DOUGLAS'S HARDSHIPS IN YOUTH—HE IS ADMITTED TO THE BAR—JACKSON'S TRIUMPH OVER ADAMS IN 1828—DOUGLAS ENTERS THE ARENA OF DEBATE AT THE AGE OF 22—BECOMES ATTORNEY-GENERAL—CHOSEN TO THE TENTH GENERAL ASSEMBLY OF ILLINOIS—BECOMES SECRETARY OF STATE IN ILLINOIS —DEFENDS JACKSON'S DECLARATION OF MARTIAL LAW AT NEW ORLEANS— TAKES PART IN THE OREGON BOUNDARY DEBATE—ADVOCATES THE ANNEXATION OF TEXAS—IS ELECTED TO THE SENATE—ADVOCATES THE ADMISSION OF CALIFORNIA AS A FREE STATE—HE PROCURES A LAND GRANT TO THE ILLINOIS CENTRAL RAILROAD COMPANY—IN DEBATING THE KANSAS-NEBRASKA BILL HE CONTENDS FOR POPULAR SOVEREIGNTY—ORIGIN OF THE REPUBLICAN PARTY —DOUGLAS LOSES THE FRIENDSHIP OF THE SOUTH—DEBATES BETWEEN DOUGLAS AND LINCOLN—LINCOLN'S EARLY HISTORY—DOUGLAS'S REASONS FOR ADVOCATING POPULAR SOVEREIGNTY—LINCOLN'S REPLY—THE SLAVERY QUESTION —THE DEMOCRATIC PARTY RENT ASUNDER—CONSEQUENT FAILURE OF DOUGLAS TO WIN THE PRESIDENCY—HIS DEATH. (continued 4)

In such an hour how cheerless and comfortless these words:

"Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the heights. We cry aloud, and the only answer is the echo of our wailing cry.

"Every life, no matter if its every hour is rich with love, and every moment jewelled with a joy, will at its close become a tragedy as sad and deep and dark as can be woven of the warp and woof of mystery and death."

And yet in those other words, "But in the night of death, hope sees a star, and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing," and, "while on his forehead fell the golden dawning of a grander day," there is a yearning for "the touch of a vanished hand," and a hope that no philosophy could dispel