport, by water, about two hundred miles.

When I think of these times, and call back to my mind the grandeur and
beauty of those almost uninhabited shores; when I picture to myself
the dense and lofty summits of the forests, that everywhere spread
along the hills and overhung the margins of the stream, unmolested by
the axe of the settler; when I know how dearly purchased the safe
navigation of that river has been, by the blood of many worthy
Virginians; when I see that no longer any aborigines are to be found
there, and that the vast herds of Elk, Deer, and Buffaloes which once
pastured on these hills, and in these valleys, making for themselves
great roads to the several salt-springs, have ceased to exist; when I
reflect that all this grand portion of our Union, instead of being in
a state of nature, is now more or less covered with villages, farms,
and towns, where the din of hammers and machinery is constantly
heard; that the woods are fast disappearing under the axe by day, and
the fire by night; that hundreds of steamboats are gliding to and fro,
over the whole length of the majestic river, forcing commerce to take
root and to prosper at every spot; when I see the surplus population
of Europe coming to assist in the destruction of the forest, and
transplanting civilization into its darkest recesses; when I remember
that these extraordinary changes have all taken place in the short
period of twenty years, I pause, wonder, and although I know all to be
a fact, can scarcely believe its reality.

Whether these changes are for the better or for the worse, I shall not
pretend to say; but in whatever way my conclusions may incline, I feel
with regret that there are on record no satisfactory accounts of the
state of that portion of the country, from the time when our people
first settled in it. This has not been because no one in America is
able to accomplish such an undertaking. Our Irvings and our Coopers
have proved themselves fully competent for the task. It has more
probably been because the changes have succeeded each other with such
rapidity as almost to rival the movements of their pens. However, it
is not too late yet; and I sincerely hope that either or both of them
will ere long furnish the generations to come with those delightful
descriptions which they are so well qualified to give, of the original
state of a country that has been rapidly forced to change her form and
attire under the influence of increasing population. Yes, I hope to
read, ere I close my earthly career, accounts from those delightful
writers of the progress of civilization in our Western Country. They
will speak of the Clarks, the Croghans, the Boones, and many other men
of great and daring enterprise. They will analyze, as it were, into
each component part the country as it once existed, and will render
the picture, as it ought to be, immortal.


[6] Copyright, 1897, by Charles Scribner's Sons.


Horace Holley, old Transylvania University's celebrated president, was
born at Salisbury, Connecticut, February 13, 1781, the son of Luther
Holley, a wealthy merchant. He was fitted at Williams College for Yale,
from which institution he was graduated in 1803. Holley studied law in
New York for awhile, but soon relinquished it for theology, which he
returned to Yale to pursue. In 1805 he was appointed to his first
pastorate. Going to Boston in 1809, as pastor of the Hollis Street
Unitarian church, he at once made a great reputation for himself as an
eloquent pulpit orator. Holley was at Hollis Street for nine years,
during which time he was a member of the Board of Overseers of Harvard
University, as well as a member of several civic boards. He was elected
president of Transylvania University, of Lexington, in 1817, and he
journeyed to Kentucky in the following spring, where he went carefully
over the ground and finally decided to accept the position. He entered
almost at once upon the most difficult task of converting a grammar
school into a great university. Success soon crowned his efforts,
however, and Transylvania took her place by the side of Harvard, Yale,
and Princeton, as one of the higher seats of learning in the United
States. In at least one year under the Holley régime, Transylvania had
the largest student body in this country. The institution was as well
known in New York or London, among scholars, as it was in the West.
Several of the professors were men of national reputation, and the
students came from all parts of the United States. Never before in the
South or West has a seat of learning had higher hopes for the future, or
greater success or reputation than had Transylvania under Horace Holley.
Then the Kentucky Presbyterians and others launched Dame Rumor,
freighted with falsehoods and misrepresentations galore. The president
was charged with every crime in the calendar: he was an atheist, an
agnostic, a blasphemer, a wine-bibber, and all that was evil. The whole
truth was this: he was a Unitarian, holding the Christ to be the
greatest personality in history, but denying him as the very Son of God.
This his prejudiced, ill-advised enemies were unable to understand.
Driven to desperation by the bitter crusade that was being waged against
him, Holley resigned, in March, 1827, after nine years of great success
as head of the University, which after his departure, fell away to
almost nothing. He went from Kentucky to Louisiana, where he endeavored
to re-organize the College of New Orleans, and in which work he wore
himself out. Late in the summer he and his wife took passage for New
York, but he contracted yellow-fever, and, on July 31, 1827, he died.
His body was consigned to the waters of the Gulf of Mexico, but his fame
is secure as an American educator of distinguished ability. The finest
bit of prose he ever wrote, perhaps, is contained in one of his Kentucky
letters to his wife in Boston, written while he was in Lexington looking
over the lay of the land, which, as subsequent events proved, he utterly
failed to anticipate in its most dangerous and damning aspect.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _A Discourse on the Genius and Character of the Rev.
    Horace Holley, LL. D._, by Charles Caldwell, M. D. (Boston, 1828);
    _More Colonial Homesteads_, by Marion Harland (New York, 1899);
    _Lore of the Meadowland_, by J. W. Townsend (Lexington, Kentucky,


    [From _A Discourse on the Genius and Character of the Rev. Horace
    Holley, LL. D._, by Charles Caldwell, M. D. (Boston, 1828)]

                                      Lexington, May 27th, 1818.

I wrote a hasty letter to you on the night of my arrival. I shall now
he able to speak a little more in detail.

The town and the vicinity are very handsome. The streets are broad,
straight, paved, clean, and have rows of trees on each side. The
houses are of brick almost universally, many of them in the midst of
fields, and have a very rural and charming appearance. The taste is
for low houses, generally two, sometimes even but one story high, like
English cottages. This taste gives an effect that eyes accustomed to
the high buildings of an Atlantic city, where there is but little
room, are not at first pleased with. But it is a taste adapted to the
circumstances, and to me is not unpleasant.

I have taken lodgings at the principal hotel of the place, where I have
a drawing-room to receive calls, which were yesterday until dinner
almost innumerable.... In the afternoon I walked about town with Mr.
Clay, and called at a few charming houses. I visited also the Athenaeum,
an institution not yet furnished with many books, but well supplied with
newspapers, and the best periodicals. I find everything of this sort,
which is valuable, from Boston and the other Atlantic cities.

This morning I breakfasted at Mr. Clay's, who lives a mile and a half
from town. He arrived here only three days before me. Ashland is a
very pleasant place, handsomer than I anticipated. The grounds are
beautiful, the lawns and walks extensive, the shrubbery luxuriant, and
the garden well supplied. The native forest of ash in the rear adds a
charming effect to the whole. After breakfast Mr. Clay rode in with
me, and we went with the trustees, by appointment, to the college, to
visit the professors and students. They were all collected in the
largest hall to receive us. I made a short address, which was received
in a kind manner. I was then conducted to the library, the apparatus,
and the recitation rooms. The library is small, and the apparatus
smaller. There is no regular division of students into classes as in
other colleges, and but few laws. Everything is to be done, and so
much the better, as nothing is to be reformed. Almost the whole is
proposed to be left to me to arrange. I am now making all necessary
inquiries, and a meeting of the trustees is to be called next week.

After this visit, I went with a party of ladies and gentlemen, nine
miles into the country to the seat of Colonel [David] Meade [1744-1838]
where we dined and passed the day. This gentleman, who is near seventy,
is a Virginian of the old school. He has been a good deal in England,
in his youth, and brought home with him English notions of a country
seat, though he is a great republican in politics. He and his wife dress
in the costume of the olden time. He has the square coat and great
cuffs, the vest of the court, short breeches, and white stockings, at
all times. Mrs. Meade has the long waist, the white apron, the stays,
the ruffles about the elbows, and the cap of half a century ago. She is
very mild and ladylike, and though between sixty and seventy, plays upon
the piano-forte with the facility and cheerfulness of a young lady. Her
husband resembles Colonel Pickering in the face, and the shape of the
head. He is entirely a man of leisure, never having followed any
business, and never using his fortune but in adorning his place and
entertaining his friends and strangers. No word is ever sent to him that
company is coming. To do so offends him. But a dinner--he dines at the
hour of four--is always ready for visitors; and servants are always in
waiting. Twenty of us went out today, without warning, and were
entertained luxuriously on the viands of the country. Our drink
consisted of beer, toddy, and water. Wine, being imported and expensive,
he never gives; nor does he allow cigars to be smoked in his presence.
His house consists of a cluster of rustic cottages, in front of which
spreads a beautiful, sloping lawn, as smooth as velvet. From this
diverge, in various direction, and forming vistas terminated by
picturesque objects, groves and walks extending over some acres. Seats,
Chinese temples, verdant banks, and alcoves are interspersed at
convenient distances. The lake, over which presides a Grecian temple,
that you may imagine to be the residence of the water nymphs, has in it
a small island, which communicates with the shore by a white bridge of
one arch. The whole is surrounded by a low rustic fence of stone,
surmounted and almost hidden by honey-suckle and roses, now in full
flower, and which we gathered in abundance to adorn the ladies.
Everything is laid out for walking and pleasure. His farm he rents, and
does nothing for profit. The whole is in rustic taste. You enter from
the road, through a gate between rude and massive columns, a field
without pretension, wind a considerable distance through a noble park to
an inner gate, the capitals to whose pillars are unique, being formed of
the roots of trees, carved by nature. Then the rich scene of
cultivation, of verdure and flower-capped hedges, bursts upon you. There
is no establishment like this in our country. Instead of a description,
I might have given you its name, "_Chaumiere du Prairies_."


Constantine Samuel Rafinesque, the learned, eccentric scientist of
Kentucky and the West, was born near Constantinople, Turkey, October
22, 1783. He was of French-German descent. His boyhood years were
spent in Italy and in traveling on the Continent. Rafinesque came to
America in 1802, and he remained in this country but three years, when
he returned to Italy; and there the subsequent ten years of his life
were passed. In 1809 he married, after a fashion, a Sicilian woman,
Josephine Vaccaro, who bore him two children. Rafinesque returned to
America in 1815, and a short time after his arrival, he met his former
friend, John D. Clifford, of Philadelphia and Lexington--twin-towns in
those days--"the only man he ever loved," who persuaded him to come
out to Kentucky. At Henderson, Kentucky, Rafinesque met the great
Audubon, who took him under his roof, and who told him many amusing
tales of the fishes of the Ohio--which the little scientist believed,
as coming from a famous man--and which caused him no end of trouble
and work in after years. Audubon ridiculed him to his face, which the
simple-minded man could not understand; and in his _Journals_ the
ornithologist has much fun at his guest's expense. That he treated him
very badly, no one can deny. Through Clifford's influence, probably,
Rafinesque was appointed, in 1819, to the chair of natural science and
modern languages in Transylvania University. This was during the
presidency of Horace Holley, when the old University was at the
high-tide of its history, but the diminutive scientist, though
heralded as "the most learned man in America," was not received as
such in the Blue Grass region of Kentucky an hundred years ago. From
the president down to the children of the little city he was looked
upon as an impossible creature. Seven of the best years of his life
were spent in the service of the University and of the town. His
boldest dream for the town was a Botanical Garden, modeled upon the
gardens of France, and though he did actually make a splendid start
toward this ideal, in the end all his plans came to nothing. In June,
1825, Rafinesque left Lexington, never to return. He went to
Philadelphia, where the remaining fifteen years of his life were
spent. Death discovered the little fellow among his books, plants, and
poverty, September 18, 1840, in a miserable, rat-ridden garret on Race
street, Philadelphia. Rafinesque's publications reach the surprising
number of 447, consisting of books, pamphlets, magazine articles,
translations, and reprints. His most important works are _Ichthyologia
Ohiensis, or Natural History of the Fishes Inhabiting the River Ohio
and its Tributary Streams_ (Lexington, 1820), a reprint of which his
biographer, Dr. Call, has published (Cleveland, 1899); and his
_Ancient Annals of Kentucky_, which Humphrey Marshall printed as an
introduction to his _History of Kentucky_ (Frankfort, 1824). The
oversheets of this were made into a pamphlet of thirty-nine pages. The
little work considers the antiquities of the State, and is the
starting point for all latter-day writers upon "the prehistoric men of
Kentucky." Imagination and fact run riotously together, yet the work
has been correctly characterized as "the most remarkable history of
Kentucky that was ever written, or ever will be."

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _A Kentucky Cardinal_, by James Lane Allen (New
    York, 1894); _Life and Writings of Rafinesque_, by Richard E.
    Call (Louisville, Kentucky, 1895); _Rafinesque: A Sketch of his
    Life_, by T. J. Fitzpatrick (Des Moines, Iowa, 1911).


    [From _Ancient Annals of Kentucky_ (Frankfort, Kentucky, 1824)]

1. Every complete history of a country ought to include an account of
the physical changes and revolutions, which it may have undergone.

2. The documents for such geological survey, are to be found
everywhere in the bowels of the earth, its rocks and strata, with the
remains of organized bodies imbedded therein, which are now considered
as the medals of nature.

3. The soil of Kentucky shows, like many other countries, that it has
once been the bed of the sea. In James's Map, the primitive ocean is
supposed to have covered North America, by having a former level of
6000 feet above the actual level. Since the highest lands in Kentucky
do not exceed 1800 feet above the level of the actual ocean, they were
once covered with at least 4200 feet of water.

4. The study of the soil of Kentucky, proves evidently the successive
and gradual retreat of the salt waters, without evincing any proofs of
any very violent or sudden disruptions or emersions of land, nor
eruptions of the ocean, except some casual accidents, easily ascribed
to earthquakes, salses and submarine volcanoes.

5. There are no remains of land or burning volcanoes in Kentucky, nor
of any considerable fresh water lake. All the strata are nearly
horizontal, with valleys excavated by the tides and streams during the
soft state of the strata.

6. After these preliminary observations, I shall detail the successive
evolution of this soil and its productions, under six distinct periods
of time, which may be compared to the six epochs or days of creation,
and supposed to have lasted an indefinite number of ages.


Mann Butler, the first Kentucky historian who worked with
comparatively modern methods, eliminating personal prejudices and
imagination, was born at Baltimore, July, 1784. At the age of three
years he was taken to the home of his grandfather in Chelsea, England.
Mann Butler returned to the United States, in 1798, and entered St.
Mary's College, Georgetown, D. C., from which institution he was
afterwards graduated in the arts, medicine, and law. His tastes were
decidedly literary, and he preferred law to medicine as being,
perhaps, more in line with literature. He emigrated to Kentucky,
locating at Lexington, in 1806, for the practice of law. He later
abandoned law for pedagogy, opening an academy at Versailles,
Kentucky. Some years later he taught in Maysville and Frankfort, and
was then called to a professorship in Transylvania University,
Lexington, where he remained for several years. In 1831 Butler removed
to Louisville, where he was engaged in teaching for fifteen years. His
_History of Kentucky_ (Louisville, 1834; Cincinnati, 1836) was, after
Filson's florid sentences, Rafinesque's imagination, and Marshall's
prejudices and castigations, most welcome and timely. He was
microscopic in finding facts, fair, having no enemies to punish, an
excellent chronicler, in short, and doing a work that was much needed.
The Kentucky legislature took a keen interest in his history,
rendering him great assistance. Butler's _Appeal from the
Misrepresentations of James Hall, Respecting the History of Kentucky
and the West_ (Frankfort, 1837), was a just criticism of the
Cincinnati writer's _Sketches of History in the West_ (Philadelphia,
1835), a work in which fact and fiction are well-nigh inseparable.
Mann Butler spent the last seven years of his life in St. Louis,
teaching and in preparing a history of the Ohio valley, which he left
in manuscript, but which, together with his library, was afterwards
destroyed by Federal soldiers during the Civil War. He was killed in
Missouri, in 1852, while a passenger on a Pacific train which was
wrecked by the falling of a bridge spanning the Gasconade river. Mann
Butler had many of the qualities required in a great historian, and
the work he did has lived well and will live longer.

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


    [From _A History of the Commonwealth of Kentucky_ (Louisville,
    Kentucky, 1834)]

During this same year [1769], a party of about forty stout hunters,
"from New River, Holstein and Clinch" united in a hunting expedition
west of the Cumberland Mountains.

Nine of this party, led on by Col. James Knox, reached Kentucky; and,
from the time they were absent from home, they "obtained the name of
the _Long Hunters_." This expedition reached "the country south of the
Kentucky river," and became acquainted with Green river, and the lower
part of the Cumberland.

In addition to these parties, so naturally stimulated by the ardent
curiosity incident to early and comparatively, idle society, the
claimants of military bounty lands which had been obtained from the
British crown, for services against the French, furnished a new and keen
band of western explorers. Their land warrants were surveyed on the
Kenhawa and the Ohio; though most positively against the very letter of
the royal proclamation of '63. But at this distance from the royal
court, it was nothing new in the history of government that edicts
emanating, even from the king in council, should be but imperfectly
regarded. However, this may be, land warrants were actually surveyed on
the Kenhawa as early as 1772, and in 1773, several surveyors were
deputied to lay out bounty lands on the Ohio river.

Amongst others Thomas Bullitt, uncle to the late Alexander Scott
Bullitt, first lieutenant governor of Kentucky; and Hancock Taylor,
engaged in this adventurous work. These gentlemen with their company
were overtaken on the 28th of May, 1773, by the McAfees, whose exertions
will hereafter occupy a conspicuous station in this narrative.

On the 29th, the party in one boat and four canoes, reached the Ohio
river, and elected Bullitt their captain.

There is a romantic incident connected with this gentleman's descent of
the Ohio, evincing singular intrepidity and presence of mind; it is
taken from his journal, as Mr. [Humphrey] Marshall says, and the author
has found it substantially confirmed by the McAfee papers. While on his
voyage, he left his boat and went alone through the woods to the Indian
town of Old Chillicothe, on the Scioto. He arrived in the midst of the
town undiscovered by the Indians, until he was waving his white flag as
a token of peace. He was immediately asked what news? Was he from the
Long Knife? And why, if he was a peace-messenger, he had not sent a
runner? Bullitt, undauntedly replied, that he had no bad news; was from
the Long Knife, and as the red men and the whites were at peace, he had
come among his brothers to have friendly talk with them, about living on
the other side of the Ohio; that he had no runner swifter than himself;
and, that he was in haste and could not wait the return of a runner.
"Would you," said he, "if you were very hungry, and had killed a deer,
send your squaw to town to tell the news, and wait her return before you
eat?" This simple address to their own feelings, soon put the Indians in
good humor, and at his desire a council was assembled to hear his talk
the next day. Captain Bullitt then made strong assurances of friendship
on the part of the whites and acknowledged that these "Shawanees and
Delawares, our nearest neighbors," "did not get any of the money or
blankets given for the land, which I and my people are going to settle.
But it is agreed by the great men, who own the land, that they will make
a present to both the Delawares and the Shawanees, the next year; and
the year following, that shall be as good." On the ensuing day,
agreeably to the very deliberate manner of the Indians in council,
Captain Bullitt was informed, that "he seemed kind and friendly, and
that it pleased them well." That as "to settling the country on the
other side of the Ohio with your people, we are particularly pleased
that they are not to _disturb_ us in our hunting. For we must hunt, to
kill meat for our women and children, and to get something to buy our
powder and lead with, and to get us blankets and clothing." In these
talks, there seems a strange want of the usual sagacity of the Indians
as to the consequences of white men settling on their hunting grounds;
so contrary to their melancholy experience for a century and a half
previous; yet, the narrative is unimpeachable. On the part of Bullitt,
too, the admission of _no compensation_ to the Delawares and Shawanees,
appears to be irreconcilable with the treaty at Fort Stanwix with the
master tribes of the confederacy, the Six Nations. However, this may be,
the parties separated in perfect harmony, and Captain Bullitt proceeded
to the Falls. Here he pitched his camp above the mouth of Bear-grass
creek, retiring of a night to the upper point of the shoal above _Corn
Island_, opposite to the present city of Louisville. It was this
gentleman, who, according to the testimony of Jacob Sodowsky, a
respectable farmer, late of Jessamine county, in this State, first laid
off the town of Louisville, in August, 1773. He likewise surveyed
Bullitt's Lick in the adjoining county, of the same name.


Zachary Taylor, twelfth president of the United States, was a Kentuckian
save for his accidental birth near Orange, Virginia, September 24, 1784.
His father, Richard Taylor, had been planning for many years to remove
to Kentucky, but his vacillation gave Virginia another president. When
but nine months old Zachary Taylor was brought to Kentucky, the family
settling near Louisville. He "grew up to manhood with the yell of the
savage and the crack of the rifle almost constantly ringing in his
ears." The first twenty-four years of his life were passed wholly in
Kentucky amid all the dangers of the Western wilderness. He was
fighting Indians almost before he could hold a rifle at arm's length,
and in such an environment his education was, of course, very limited.
Taylor entered the army, in 1808, serving in the War of 1812, in Black
Hawk's war of 1832, and against the Seminole Indians (1836-1837). In
1837 he was brevetted brigadier-general. In 1838 General Taylor was
placed in command of the military stations in Florida; and in 1845 he
took command of the army on the Texas border. The next five years of
General Taylor's life is the history of the Mexican War. At Palo Alto,
Monterey, and at Buena Vista, on February 22-23, 1847, where he crushed
Santa Anna, he was the absolute man of the hour, the hero of the
country. On the strength of his military renown, General Taylor was
elected as the Whig candidate for president of the United States, in
1848, defeating General Lewis Cass of Michigan, and former president,
Martin Van Buren, of New York. He was inaugurated in March, 1849, but he
died at the White House, Washington, July 9, 1850. The country was torn
asunder with many important questions during Taylor's administration,
which, though brief, was a stormy one. His remains were interred at his
old home near Louisville--the only president ever buried in this
State--and a ruined monument marks the grave at this time. In 1908 a
volume of his _Letters from the Battlefields of the Mexican War_

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Some Notable Families of America_, by Annah
    Robinson Watson; _The War with Mexico_, by H. O. Ladd (New York,
    1835); _General Taylor_, by O. O. Howard (New York, 1892).


    [From _The Private Correspondence of Henry Clay_, edited by Calvin
    Colton (New York, 1855)]

                            Baton Rouge, La., December 28, 1847.

My dear Sir,--Your kind and acceptable letter of the 13th instant,
congratulating me on my safe return to the United States, and for the
complimentary and flattering terms you have been pleased to notice my
services, I beg leave to tender you my sincere thanks.

The warm and hearty reception I have met with from so many of my
fellow-citizens, where I have mingled among them since my return, in
addition to their manifestations of their high appreciation and
approval of my conduct while in Mexico, has been truly gratifying, and
has ten-fold more than compensated me for the dangers and toils
encountered in the public service, as well as for the privations in
being so long separated from my family and friends; yet there are
circumstances connected with my operations in that country which I can
never forget, and which I must always think of with feelings of the
deepest sorrow and regret.

I left Mexico after it was determined the column under my orders was
to act on the defensive, and after the capital of the enemy had fallen
into our hands, and their army dispersed, on a short leave of absence,
to visit my family, and to attend to some important private affairs,
which could not well be arranged without my being present, and which
had been too long neglected. After reaching New Orleans, I informed
the Secretary of War that should my presence in Mexico be deemed
necessary at any time, I was ready to return, and that a communication
on that or any other subject connected with my public duties would
reach me if addressed to this place. I therefore feel bound to remain
here, or in the vicinity, until the proper authorities at Washington
determine what disposition is to be made of or with me. Under this
state of things I do not expect to have it in my power to visit
Kentucky, although it would afford me much real pleasure to mix once
more with my numerous relatives and friends in that patriotic State,
to whom I am devotedly attached; as well as again to visit, if not the
place of my nativity, where I was reared from infancy to early
manhood. And let me assure you I duly appreciate your kind invitation
to visit you at your own hospitable home, and should anything occur
which will enable me to avail myself of it, I will embrace the
opportunity with much real pleasure.

I regret to say, I found my family, or rather Mrs. Taylor, on my
return, in feeble health, as well as my affairs in any other than a
prosperous condition; the latter was, however, to be expected, and I
must devote what time I can spare, or can be spared from my public
duties, in putting them in order as far as I can do so.

Should circumstances so turn out as will induce you to visit Washington
the present winter, I trust you will take every precaution to protect
yourself while traveling from the effects of the severe cold weather you
must necessarily encounter in crossing the mountains, particularly so
after having passed several of the last winters in the South.

The letter which you did me the honor to address to me, referred to,
reached me on the eve of my leaving Monterey to return to the United
States, and was at once replied to, which reply I flatter myself
reached you shortly after writing your last communication; in which I
stated, although I had received some letters from individuals in
Kentucky, calculated, or perhaps intended, to produce unkind feelings
on my part toward you, even admitting such was the case, their object
has not been accomplished in the slightest degree, and I hope it will
never be the case.

Please present me mostly kindly to your excellent lady, and wishing
you and yours continued health and prosperity, I remain, with respect
and esteem, etc.


Daniel Drake, "the Franklin of the West," was born at Plainfield, New
Jersey, October 20, 1785. When he was but three years old, his family
removed to Mayslick, Mason county, Kentucky, where they dwelt in a log
cabin for some time. When he was sixteen years of age, Drake went to
Cincinnati to study medicine, the city's first medical student. He
later attended lectures at the medical school of the University of
Pennsylvania. On his return to Kentucky, Dr. Drake practiced his
profession near his home at Mayslick, Kentucky, but he shortly
afterwards went to Cincinnati, where he became a distinguished
physician and author. In 1816 he was appointed professor of materia
medica and botany in the medical school of Transylvania University,
and he held this chair for one year. He returned to Transylvania, in
1823, and this time he remained for four years. In 1835 Dr. Drake
organized the medical department of Cincinnati College. Four years
later he went to Louisville to accept the chair of clinical medicine
and pathological anatomy in the University of Louisville, which he
occupied for ten years. He returned to Cincinnati two years before his
death, which occurred there, November 6, 1852. Dr. Drake's
publications include _Topography, Climate, and Diseases of Cincinnati_
(1810); _Picture of Cincinnati_ (Cincinnati, 1815); _Practical Essays
on Medical Education_ (1832); _Systematic Treatise on the Principal
Diseases of the Interior Valley of North America_ (Philadelphia, 1850;
1852), a work which was characterized by Judge James Hall of
Cincinnati as "the most important and valuable work ever written in
the United States. The subject is large. The work could not be
compiled. The subject was new, and the materials were to be collected
from original sources, from observation, personal inspection, oral
evidence, etc. It occupied many years; and was, probably, in
contemplation during the whole or most part of Dr. Drake's long
professional life." To-day Dr. Drake's most popular work is _Pioneer
Life in Kentucky_, a series of reminiscential letters addressed to his
children, concerning early times in Kentucky. It was issued by Robert
Clarke, the Cincinnati publisher in his well-known Ohio Valley
Historical Series. This is a charming volume and it has been much
quoted and praised by Western writers.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New
    York, 1887, v. ii); _Beginnings of Literary Culture in the Ohio
    Valley_, by W. H. Venable (Cincinnati, 1891); Allibone's
    _Dictionary of Authors_ (Philadelphia, 1897).


    [From _Pioneer Life in Kentucky_ (Cincinnati, 1870)]

Mayslick, although scarcely a village, was at once an emporium and
capital for a tract of country six or eight miles in diameter, and
embracing several hundred families, of which those in father's
neighborhood were tolerably fair specimens. Uncle Abraham Drake kept a
store, and Shotwell and Morris kept taverns; besides them there were a
few poor mechanics. Uncle Cornelius Drake was a farmer merely, and
lived a little out of the center of the station; the great men of
which were the three I have just named. With this limited population,
it seems, even down to this time, wonderful to me that such gatherings
and such scenes should have been transacted there. They commenced
within five years after its settlement, and increasing with the
progress of surrounding population, continued in full vigor long after
I left home for Cincinnati. It was the place for holding regimental
militia musters, when all the boys and old men of the surrounding
country, not less than those who stood enrolled, would assemble; and
before dispersing at night, the training was quite eclipsed by a
heterogeneous drama of foot racing, pony racing, wrestling, fighting,
drunkenness and general uproar. It was also a place for political
meetings and stump conflict by opposing candidates, and after
intellectual performances there generally followed an epilogue of
oaths, yells, loud blows, and gnashing of teeth. Singing-schools were
likewise held at the same place in a room of Deacon Morris's tavern. I
was never a scholar, which I regret, for it has always been a grief
with me that I did not learn music in early life. I occasionally
attended. As in all country singing-schools, sacred music only was
taught, but in general there was not much display of sanctity. I have
a distinct remembrance of one teacher only. He was a Yankee, without a
family, between forty and fifty years of age, and wore a matted mass
of thick hair over the place where men's ears are usually found. Thus
protected, his were never seen, and after the opinion spread abroad
that by some misfortune they had been cut off, he "cut and run."

The infant capital was, still further, the local seat of justice; and
Saturday was for many years, at all times I might say, the regular term
time. Instead of trying cases at home, two or three justices of the
peace would come to the Lick on that day, and hold their separate
courts. This, of course, brought thither all the litigants of the
neighborhood with their friends and witnesses; all who wished to
purchase at the store would postpone their visit to the same day; all
who had to replenish their jugs of whiskey did the same thing; all who
had business with others expected to meet them there, as our city
merchants, at noon, expect to meet each other on 'change; finally, all
who thirsted after drink, fun, frolic, or fighting, of course, were
present. Thus Saturday was a day of largely suspended field labor, but
devoted to public business, social pleasure, dissipation, and beastly
drunkenness. You might suppose that the presence of civil magistrates
would have repressed some of these vices, but it was not so. Each day
provided a bill of fare for the next. A new trade in horses, another
horse race, a cock-fight, or a dog-fight, a wrestling match, or a
pitched battle between two bullies, who in fierce encounter would lie on
the ground scratching, pulling hair, choking, gouging out each other's
eyes, and biting off each other's noses, in the manner of bull-dogs,
while a Roman circle of interested lookers-on would encourage the
respective gladiators with shouts which a passing demon might have
mistaken for those of hell. In the afternoon, the men and boys of
business and sobriety would depart, and at nightfall the dissipated
would follow them, often two on a horse, reeling and yelling as I saw
drunken Indians do in the neighborhood of Fort Leavenworth, in the
summer of 1844. But many would be too much intoxicated to mount their
horses, and must therefore remain till Sunday morning.


Mrs. Mary Austin Holley, the historian of Texas, was born at New
Haven, Connecticut, in 1786. On January 1, 1805, she was married to
the Rev. Horace Holley, who, in the fall of that year, became pastor
of a church at Greenfield Hill, Connecticut. Mrs. Holley, of course,
was in Boston with her husband from 1809 to 1818; and she accompanied
him to Lexington, Kentucky, when he accepted the presidency of
Transylvania University. Mrs. Holley was one of the few persons whom
the eccentric scientist, Rafinesque, set down as having been very kind
to him while he was connected with the University. She lived in
Lexington until the spring of 1827, when she went with her husband to
New Orleans. She wrote a poem, _On Leaving Kentucky_, the first stanza
of which is as follows:

      Farewell to the land in which broad rivers flow,
        And vast prairies bloom as in Eden's young day!
      Farewell to the land in which lofty trees grow,
        And the vine and the mistletoe's empire display.

She later embarked with her husband for New York, and it was her pen
that so vividly described his death on shipboard. After Dr. Holley's
death his widow returned to Lexington, Kentucky, and wrote the memoir
for Dr. Charles Caldwell's _Discourse on the Genius and Character of the
Rev. Horace Holley, LL. D._ (Boston, 1828). Mrs. Holley left Kentucky in
1831 and emigrated to Texas under the protection of her celebrated
kinsman, General Stephen Fuller Austin, a Transylvania University man,
and the founder of Texas. Her _Texas_ (Lexington, Kentucky, 1836), was
one of the first histories of that country ever published. Mrs. Holley
was a widely read woman, theology being her favorite study, and, like
her husband, she was a Unitarian. In person she was said to be a very
charming woman. Mrs. Holley spent the last several years of her life at
New Orleans, in which city she died on August 2, 1846.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Transylvanian_ (Lexington, January, 1829);
    Adams's _Dictionary of American Authors_ (Boston, 1905).


    [From _Texas_ (Lexington, Kentucky, 1836)]

Living in a wild country under circumstances requiring constant
exertion, forms the character to great and daring enterprise. Women thus
situated are known to perform exploits, which the effeminate men of
populous cities might tremble at. Hence there are more Dianas and
_Esther Stanhopes_ than one in Texas. It is not uncommon for ladies to
mount their mustangs and hunt with their husbands, and with them to camp
out for days on their excursions to the sea shore for fish and oysters.
All visiting is done on horseback, and they will go fifty miles to a
ball with their silk dresses, made perhaps in Philadelphia or New
Orleans, in their saddle-bags. Hardy, vigorous constitutions, free
spirits, and spontaneous gaiety are thus induced, and continued a rich
legacy to their children, who, it is to be hoped, will sufficiently
value the blessing not to squander it away, in their eager search for
the luxuries and refinements of polite life. Women have capacity for
greatness, but they require occasions to bring it out. They require,
perhaps, stronger motives than men--they have stronger barriers to break
through of indolence and habit--but, when roused, they are quick to
discern and unshrinking to act. _Lot was unfortunate in his wife._ Many
a wife in Texas has proved herself the better half, and many a widow's
heart has prompted her to noble daring.

Mrs. ---- left her home in Kentucky with her six sons, and _no other
jewels_. There was good land and room in Texas. Hither she came with
the first settlers, at a time when the Indians were often troublesome
by coming in large companies and encamping near an isolated farm,
demanding of its helpless proprietors, not then too well provided for,
whatever of provisions or other things struck their fancies. One of
these _foraging_ parties, not over nice in their demands, stationed
themselves in rather too near proximity to the dwelling of this
veteran lady. They were so well satisfied with their position, and
scoured the place so completely, that she ventured to remonstrate,
gently at first, then more vehemently. All would not do: the
_pic-nics_ would not budge an inch; and moreover threatened life if
she did not forbear from further expressions of impatience. The good
woman was _armed_. She buckled on her _breastplate_ of _courage_, if
not of _righteousness_, and with her children and women servants, all
her household around her, sent for the chief, and very boldly
expostulating with him, _commanded_ him to depart on the instant at
the peril of his tribe; or by a signal she would call in her whole
_people_, numerous and formidable, and exterminate his race. She was
no more troubled with the Indians. She lives comfortably with her
thriving family and thriving fortune, and with great credit to
herself, on the road between Brazoria and San Felipe, in the same
house now famed for its hospitality and comfort. It is the usual
stopping place for travellers on that route, who are not a little
entertained with the border stories and characteristic jests there
related, by casual companies meeting for the night and sharing the
same apartment. It was thus that the above incident, much more
exemplified, was drawn from the hostess herself. A volume of
_reminiscences_ thus collected, racy with the marvellous, would not be
_unapt_ to modern taste, and the modern science of book-making.


John Jordan Crittenden, a Kentucky statesman and orator of national
reputation, was born near Versailles, Kentucky, September 10, 1787. He
was graduated from the College of William and Mary, Williamsburg,
Virginia, studied law, and was admitted to the Frankfort bar.
Crittenden served in the War of 1812; and in 1816 he was a member of
the Kentucky legislature. In the following year he was elected United
States Senator from Kentucky, his party, the Whig, then being in power
in this State. From 1827 to 1829 Crittenden was United States
Attorney for the district of Kentucky; and in 1835 he was again sent
to the Senate, with Henry Clay as his colleague. President William
Henry Harrison made him his Attorney-General, in 1841, and he resigned
his seat in the Senate. When John Tyler succeeded to the presidency
six months later, on the death of Harrison, Crittenden withdrew from
the cabinet portfolio, and he was almost immediately returned to the
Senate by the legislature of Kentucky. He served until 1848, when he
was elected Governor of Kentucky. Governor Crittenden was the most
distinguished, if not indeed the ablest, chief executive this
Commonwealth has ever known. He resigned the governorship, in 1850, in
order to become President Fillmore's Attorney-General, which position
he held for three years. In 1855 Crittenden was for the fourth time
elected United States Senator from Kentucky. As the war between the
States approached, Senator Crittenden, though a Southerner, chose the
cause of the Union, lining up with the administration heart and soul.
In the beginning he did his utmost to prevent the war, and, failing,
he exerted his entire energies to aid Abraham Lincoln and the North to
prosecute it. In 1860 the Senator urged his famous Compromise,
providing for the reëstablishment of the old slave-line of 36' 30 N.,
and for the enforcement of the fugitive-slave laws, but it was never
moulded into law. The last two years of his life were spent as a
member of the lower House of Congress, where he continued his fight
for the supremacy of the Constitution. Senator Crittenden died near
Frankfort, Kentucky, July 26, 1863, thus surviving his greatest friend
and fellow patriot, Henry Clay, more than eleven years.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Life of John J. Crittenden_, by Mrs. Chapman
    Coleman (Philadelphia, 1871); _History of Kentucky_, by R. H.
    Collins (Covington, 1882).


    [From _The Life of John J. Crittenden_, edited by his daughter,
    Mrs. Chapman Coleman (Philadelphia, 1871)]

At the opening of the court this morning, Mr. Crittenden, the
Attorney-General of the United States, addressed the court as follows:

"Since its adjournment yesterday, the members of the bar and officers
of the court held a meeting and adopted resolutions expressive of
their high sense of the public and private worth of the Hon. John
McKinley, one of the justices of this court, and their deep regret at
his death. By the same meeting I was requested to present those
resolutions to the court, and to ask that they might be entered on its
records, and I now rise to perform that honored task.

"Besides the private grief which naturally attends it, the death of a
member of this court, which is the head of the great, essential, and
vital department of the government, must always be an event of public
interest and importance.

"I had the good fortune to be acquainted with Judge McKinley from my
earliest manhood. In the relations of private life he was frank,
hospitable, affectionate. In his manners he was simple and unaffected,
and his character was uniformly marked with manliness, integrity, and
honor. Elevation to the bench of the Supreme Court made no change in
him. His honors were borne meekly, without ostentation or presumption.

"He was a candid, impartial, and righteous judge. Shrinking from no
responsibility, he was fearless in the performance of his duty, seeking
only to do right, and fearing nothing but to do wrong. Death has now set
her seal to his character, making it unchangeable forever; and I think
it may be truly inscribed on his monument that as a private gentleman
and as a public magistrate he was without fear and without reproach.

"This occasion cannot but remind us of other afflicting losses which
have recently befallen us. The present, indeed, has been a sad year for
the profession of the law. In a few short months it has been bereaved of
its brightest and greatest ornaments. Clay, Webster, and Sergeant have
gone to their immortal rest in quick succession. We had scarcely
returned from the grave of one of them till we were summoned to the
funeral of another. Like bright stars they have sunk below the horizon,
and have left the land in widespread gloom. This hall that knew them so
well shall know them no more. Their wisdom has no utterance now, and the
voice of their eloquence shall be heard here no more forever.

"This hall itself seems as though it was sensible of its loss, and
even these marble pillars seem to sympathize as they stand around us
like so many majestic mourners.

"But we will have consolation in the remembrance of these illustrious
men. Their _names_ will remain to us and be like a light kindled in the
sky to shine upon us and to guide our course. We may hope, too, that the
memory of them and their great examples will create a virtuous emulation
which may raise up men worthy to be their successors in the service of
their country, its constitution, and its laws.

"For this digression, and these allusions to Clay, Webster, and
Sergeant, I hope the occasion may be considered as a sufficient excuse,
and I will not trespass by another word, except only to move that these
resolutions in relation to Judge McKinley, when they shall have been
read by the clerk, may be entered on the records of this court."


John Milton Harney, the first of the Kentucky poets to win and retain
a wide reputation, a man with the divine afflatus, whose whole body of
song is slender but of real worth, was born near Georgetown, Delaware,
March 9, 1789. He was the second son of Major Thomas Harney, of
Revolutionary War fame, and the elder brother of General William S.
Harney, a hero of Cerro Gordo. When John Milton Harney was but two
years old, his family emigrated to Tennessee, and later removed to
Louisiana. He studied medicine and settled at Bardstown, Kentucky. In
1814 Dr. Harney married a daughter of Judge John Rowan, the early
Kentucky statesman; and her death four years later was such a shock
to her husband that he was compelled to abandon his practice, and seek
solace in travel and new scenes. Dr. Harney spent some time in
England, and on his return to America he settled at Savannah, Georgia.
He over-exerted himself at a disastrous fire in Savannah, which
resulted in a violent fever and ended in breaking his health. He
returned to Bardstown, Kentucky, became a convert to Roman
Catholicism, and in that place he died, January 15, 1825, when but
thirty-five years of age. At the age of twenty-three years, Dr. Harney
wrote _Crystalina, a Fairy Tale_, in six cantos, but his extreme
sensitiveness caused him to hold it in manuscript for four years, or
until 1816, when it was issued anonymously at New York. This work was
highly praised by Rufus W. Griswold, John Neal, and other well-known
critics, but the unfavorable criticism far outweighed the favorable
criticism, so the author held, and he published nothing more in book
form; and he did all in his power to suppress the edition of
_Crystalina_. William Davis Gallagher, poet and critic of a later time
in the West, went over Dr. Harney's manuscripts and from them rescued
his masterpiece, the exquisite _Echo and the Lover_. This Gallagher
published in his _Western Literary Journal_ for 1837--the first form
in which the public saw it. No Western poem has had a wider audience
than the _Echo_. It has been parodied in Europe and America many
times, and is the finest expression of Dr. Harney's genius. It is to
be regretted that no comprehensive account of the poet's life and
literary labors has come down to posterity. As a poet and as a man his
merits were of the truest sort, but a handful of facts, a suppressed
book, a lyric or so, are all that have been brought to the attention
of the literary world.

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


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

      _Lover._ Echo! mysterious nymph, declare
               Of what you're made and what you are--
      _Echo._               "Air!"

      _Lover._ 'Mid airy cliffs, and places high,
               Sweet Echo! listening, love, you lie--
      _Echo._            "You lie!"

      _Lover._ You but resuscitate dead sounds--
               Hark! how my voice revives, resounds!
      _Echo._            "Zounds!"

      _Lover._ I'll question you before I go--
               Come, answer me more apropos!
      _Echo._           "Poh! poh!"

      _Lover._ Tell me, fair nymph, if e'er you saw
               So sweet a girl as Phoebe Shaw!
      _Echo._               "Pshaw!"

      _Lover._ Say, what will win that frisking coney
               Into the toils of matrimony!
      _Echo._               "Money!"

      _Lover._ Has Phoebe not a heavenly brow?
               Is it not white as pearl--as snow?
      _Echo._              "Ass, no!"

      _Lover._ Her eyes! Was ever such a pair?
               Are the stars brighter than they are?
      _Echo._             "They are!"

      _Lover._ Echo, you lie, but can't deceive me;
               Her eyes eclipse the stars, believe me--
      _Echo._             "Leave me!"

      _Lover._ But come, you saucy, pert romancer,
               Who is as fair as Phoebe? Answer.
      _Echo._             "Ann, sir!"


    [From the same]

      There is a strange, mysterious bird,
      Which few have seen, but all have heard:
      He sits upon a fallen tree,
      Through all the night, and thus sings he:

      Despising show, and empty noise,
      The gaudy fluttering thing he flies:
      And in the echoing vale by night
      Thus sings the pensive anchorite:

      Oh, had I but his voice and wings,
      I'd envy not a bird that sings;
      But gladly would I flit away,
      And join the wild nocturnal lay:

      The school-boy, tripping home in haste,
      Impatient of the night's repast,
      Would stop to hear my whistle shrill,
      And answer me with mimic skill:

      The rich man's scorn, the poor man's care,
      Folly in silk, and Wisdom bare,
      Virtue on foot, and Vice astride,
      No more should vex me while I cried:

      How blest!--Nor loneliness nor state,
      Nor fame, nor wealth, nor love, nor hate,
      Nor av'rice, nor ambition vain,
      Should e'er disturb my tranquil strain:


    [From _Crystalina_ (New York, 1816)]

      The shores with acclamations rung,
      As in the flood the playful damsels sprung:
      Upon their beauteous bodies, with delight,
      The billows leapt. Oh, 'twas a pleasant sight
      To see the waters dimple round, for joy,
      Climb their white necks, and on their bosoms toy:
      Like snowy swans they vex'd the sparkling tide,
      Till little rainbows danced on every side.
      Some swam, some floated, some on pearly feet
      Stood sidelong, smiling, exquisitely sweet.


George Robertson, the most widely quoted Kentucky jurist, and an able
writer, was born near Harrodsburg, Kentucky, November 18, 1790. He was
educated in the arts and in law at Transylvania University, and
entered upon the practice of his profession at Lancaster, Kentucky, in
1809. In 1816 Robertson was elected to Congress, where he remained for
two terms. He drew up the bill for the establishment of Arkansaw
territory; and he projected the system of cutting public lands into
small lots, selling them to actual settlers for one dollar and
twenty-five cents per acre. He declined another term in the House, as
well as the attorney-generalship of Kentucky, in order to devote his
whole attention to the law. Robertson was elected against his desire
to the Kentucky legislature, in 1822, and he was a member of that body
for the next five years. This was the time of the struggle between the
Old-Court and New-Court parties, which was one of the most bitter
political fights ever seen in Kentucky. Robertson consistently and
vigorously championed the cause of the Old-Court party, which finally
won. That this disgusted him with political life in any dress, is
shown by his subsequent declination of the governorship of Arkansaw,
and the Columbian and Peruvian missions. In 1828 he was elected an
associate justice of the Kentucky Court of Appeals, and, in the
following year, chief justice. This position was George Robertson's
heart's desire--he hated politics with a never-dying hatred, the law
and the bench being his earthly paradise. He was chief justice of
Kentucky for fourteen years, when he resigned to return to the active
practice of law. From 1834 to 1857 Judge Robertson was professor of
law in Transylvania University at Lexington. He died at Lexington, May
16, 1874, generally regarded as the ablest jurist Kentucky has
produced. He was also the author of four books: _Introductory Lecture
to the Transylvania Law Class_ (Lexington); _Biographical Sketch of
John Boyle_ (Frankfort, 1838); _Scrap-Book on Law and Politics, Men
and Times_ (Lexington, 1855), his best known book; and his very
interesting and well-written autobiography, entitled _An Outline of
the Life of George Robertson, written by Himself_ (Lexington, 1876),
to which his son contributed an introduction and appendix.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. The chief authority for the facts of Judge
    Robertson's life is, of course, his autobiography; Samuel M.
    Wilson's study in _Great American Lawyers_ (Philadelphia, 1908).


    [From _Scrap Book on Law and Politics, Men and Times_ (Lexington,
    Kentucky, 1855)]

Yet we have hopes that are immortal--interests that are
imperishable--principles that are indestructible. Encouraged by those
hopes, stimulated by those interests, and sustained by and sustaining
those principles, let us, come what may, be true to God, true to
ourselves, and faithful to our children, our country, and mankind. And
then, whenever or wherever it may be our doom to look, for the last
time, on earth, we may die justly proud of the title of "Kentuckian,"
and, with our expiring breath, may cordially exclaim--Kentucky, as she
was;--Kentucky, as she is;--Kentucky, as she will be;--Kentucky forever.


    [From _An Outline of the Life of George Robertson, written by
    Himself_ (Lexington, Kentucky, 1876)]

Yet, thus juvenile, poor, and proud, I ventured not only on the rather
hopeless prospects of professional life, but, on the 28th of November,
1809, when I was only ten days over nineteen years of age, I ventured
on the far more momentous contingencies of marriage, and, linking my
destinies with a wife only fifteen years and seven months old, we
embarked without freight or pilotage, on the untried sea of early
marriage. I had never made a cent, and had nothing but ordinary
clothes, a horse, an old servant, a few books, and the humble talents
with which God had blessed me. I borrowed thirteen dollars as an
outfit, and out of that fund I paid for my license and handed to my
groomsman, R. P. Letcher, five dollars for paying the parson, Randolph
Hall, father of Rev. Nathan H. Hall. Some days afterwards Letcher
rather slyly put into my hand a dollar, suggesting that he had saved
that much for me by paying the preacher only four dollars. This looked
to me as such minute parsimony as to excite my indignation, important
as was only one dollar then to me. And I manifested that feeling in a
manner both emphatic and censurious; to which Letcher replied that
four dollars was more than was then customary, and that Mr. Hall, when
he received it, expressed the warmest gratitude, and said that, old
as he was, he had never received so large a fee for solemnizing the
matrimonial rite! This reconciled me to the return of the dollar.

My wife and myself lived with her mother until the 9th of September,
1810, when we set up for ourselves in a small buckeye house with only
two rooms, built and first occupied by Judge [John] Boyle, and
respecting which I may here suggest this remarkable coincidence of
successive events:--That Boyle commenced housekeeping in that house,
and, while he occupied it, was elected to Congress; that Samuel McKee
commenced housekeeping in the same house, and succeeded Boyle in
Congress; that I commenced housekeeping in the same house, and
succeeded McKee in Congress; and that R. P. Letcher commenced
housekeeping in the same house, and, after an interval of two years,
succeeded me in Congress. I was unable to furnish it with a carpet,
and our only furniture consisted of two beds, one table, one bureau,
six split-bottomed chairs, and a small supply of table and kitchen
furniture, which I bought with a small gold watch. I had bought a bag
of flour, a bag of corn meal, a half barrel of salt, and two hams and
two middlings of bacon; and these, together with the milk of a small
cow given to my wife by her mother, and a few chickens and some
butter, constituted our entire outfit of provisions. But all our
supplies were stolen the night we commenced housekeeping. This was, at
that time, a heavy blow. I had no money; and, though I had good
credit, I resolved not to buy anything on credit. And that was one of
the best resolutions I ever made. It stimulated my industry and
economy, and soon secured to me peace and a comfortable sense of
independence. In adhering to my privative, but conservative resolve, I
often cut and carried on my shoulders wood from a neighboring forest.


    [From the same]

The classical reader remembers that, when almost all the Greeks,
captured with Nicias at Syracuse, had died in dungeons, a remnant of the
survivors saved themselves by the recitation of beautiful extracts from
Euripides. How potent was the shadowed genius of the immortal Athenian,
when it alone melted the icy hearts that nothing else could touch, and
broke the captive's chains, which justice, and prayers, and tears, had
in vain tried to unloose! And hence "the glory of Euripides had all
Greece for a monument." He too was elevated by the light of other minds.
It is said that he acquired a sublime inspiration whenever he read
Homer--whose Iliad and whose Odyssey--the one exhibiting the fatality of
strife among leading men, the other portraying the efficacy of
perseverance--have stamped his name on the roll of fame in letters of
sunshine, that will never fade away. No memorial tells where Troy once
stood--Delphi is now mute--the thunder of Olympus is hushed, and
Apollo's lyre no longer echoes along the banks of the Peneus--but the
fame of Homer still travels with the stars.


Shadrach Penn, one of the ablest of Kentucky journalists, was born at
Frederick, Maryland, in 1790. His family settled near Georgetown,
Kentucky, when he was a mere boy. Penn began his newspaper career at
Georgetown when he was but nineteen years of age; and he subsequently
served in the War of 1812. In 1818 Penn removed to Louisville and
established _The Public Advertiser_, which was a weekly for the first
few years of its history, then a semi-weekly, and, on April 4, 1826, a
final change was made "and the first daily newspaper west of the
Alleghanies was flung to the public." After the establishment of the
_Kentucky Gazette_, this marked the second most epoch-making event in
Kentucky journalism. Penn was an able editor, the very ablest in
Kentucky, and he was having things his own way in the West, advocating
Jacksonian Democracy. In 1828 President Jackson showed his appreciation
of Penn's services by offering him a place in his cabinet, which he
declined, but he did spend a winter at Washington as the President's
warm friend and adviser. Then, _mirabile dictu!_ the Whigs brought
George D. Prentice to Kentucky and, in 1830, he established the
_Louisville Journal_, and began a most bitter fight upon Penn's paper.
Penn fought back as best he could, but he was quite unequal for the
contest. For nearly twelve years the warfare was waged without either
editor asking quarter, and to the infinite amusement of the whole
country. In 1841 Penn ran up the white flag and went to St. Louis to
become editor of the _St. Louis Reporter_. Prentice bade him farewell in
the best of temper, and when he died at St. Louis, on June 15, 1846, the
old Whig's tribute to his memory was the finest one written.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _The Pioneer Press of Kentucky_, by W. H. Perrin
    (Louisville, 1888); _Memorial History of Louisville, Kentucky_, by
    J. Stoddard Johnston (Chicago, 1896).


    [From _The Public Advertiser_ (Louisville, September 10, 1830)]

This gentleman and Mr. Buxton, of Cincinnati, have issued proposals for
publishing a daily paper in Louisville, which is to be edited by Mr.
Prentice. Willing that the gentleman shall be known by the people whose
patronage he is seeking, we copy today from a Cincinnati paper his
account of the late elections in Kentucky. The production may be viewed
as a fair specimen of his "fine literature, his drollery, strong powers
of sarcasm," and, above all, his "poetical capacity." The respect and
attachment he displays toward Kentucky (to say nothing of the Jackson
party), must be exquisitely gratifying to the respectable portion of Mr.
Clay's friends in this city. To them we commend the letter of Mr.
Prentice as an erudite, chaste, and veritable production, worthy of the
"great editor" who is hereafter to figure as Mr. Clay's champion in the
West. We may, moreover, congratulate them in consequence of the fair
prospect before them; for with the aid of such an editor they cannot
fail to effect miraculous revolutions or revulsions in the political
world. The occupants of all our fish markets will be confirmed in their
devotion to the opposition beyond redemption.


William Orlando Butler, one of General Lew Wallace's favorite poets,
was born near Nicholasville, Kentucky, in 1791. He was the son of
Percival Butler, a noted Revolutionary soldier. He was graduated from
Transylvania University, Lexington, in 1812. Butler studied law for a
short time, but the War of 1812 called him and he enlisted. At the
River Raisin he was wounded and captured and carried through Canada to
Fort Niagara, but he was later exchanged. Butler was with General
Jackson at the battle of New Orleans, and his gallantry attracted the
attention of the general, who placed him upon his staff. In 1817
Butler returned to the law, married, and settled in the little river
town of Carrollton, Kentucky, on the Ohio, his home henceforth. In
July, 1821, the first draft of his famous poem, _The Boatman's Horn_
(then called _The Boat Horn_), was published in _The Western Review_,
a monthly magazine of Lexington, Kentucky. In describing his boyhood
days at Covington, Indiana, General Lew Wallace very charmingly writes
of his early love for the Wabash river, and for old Nebeker, the
lonesome ferryman, who "welcomed me for my company. On the farther
side, chained to a tree, he kept a long tin horn. A traveller, coming
to the bank and finding us on the townward side, blew to get our
attention ... when the voice of the big horn on the thither side
called to us--How it startled me! What music there was in it! What
haste I made to unship my oar!... And if since then I have been an
ardent fisherman, believing with my friend Maurice Thompson that

      "Halcyon prophecies come to pass
       In the haunts of the bream and bass;"

and if the song of Butler, the soldier-poet of Kentucky--

      "Oh, boatman, wind that horn again!
         For never did the joyous air
         Upon its lambent bosom bear
       So wild, so soft, so sweet a strain"--

is still a favorite of mine, with power to stir my pulses and return
me to a freak of childhood full of joyousness alloyed only with
thought of my mother's fears, the shrewd reader will know at once how
such tastes inured to me. And as swimming seems to have been one of my
natural accomplishments, I must have acquired it during my days at the
ferry." This is far and away the best background for Butler's poem
that has been done, and with it before the reader the famous poem must
mean more to him. The poem was subsequently published as the
title-poem in a small collection of his verse, entitled _The Boatman's
Horn and Other Poems_. From 1839 to 1843 Butler was a Kentucky
Congressman; and in 1844 the unsuccessful candidate for governor of
Kentucky. Upon his Mexican War record, General Butler was nominated by
the Democratic party for vice-president of the United States with
General Lewis Cass, of Michigan, as the head of the ticket, but they
were defeated by Martin Van Buren and Charles Francis Adams. In 1855
General Butler declined the governorship of the territory of Nebraska;
and in 1861 he went to Washington as a member of the famous "Peace
Congress." General Butler died at his home, Carrollton, Kentucky,
August 6, 1880, in the ninetieth year of his age. Though famous as a
soldier and politician, _The Boatman's Horn_ is the work that will
keep his name green for many years; and several of his other poems are
not to be utterly despised.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Biographical Sketch of Gen. William O. Butler_, by
    F. P. Blair, Senior (Washington, 1848), was reprinted in full in
    _The Kentucky Yeoman_ (Frankfort, June 15, 1848); _The Poets and
    Poetry of the West_, by W. T. Coggeshall (Columbus, Ohio, 1860);
    Lew Wallace's _Autobiography_ (New York, 1906).


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

      O, boatman! wind that horn again,
        For never did the list'ning air
        Upon its lambent bosom bear
      So wild, so soft, so sweet a strain!
      What though thy notes are sad and few,
        By every simple boatman blown,
      Yet is each pulse to nature true,
        And melody in every tone.

      How oft, in boyhood's joyous day,
        Unmindful of the lapsing hours,
      I've loitered on my homeward way
        By wild Ohio's bank of flowers;
      While some lone boatman from the deck
        Poured his soft numbers to the tide,
      As if to charm from storm and wreck
        The boat where all his fortunes ride!

      Delighted, Nature drank the sound,
      Enchanted, Echo bore it round
      In whispers soft and softer still,
      From hill to plain and plain to hill,
      Till e'en the thoughtless frolic boy,
      Elate with hope and wild with joy,
      Who gambolled by the river's side
      And sported with the fretting tide,
      Feels something new pervade his breast,
      Change his light steps, repress his jest,
      Bends o'er the flood his eager ear,
      To catch the sounds far off, yet dear--
      Drinks the sweet draught, but knows not why
      The tear of rapture fills his eye.
      And can he now, to manhood grown,
      Tell why those notes, simple and lone,
      As on the ravished ear they fell,
      Bind every sense in magic spell?

      There is a tide of feeling given
      To all on earth, its fountains, heaven,
      Beginning with the dewy flower,
      Just ope'd in Flora's vernal bower,
      Rising creation's orders through,
      With louder murmur, brighter hue--
      That tide is sympathy! its ebb and flow
      Give life its hue, its joy, and woe.

      Music, the master-spirit that can move
      Its waves to war, or lull them into love--
      Can cheer the sinking sailor 'mid the wave,
      And bid the warrior on! nor fear the grave,
      Inspire the fainting pilgrim on the road,
      And elevate his soul to claim his God.

      Then, boatman, wind that horn again!
      Though much of sorrow mark its strain,
      Yet are its notes to sorrow dear;
      What though they wake fond memory's tear?
      Tears are sad memory's sacred feast,
      And rapture oft her chosen guest.


Hew Ainslie, the foremost Scottish-Kentucky poet, was born at Bargery
Mains, Ayrshire, April 5, 1792. Ill-health cut short Ainslie's
education at the Ayr Academy, but some years later he went up to
Glasgow to study law. Law and Hew Ainslie were not congenial fellows,
and he shortly embarked upon the art of landscape gardening. He was
next a clerk in Edinburgh, and also amanuensis for Professor Dugald
Stewart. "Gradually the clouds of [Ainslie's] tobacco smoke began to
curl into seven letters which looked like America." He was thirty
years of age when he arrived at New York. He spent his first years in
New York and Indiana as a farmer, but he soon relinquished this work
and went, in 1829, to Louisville, Kentucky, where, three years later,
an Ohio river flood swept his property away. And two years after this
disastrous flood, fire destroyed his property in Indiana. Undismayed
by misfortune, Ainslie became a contractor and supervised the erection
of many large business structures in Louisville and other cities.
During all these years he was assiduously courting the Muse, and
making a great reputation for himself as a poet. Ainslie's first book,
_A Pilgrimage to the Land of Burns_ (Deptford, 1822), is the English
edition of his charming lyrics; and his _Scottish Songs, Ballads, and
Poems_ (New York, 1855), is the only American edition of his work. In
1864, forty-two years after his departure, Ainslie revisited the land
of his birth, where he was hailed as one of Scotland's finest singers
since Robert Burns. Kentucky was in the poet's blood, however, and a
year later he returned to his home at Louisville. His American friends
were not to be outdone by his home people, and they arranged a great
home-coming for him. In 1871, when the Scots of Louisville assembled
to celebrate the birthday of Burns, Ainslie, the toastmaster, arose
and smilingly confessed to having once kissed "Bonnie Jean," Burns's
widow. He died at Louisville, March 11, 1878. A comprehensive Scottish
edition of his _A Pilgrimage to the Land of Burns, and Poems_, was
issued in 1892. _The Ingle Side_, a little song of sixteen lines, is
Ainslie's masterpiece; but it was as a poet of the sea that he won his
great reputation. "As Lloyd Mifflin is America's greatest sonneteer,
so Hew Ainslie, the adopted Kentuckian, may perhaps be ranked as
America's most ardent singer of the sea."

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_ (New
    York, 1887, v. i); _Hew Ainslie_, by A. S. Mackenzie (Library of
    Southern Literature, Atlanta, Georgia, 1909, v. i).


    [From _A Pilgrimage to the Land of Burns, and Poems_ (Paisley,
    Scotland, 1892)]

      I left ye, Jeanie, blooming fair,
        'Mang the bourocks o' Bargeny;                        [bowers]
      I've found ye on the banks o' Ayr,
        But sair ye're altered, Jeanie.

      I left ye 'mang the woods sae green,
        In rustic weed befitting;
      I've found ye buskit like a queen,                     [attired]
        In painted chaumbers sitting.                       [chambers]

      I left ye like the wanton lamb
        That plays 'mang Hadyed's heather;
      I've found ye noo a sober dame,
        A wife and eke a mither.

      Ye're fairer, statelier, I can see,
        Ye're wiser, nae dou't, Jeanie;
      But ah! I'd rather met wi' thee
        'Mang the bourocks o' Bargeny.


    [From the same]

      Welcome, Edie, owre the sea,
      Welcome to this lan' an' me,
      Welcome from the warl' whaur we
        Hae whistled owre the lave o't.                         [rest]

      Come, gie your banes anither hitch,
      Up Hudson's stream, thro' Clinton's ditch,
      An' see our watlin meadows rich                     [cane-brake]
        Wi' corn an' a' the lave o't.             [all the rest of it]

      We've hizzie here baith swank and sweet          [maidens agile]
      An' birkies here that can stan' a heat               [young men]
      O' barley bree, or aqua vit                [brew; water of life]
        Syne whistle owre the lave o't.

      Gude kens, I want nae better luck               [Goodness knows]
      Than just to see ye, like a buck,
      Spanking the haughs o' auld Kentuck, [speeding over the meadows]
        An' whistling owre the lave o't.


    [From the same]

      It's rare to see the morning bleeze,                     [blaze]
        Like a bonfire frae the sea;
      It's fair to see the burnie kiss                     [streamlet]
        The lip o' the flowery lea;
      An' fine it is on green hillside,
        When hums the hinny bee;
      But rarer, fairer, finer far,
        Is the ingle side to me.

      Glens may be gilt wi' gowans rare                      [daisies]
        The birds may fill the tree,
      An' haughs hae a' the scented ware               [river meadows]
        That simmer's growth can gie;
      But the canty hearth where cronies meet,              [cheerful]
        An' the darling o' our e'e--
      That makes to us a warl' complete,
        Oh! the ingle side for me.


    [From the same]

      It's dowie in the hint o' hairst,         [dreary; end; harvest]
        At the wa'-gang o' the swallow,                   [away-going]
      When the wind blows cauld an' the burns grow bauld,       [bold]
        An' the wuds are hingin' yellow;
      But oh! it's dowier far to see
      The deid-set o' a shining e'e
      That darkens the weary warld on thee.

      There was muckle love atween us twa--
        Oh! twa could ne'er been fonder;
      An' the thing on yird was never made
        That could hae gart us sunder.
      But the way of Heaven's aboon a' ken,        [above all knowing]
      And we maun bear what it likes to sen'--                  [must]
      It's comfort, though, to weary men,
      That the warst o' this warld's waes maun en'.

      There's mony things that come and gae,
        Just kent and syne forgotten;
      The flow'rs that busk a bonnie brae                [deck; slope]
        Gin anither year lie rotten.
      But the last look o' that lovin' e'e,
      An' the dying grip she gied to me,
      They're settled like eternitie--
      O Mary! that I were with thee.


James Gillespie Birney, leader of the Conservative Abolitionists,
opposed to the radicalism of William Lloyd Garrison and all his ilk,
yet as earnest and sincere in his hatred of slavery, was born at
Danville, Kentucky, February 4, 1792. He was at Transylvania
University for a short time, then proceeded to Princeton, from which
institution he was graduated in 1810. In 1814 he became a lawyer in
his native town of Danville. In 1816 Birney was in the Kentucky
legislature; but two years later he removed to Alabama, settling upon
a plantation near Huntsville. The slavery question was appealing to
him more and more, and he finally became an agent for the American
Colonization Society. In the fall of 1833 Birney returned to Kentucky,
and went to Danville, where he freed his own slaves, and organized the
Kentucky Anti-Slavery Society. On January 1, 1836, the first issue of
his anti-slavery sheet, _The Philanthropist_, appeared from his
Cincinnati office. This soon became the Bible of the Conservative
Abolitionists, who opposed the drastic methods of Garrison and his
followers. In his speeches Birney denounced all violence and
fanaticism in the handling of the slavery problem, though he himself
received much violence at the hands of mobs and almost insane
partisans. His strong addresses through the North won him the
secretaryship of the American Anti-Slavery Society in 1837. In this
capacity he was soon recognized as the real leader of the
"Constitutional Abolitionists," who said they stood upon the
Constitution, fought against secession, and desired to wipe slavery
from the face of the American continent with decency and in order. In
1840 and again in 1844 Birney was the candidate of the Liberty party
for president of the United States. In the second campaign he
multiplied his very small vote received in the first race by nine. He
was thrown from his horse, in 1845, and the final twelve years of his
life were passed as an invalid. Birney died at Perth Amboy, New
Jersey, November 25, 1857. Besides numerous contributions to the
press, his principal writings are _Letter on Colonization_ (1834);
_Addresses and Speeches_ (1835); _American Churches the Bulwarks of
American Slavery_ (1840); _Speeches in England_(1840); and _An
Examination of the Decision of the_ _United States Supreme Court in
the Case of Strader et al. v. Graham_ (1850).

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _History of Kentucky_, by R. H. Collins (Covington,
    Kentucky, 1882); _James G. Birney and His Times_, by his son,
    William Birney (New York, 1890).


    [From _A Letter on the Political Obligations of Abolitionists_
    (Boston, 1839)]

Within the last twelve or eighteen months, it is believed--after
efforts, some successful, some not, had been begun to affect the
elections--and whilst the most indefatigable exertions were being made
by many of our influential, intelligent and liberal friends to
convince the great body of the abolitionists of the necessity--the
indispensable necessity--of breaking away from their old "_parties_,"
and uniting together in the use of the elective franchise for the
advancement of the cause of human freedom in which we were
engaged;--at this very time, and mainly, too, in that part of the
country where _political action_ had been most successful, and whence,
from its promise of soon being wholly triumphant, great encouragement
was derived by abolitionists everywhere, a sect has arisen in our
midst, whose members regard it as of religious obligation, in no case,
_to exercise the elective franchise_. This persuasion is part and
parcel of the tenet which it is believed they have embraced--that as
Christians have the precepts of the Gospel to direct, and the Spirit
of God to guide them, all human governments, as necessarily including
the idea of _force to secure obedience_, are not only superfluous, but
unlawful encroachments on the Divine government, as ascertained from
the sources above mentioned. Therefore, they refuse to do anything
voluntarily, by which they would be considered as acknowledging the
lawful existence of human governments. Denying to civil governments
the right to use force, they easily deduce that family governments
have no such right. Thus they would withhold from parents any power of
personal chastisement or restraint for the correction of their
children. They carry out to the full extent the "non-resistance"
theory. To the first ruffian who would demand our purse, or oust us
from our houses, they are to be unconditionally surrendered, unless
_moral suasion_ be found sufficient to induce him to decline from his
purpose. Our wives, our daughters, our sisters--our mothers we are to
see set upon by the most brutal, without any effort on our part,
except argument, to defend them--and even they themselves are
forbidden to use in defense of their purity such powers as God has
endowed them with for its protection, if resistance should be attended
with any injury or destruction to the assailant. In short, the
"No-Government" doctrines, as they are believed now to be embraced,
seem to strike at the root of the social structure; and tend--so far
as I am able to judge of their tendency--to throw society into entire
confusion, and to renew, under the sanction of religion, scenes of
anarchy and license that have generally heretofore been the offspring
of the rankest infidelity and irreligion.

It is but justice to say--judging from the moral deportment of the
adherents of the "No-Government" scheme--that so far from admitting,
what I have supposed to be, its legitimate consequences, they would
wholly deny and repudiate them.

These Sectaries have not as yet separated themselves from the American
[Anti-Slavery] society. Far from it. They insist that their views are
altogether harmonious with what is required for membership by the
constitution.... But is this really so? Is the difference between
those who seek to abolish any and every government of human
institution, and those who prefer _any_ government to a state of
things in which every one may do what seemeth good in his own eyes--is
the difference between them, I say, so small that they can act
harmoniously under the same organization? When, in obedience to the
principles of the society, I go to the polls and there call on my
neighbors to unite with me in electing to Congress men who are in
favor of Human Rights, I am met by a No-Government abolitionist
inculcating on them the doctrine that Congress has _no rightful
authority_ to act at all in the premises--how can we proceed together?
When I am animating my fellow-citizens to aid men in infusing into the
government salutary influences which shall put an end to all
oppression--my No-Government brother cries out at the top of his
lungs, _all_ governments are of the Devil(!) where is our harmony!
Our efficiency? We are in the condition of the two physicians called
in to the same patient--one of whom should be intent on applying the
proper remedies for expelling the disease from the body and thus
restoring and purifying its functions; the other equally intent on
utterly destroying body, members, functions and all. Could they be
agreed, and could they walk together? It seems to me not. And simply
because their aim, their objects are radically and essentially
different. So with the No-Government and the Pro-Government
abolitionists. One party is for sustaining and purifying governments,
and bringing them to a perfect conformity with the principles of the
Divine government--the other for destroying _all_ government.


Thomas Corwin, witty, delightful "Tom" Corwin, was born near Paris,
Kentucky, July 29, 1794. Before he was five years old, his father had
taken him into the wilds of Ohio, the Lebanon of today. "Tom" Corwin was
admitted to the bar, in 1818, after a slender education and a brief
reading of the law. His wit and eloquence made his reputation rapidly
and, in 1830, he found himself in the lower House of Congress. The whole
country laughed at his inimitable speeches; and that he had a strong
hold on the Ohio Whigs is certain as they returned him to the House for
ten years. In 1840 Corwin was elected governor of Ohio, after a
brilliant and successful state-wide campaign. He was incomparable on the
stump, and he rode into the gubernatorial chair on an overwhelming Whig
tide. Two years later, however, his former opponent, Wilson Shannon,
defeated him for reëlection. In 1844 Corwin was sent to the United
States Senate, in which body he renewed his House reputation as an
orator. On the eve of the Mexican War, he made his memorable anti-war
speech, which practically ruined his future political career, as the
country desired to fight the hated men on the border. But a more bravely
beautiful speech was never made. President Fillmore chose Corwin his
Secretary of the Treasury, in 1850. At the expiration of Fillmore's
term, Corwin returned to the practice of law at Lebanon, Ohio. In 1858
he reëntered public life, serving a term in Congress; and, in 1861,
President Lincoln appointed him minister to Mexico. Corwin remained in
Mexico until the coming of Maximilian, when he returned to Washington to
practice law. In the capital of the country he died, December 18, 1865.
"Tom" Corwin was one of the most captivating of American orators, and
most lovable of men.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Life and Speeches of Thomas Corwin_, by Isaac
    Strohn (Dayton, Ohio, 1859); _The Library of Oratory_ (New York,
    1902, v. vi).


    [From _Life and Speeches of Thomas Corwin_, by Isaac Strohn
    (Dayton, Ohio, 1859)]

Mr. President, this uneasy desire to augment our territory has depraved
the moral sense and blunted the otherwise keen sagacity of our people.
What has been the fate of all nations who have acted upon the idea that
they must advance! Our young orators cherish this notion with a fervid
but fatally mistaken zeal. They call it by the mysterious name of
"destiny." "Our destiny," they say, is "onward," and hence they argue,
with ready sophistry, the propriety of seizing upon any territory and
any people that may lie in the way of our "fated" advance. Recently
these progressives have grown classical; some assiduous student of
antiquities has helped them to a patron saint. They have wandered back
into the desolated Pantheon, and there, among the polytheistic relics of
that "pale mother of dead empires," they have found a god whom these
Romans, centuries gone by, baptized "Terminus."

Sir, I have heard much and read somewhat of this gentleman Terminus.
Alexander, of whom I have spoken, was a devotee of this divinity. We
have seen the end of him and his empire. It was said to be an
attribute of this god that he must always advance and never recede. So
both republican and imperial Rome believed. It was, as they say, their
destiny. And for a while it did seem to be even so. Roman Terminus did
advance. Under the eagles of Rome he was carried from his home on the
Tiber to the farthest East on the one hand, and to the far West, among
the then barbarous tribes of western Europe, on the other.

But at length the time came when retributive justice had become "a
destiny." The despised Gaul calls out the contemned Goth, and Attila,
with his Huns answers back the battle-shout to both. The "blue-eyed
nations of the North," in succession or united, pour forth their
countless hosts of warriors upon Rome and Rome's always-advancing god
Terminus. And now the battle-axe of the barbarian strikes down the
conquering eagle of Rome. Terminus at last recedes, slowly at first, but
finally he is driven to Rome, and from Rome to Byzantium. Whoever would
know the further fate of this Roman deity, so recently taken under the
patronage of American democracy, may find ample gratification of his
curiosity in the luminous pages of Gibbon's _Decline and Fall_.

Such will find that Rome thought as you now think, that it was her
destiny to conquer provinces and nations, and no doubt she sometimes
said, as you say, "I will conquer a peace," and where now is she, the
mistress of the world? The spider weaves his web in her palaces, the
owl sings his watch-song in her towers. Teutonic power now lords it
over the servile remnant, the miserable memento of old and once
omnipotent Rome. Sad, very sad, are the lessons which time has written
for us. Through and in them all I see nothing but the inflexible
execution of that old law which ordains as eternal that cardinal rule,
"Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's goods, nor anything which is
his." Since I have lately heard so much about the dismemberment of
Mexico I have looked back to see how, in the course of events, which
some call "Providence," it has fared with other nations who engaged in
this work of dismemberment. I see that in the latter half of the
eighteenth century three powerful nations, Russia, Austria, and
Prussia, united in the dismemberment of Poland. They said, too, as
you say, "It is our destiny." They "wanted room." Doubtless each of
these thought, with his share of Poland, his power was too strong ever
to fear invasion, or even insult. One had his California, another his
New Mexico, and the third his Vera Cruz. Did they remain untouched and
incapable of harm? Alas! no--far, very far, from it. Retributive
justice must fulfill its destiny, too.


Henry Bidleman Bascom, the distinguished Methodist preacher and orator,
was born at Hancock, New York, May 27, 1796. He received a scanty
education, and when but eighteen years of age he was licensed to preach
by the Ohio conference of the Methodist church. He was a circuit-rider,
traveling more than four hundred miles upon horseback his first year in
the work, and receiving the princely salary of $12.10 for his year's
services. Bascom was too florid for the Ohio brethren, and they caused
him to be transferred to Tennessee and Kentucky circuits. In this work
he won a wide reputation as a pulpit orator. In 1823 Henry Clay had
Bascom appointed chaplain of the House of Representatives, but his long
sermons did not please the members, and he was not a great success in
Washington. Bascom was elected as the first president of Madison
College, Uniontown, Pennsylvania, in 1827, but two years later he became
an agent for the American Colonization Society. From 1831 to 1841 he was
professor of moral science and belles-lettres in Augusta College,
Augusta, Kentucky, the first Methodist college in the world. The
Methodist church having taken over Transylvania University, at
Lexington, Dr. Bascom was elected president of that institution in 1842.
He revived the ancient seat of learning to a wonderful degree, becoming
another Horace Holley, but the rebirth proved ephemeral. In 1844
President Bascom protested against the action of the General Conference
of the Methodist church concerning slavery, and, in the Louisville
conference of 1845, he took a most prominent part, winning for himself
the title of "father of the Methodist Episcopal Church, South." Dr.
Bascom was editor of the _Southern Methodist Review_ for several years;
and in 1848 he resigned the presidency of Transylvania University, only
to be elected a bishop in the branch of the Methodist church he had
helped to establish. He was ordained as bishop in May, 1850, and almost
immediately set out for Missouri, where he held his first and only
conference. On his return to Kentucky he was in very poor health; and he
died at Louisville, September 8, 1850. Bishop Bascom was the greatest
Methodist preacher Kentucky can claim; and he was also an able writer.
His works include _Sermons from the Pulpit_; _Lectures on Infidelity_;
_Lectures and Essays on Moral and Mental Science_; and _Methodism and
Slavery_. In 1910 a portrait in oils of Bishop Bascom was painted by
Paul Sawyier, the Kentucky artist, for Transylvania University.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Life of Henry Bidleman Bascom, D.D., LL.D._, by M.
    M. Henkle (Nashville, Tennessee, 1856); _The Transylvanian_
    (Lexington, Kentucky, June, 1910).


    [From _The Life of Henry Bidleman Bascom, D. D., LL. D._, by Rev.
    M. M. Henkle (Nashville, Tennessee, 1856)]

I have seen, surveyed, and communed with the whole!--and awed and
bewildered, as if enchanted before the revealment of a mystery, I
attempt to write. You ask me, in your last, for some detailed,
veritable account of the Falls, and I should be glad to gratify you;
but how shall I essay to paint a scene that so utterly baffles all
conception, and renders worse than fruitless every attempt at
description? In five minutes after my arrival, on the evening of the
fifth, I descended the winding-path from the "Pavillion," on the
Canadian side, and, for the first time in my life, saw this unequaled
cascade from "Table Rock;" the whole indescribable scene, in bold
outline, bursting on my view. I had heard and read much, and imagined
more of what was before me. I was perfectly familiar with the
often-told, the far-traveled story of what I saw; but the overpowering
_reality_ on which I was gazing, motionless as the rock on which I
stood, deprived me of recollection, annihilated all curiosity; and
with emotions of sublimity till now unfelt, and all unearthly, the
involuntary exclamation escaped me, "_God of Grandeur! what a scene!_"

But the majesty of the sight, and the interest of the moment, how
depict them? The huge amplitude of water, tumbling in foam above, and
dashing on, arched and pillared as it glides, until it reaches the
precipice of the _chute_, and then, in one vast column, bounding with
maddening roar and rush, into the depths beneath, presents a spectacle
so unutterably appalling, that language falters; words are no longer
signs, and I despair giving you any idea of what I saw and felt. Yet
this is not all. The eye and mind necessarily take in other objects,
as parts of the grand panorama, forests, cliffs, and islands; banks,
foam, and spray; wood, rock, and precipice; dimmed with the rising fog
and mist, and obscurely gilded by the softening tints of the rainbow.
These all belong to the picture; and the effect of the whole is
immeasurably heightened by the noise of the cataract, now reminding
you of the reverberations of the heavens in a tempest, and then of the
eternal roar of ocean, when angered by the winds!

The concave bed of rock, from which the water falls some two hundred
feet into the almost boundless reservoir beneath, is the section of a
circle, which, at first sight, from "Table Rock," presents something
like the geometrical curve of the rainbow; and the wonders of the
grand "crescent," thus advantageously thrown upon the eye in
combination, and the appropriate sensations and conceptions heightened
by the crash and boom of the waters, render the sight more
surpassingly sublime, than anything I have ever looked upon, or
conceived of. As it regards my thoughts and feelings at the time, I
can help you to no conception of their character. Overwhelming
astonishment was the only bond between thought and thought; and wild,
vague, and boundless were the associations of the hour! Before me, the
strength and fullness of the congregated "lakes of the north," were
enthroned and concentrated within a circumference embraced by a single
glance of the eye! Here I saw, rolling and dashing, at the rate of
_twenty-five hundred millions of tons per day_, nearly one half of all
the fresh water upon the surface of the globe! On the American side, I
beheld a vast deluge, nine hundred feet in breadth, with a fall of one
hundred and eighty or ninety, met, fifty feet above the level of the
gulf, by a huge projection of rock, which seems to break the descent
and continuity of the flood, only to increase its fierce and
overwhelming bound. And turning to the "crescent," I saw the mingled
rush of foam and tide, dashing with fearful strife and desperate
emulation--four hundred yards of the sheet rough and sparry, and the
remaining three hundred a deep sealike mass of living green--rolling
and heaving like a sheet of emerald. Even imagination failed me, and I
could think of nothing but ocean let loose from his bed, and seeking a
deeper gulf below! The fury of the water, at the termination of its
fall, combined with the columned strength of the cataract, and the
deafening thunder of the flood, are at once inconceivable and
indescribable. No imagination, however creative, can correspond with
the grandeur of the reality.

I have already mentioned, and it is important that you keep it in
view, the ledge of rock, the verge of the cataract, rising like a wall
of equal height, and extending in semicircular form across the whole
bed of the river, a distance of more than two thousand feet; and the
impetuous flood, conforming to this arrangement, in making its plunge,
with mountain weight, into the great horseshoe basin beneath, exhibits
a spectacle of the sublime, in geographical scenery, without, perhaps,
a parallel in nature. As I leaned from "Table Rock," and cast my eye
downward upon the billowy turbulence of the angry depth, where the
waters were tossing and whirling, coiling and springing, with the
energy of an earthquake, and a rapidity that almost mocked my vision,
I found the scene sufficient to appal a sterner spirit than mine; and
I was glad to turn away and relieve my mind by a sight of the
surrounding scenery; bays, islands, shores, and forests, everywhere
receding in due perspective. The rainbows of the "crescent" and
American side, which are only visible from the western bank of the
Niagara, and in the afternoon, seem to diminish somewhat from the
awfulness of the scene, and to give it an aspect of rich and mellow
grandeur, not unlike the bow of promise, throwing its assuring
radiance over the retiring waters of the deluge.


James Turner Morehead, Kentucky's most scholarly governor, was born
near Shepherdsville, Kentucky, May 24, 1797. He was prepared for
Transylvania University, Lexington, and there he studied from 1813 to
1815. He studied law under John J. Crittenden and, in 1818, entered
upon the practice at Bowling Green, Kentucky. Ten years later Morehead
was in the Kentucky legislature, and he was returned for several
sessions. In 1832 he was a delegate to the Baltimore convention which
nominated Henry Clay for the presidency; and while in Baltimore he
himself was nominated for lieutenant-governor of Kentucky, with John
Breathitt for governor. They were elected in August, 1832, but the
Governor died on February 21, 1834, and Morehead succeeded to his
office on the following day. He served until September, 1836. Upon the
expiration of his term, Governor Morehead resumed the practice of law
at Frankfort. He was elected United States Senator from Kentucky, in
1841, and he served until 1847. Senator Morehead was an attractive
public speaker, and when it was known in Washington that he was to
make a speech the galleries were usually well filled. After the
expiration of his term, he practiced law at Covington, Kentucky.
Senator Morehead had the most extensive collection of books and
manuscripts upon the history of Kentucky and the West of any man of
his day and generation. After his death, which occurred at Covington,
Kentucky, December 28, 1854, his library was purchased by the Young
Men's Mercantile Library Association of Cincinnati. Morehead's
_Address in Commemoration of the First Settlement of Kentucky, at
Boonesborough_ (Frankfort, 1840, 181 pp.), rescued and preserved
numerous documents of great historical importance. In the preparation
of his great _History of the United States_, George Bancroft is said
to have relied upon this famous address of Morehead for much of his
information concerning the early history of the West. Morehead also
published _Practice and Proceedings at Law in Kentucky_ (1846). The
fine face of this scholar and statesman is one of Matthew Harris
Jouett's most luminous canvasses.[7]

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. _History of Kentucky_, by R. H. Collins (Covington,
    Kentucky, 1882); Appletons' _Cyclopaedia of American Biography_
    (New York, 1888, v. iv); _National Cyclopaedia of American
    Biography_ (New York, 1906, v. xiii).


    [From _An Address in Commemoration of the First Settlement of
    Kentucky_ (Frankfort, Kentucky, 1840)]

The first successful attempt to explore the Kentucky country was made by
John Finley, a backwoodsman of North Carolina, in 1767. He was attended
by a few companions, as adventurous as himself, whose names have escaped
the notice of history. They were evidently a party of hunters, and were
prompted to the bold and hazardous undertaking, for the purpose of
indulging in their favorite pursuits. Of Finley and his comrades, and of
the course and extent of their journey, little is now known. That they
were of the pure blood, and endowed with the genuine qualities, of the
pioneers, is manifestly undeniable. That they passed over the
Cumberland, and through the intermediate country to the Kentucky river,
and penetrated the beautiful valley of the Elkhorn, there are no
sufficient reasons to doubt. It is enough, however, to embalm their
memory in our hearts, and to connect their names with the imperishable
memorials of our early history, that they were the first adventurers
that plunged into the dark and enchanted wilderness of Kentucky--that of
all their contemporaries they saw her first--and saw her in the pride of
her virgin beauty--at the dawn of summer--in the fullness of her
vegetation--her soil, instinct with fertility, covered with the most
luxuriant verdure--the air perfumed with the fragrance of flowers, and
her tall forests looming in all their primeval magnificence.

How long Finley lived, or where he died, the silence of history does not
enable us to know. That his remains are now mingled with the soil that
he discovered, there is some reason to hope, for he conducted Boone to
Kentucky in 1769--and there the curtain drops upon him forever. It is
fit it should be raised. It is fit that justice, late and tardy that it
be, should be done to the memory of the first of the pioneers. And what
can be more appropriate, than that the first movement should be made for
the performance of such a duty, on the day of the commemoration of the
discovery and settlement of the Commonwealth?


[7] Governor Morehead's widow, Mrs. L. M. Morehead, who died several
years ago, published a slender volume of verse, _Christmas Is Coming
and Other Poems for the "House Mother" and her Darlings_
(Philadelphia, 1871).


Lewis Collins, the Kentucky historian, was born near Lexington,
Kentucky, on Christmas Day, 1797. When a boy he entered the printing
office of Joel R. Lyle, editor of _The Paris Citizen_, where he worked
for more than a year as a printer. He removed to Mason county,
Kentucky, to become associate editor of the _Washington Union_. On
November 1, 1820, Lewis Collins purchased the _Maysville Eagle_, which
had been established six years prior to his purchase, and he made it
one of the best country newspapers ever published in Kentucky. In 1823
he was married to a sister of Benjamin O. Peers, afterwards president
of Transylvania University. Collins was editor of the _Eagle_ for
twenty-seven years, when he retired in order to give his entire
attention to his _Historical Sketches of Kentucky_ (Maysville, 1847).
This was the first illustrated history of Kentucky, and easily the
most comprehensive that had appeared. The histories of Marshall and
Butler began at the beginning, but both concluded with the year of
1812, while Collins brought his work down to 1844. His was a mine of
historic lore, arranged in departments, and not altogether readable as
a continuous narrative. It was the foundation upon which his son,
Richard H. Collins, was later to build the most magnificent state
history ever published. Lewis Collins was presiding judge of the Mason
county court from 1851 to 1854. He was a just judge, a painstaking
chronicler of his people's past, and a fine type of Christian citizen.
Judge Collins died at Lexington, Kentucky, January 29, 1870. The
Kentucky legislature passed an appropriate resolution in which his
life was commended and his death deplored.

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


    [From _Historical Sketches of Kentucky_ (Maysville and Cincinnati,

The late H. P. Peers, of the city of Maysville, laid the foundation
for the work which is now presented to the reading community. Mr.
Peers designed it to be simply a small _Gazetteer_ of the State; and
had collected, and partially arranged for publication, the major part
of the materials, comprising a description of the towns and counties.
Upon his decease, the materials passed into the hands of the Author,
who determined to remodel them, and make such additions as would give
permanency and increased value to the work. He has devoted much labor
to this object; but circumstances having rendered its publication
necessary at an earlier day than was contemplated, some errors may
have escaped, which more time, and a fuller investigation, would have
enabled him to detect.

Serious obstacles have been encountered in the preparation of the
Biographical Sketches. Many of those which appear in the work, were
prepared from the personal recollections of the Author; while others
have been omitted because he did not know to whom he could apply for
them, or having applied, and in some instances repeatedly, failed in
procuring them. This is his apology for the non-appearance of many
names in that department which are entitled to a distinguished place
in the annals of Kentucky.

In the preparation of the work, one design of the Author has been to
preserve, in a durable form, those rich fragments of local and
personal history, many of which exist, at present, only in the
ephemeral form of oral tradition, or are treasured up among the
recollections of the aged actors in the stirring scenes, the memory of
which is thus perpetuated. These venerable witnesses from a former
age, are rapidly passing away from our midst, and with them will be
buried the knowledge of much that is most interesting in the primitive
history of the commonwealth. It is from sources such as we have
mentioned, that the materials for the future historian are to be
drawn; and, like the scattered leaves of the Sybil, these frail
mementos of the past should be gathered up and preserved with
religious veneration. If the Author shall have succeeded, in thus
redeeming from oblivion any considerable or important portion of the
early history of the State, his design will be fully accomplished, and
his labor amply rewarded.

Of all the members of this great republican confederacy, there is none
whose history is more rich in the variety, quality, and interest of
its materials. The poet, the warrior, and the statesman, can each find
subjects, the contemplation of which will instruct him in his art; and
to the general reader, it would, perhaps, be impossible to present a
field of more varied and attractive interest.


Mrs. Julia Ann (Hieronymous) Tevis, author of a delightful
autobiography, was born near Winchester, Kentucky, December 5, 1799.
When but seven years old her parents removed to Virginia, settling at
Winchester, and at the female academy of the town her education was
begun. In 1813 Miss Hieronymous's family removed to Georgetown, D. C.,
where her education was continued under private teachers--"a
considerable portion of my time was devoted to music, drawing, and
French, with various kinds of embroidery." Two years later she was
placed in the finishing school of an English woman in Washington where
French and music continued to be her major subjects. Miss Hieronymous
completed her training at the school of Mrs. Stone in Washington when
nineteen years of age, and returned to her home to read and study. She
spent many hours at the Capital meeting and hearing most of the famous
men of her time. At the age of twenty years she became a school-ma'am at
Wytheville, Virginia, and the following sixty years of her life were
devoted to teaching. She later taught at Abingdon, Virginia, where she
united with the Methodist church, and where she was married on March 9,
1824, to Rev. John Tevis (1792-1861), a Kentucky Methodist preacher.
Mrs. Tevis desired to continue teaching, and upon her removal to her
husband's home at Shelbyville, Kentucky, she opened Science Hill
Academy. This famous old institution for the instruction of young
women--founded March 25, 1825, and the second Protestant female academy
established in the Mississippi Valley--has continued without
interruption until the present time. The remaining years of the
founder's life were filled with the school, her girls, her children, her
cares and perplexities. In 1875 the semi-centennial of the founding of
Science Hill was celebrated in a fitting manner. Some time later Mrs.
Tevis closed the manuscripts of her autobiography, entitled _Sixty Years
in a School-Room_ (Cincinnati, 1878), a large work of nearly five
hundred pages, in which the details of her splendid service are ably set
forth. Mrs. Tevis died at Shelbyville, Kentucky, April 21, 1880. Her
pupils erected a fitting monument to her memory.

    BIBLIOGRAPHY. The chief authority for the facts of Mrs. Tevis's life
    is, of course, her autobiography; Annual Catalogues of Science Hill.


    [From _Sixty Years in a School-Room_ (Cincinnati, 1878)]

For many years we kept up the custom of crowning a "Rose Queen" in
May, and enjoying a holiday in the woods. Happily for the girls, I
greeted the return of the festival day with a gladness almost equal to
theirs, for I retained enough of the freshness of youth in my heart to
enable me to participate with zest in the joys of childhood.

"Once upon a time," after a long severe Winter, followed by a Spring
of unusual beauty, it was determined to celebrate the day with great
rejoicings. The girls were wild with delight at the prospect of a
whole day's release from slates, books, and blackboards--a charming
episode in the drudgery of their everyday life. Ah, happy children! to
whom every glimpse of nature is beautiful, and every blade of grass a
marvel! Give them ever so small a bit of green meadow checkered with
sunshine and shade upon which to revel among buttercups and daisies,
and "little they'll reck" how the world goes on.

There was but little opportunity for canvassing or intrigue in the
election of Queen. Fanny Henning was chosen by acclamation as best
fitted to grace the regal authority. Fanny possessed a mind and a
character as transparent as a clear brook. Her ingenuous face, her
self-forgetting and amiable bearing towards her companions made her the
loved and cherished of them all. She also held a distinguished place in
the estimation of her teachers for superior excellence, dutiful
affection, and modest deportment. Thus it was universally conceded that
"Fair-handed Spring" might well resign to Fanny her sovereignty for one
day over the brilliant treasures of garden, glade, and forest, awakened
into life and brightened into beauty by her magic wand.

The rosy hours followed each other in quick succession until within a
few days of the anticipated time, when lo! the "queen elect" broke out
with measles. The whole school was filled with dismay, bitter tears of
disappointment were shed by some; others predicted that she would be
well enough to go through the ceremony. Fanny, uniting in their
hopeful aspirations, prepared her coronation speech and rehearsed it
to perfection, for, though confined to her room, she was not really
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

"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

"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

"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 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).


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

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 Galled, 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.


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).


    [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 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).


    [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, 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).


    [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 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).


    [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


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).


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

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 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).


    [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.


    [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.


    [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 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).


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

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

"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 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).


    [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 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).


    [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, "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.


    [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.


    [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.


    [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.


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).


    [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
      And showed how true the heart was that glowed and beat within.

      Yes! Nick has beaten the _measther_,--'twas a sight beneath the
      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
      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
      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.


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).


    [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.


    [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!


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).


    [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
  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._


    [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, 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 _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 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).


    [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, 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).


    [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 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

    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).


    [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

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 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).


    [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 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).


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


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 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,

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


    [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.


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).


    [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 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).


    [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 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).


    [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.


    [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.


    [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.


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


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).


    [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!


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).


    [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

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, 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).


    [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.


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).


    [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

"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.


(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!
        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--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!


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).


    [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!


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).


    [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
      We shall meet upon the Level there when the gates of death are
      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
      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
      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.


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).


    [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.


    [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 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).


    [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

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

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. 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.


    [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, 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.


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

      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.


    [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.


    [From _The Southern Bivouac_ (Louisville, Kentucky, January,

      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.


    [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.


    [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."


[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.


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).


    [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 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.


    [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, 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.


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

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!"


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).


    [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 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).


    [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.


[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 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).


    [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


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).


    [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 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.


    [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

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."


    [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 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.


    [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!


      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!


      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!


      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 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,


    [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 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).


    [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.


    [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.


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


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).


    [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!


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).


    [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
      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
      Such sunny tracks that they guide me yet through a retrospect of
      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
      No leaves of the autumn have fallen there, and never a flake of
      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
      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
      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.


    [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.


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).


    [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.


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).


    [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

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 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.


    [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.


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


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 _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 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).


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

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.


    [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.


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


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).


    [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, 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).


    [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.


[17] Copyright, 1909, by the Author.


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).


    [From _First Explorations of Kentucky_ (Louisville, Kentucky,

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.


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


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).


    [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."


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


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,


    [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!


    [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.


    [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.


    [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.


[20] Copyright, 1892, by the Author.


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).



    [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?


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

      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!


    [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!


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

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


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_.


    [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.


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


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).


    [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.


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


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.


    [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
      "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
      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

      "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

      "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
      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
      There was where stem Sherman rallied, and where Hurlbut's heroes
      Lower down, where Wallace charged them, and kept charging till he

      "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

      "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
      'I'm a friend,' I said, 'if you are.' 'Then advance, sir, to the

      "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
      '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
      "_Bless you!_"--gasped the old, gray Sergeant, and he lay and
                said no more!


[25] Canard.


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.


    [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."


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).


    [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, 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).


    [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.


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


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).


    [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 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).


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

      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.


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


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.


    [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 Tears' 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.


    [From _The Autobiography of Nathaniel Southgate Shaler_ (Boston,

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.


    [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.


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

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


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).


    [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.


[30] Copyright, 1911, by the Author.


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).


    [From _The Prehistoric Men of Kentucky_ (Louisville, Kentucky,

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.


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


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).


    [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.


    [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.


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).


    [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._


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).


    [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'
      '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."


[32] Copyright, 1908, by B. W. Dodge and Company.


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).


    [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.


[33] Copyright, 1892, by Brentano's.


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).


(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!


    [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, 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).


    [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

"'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

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."


"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.


[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.

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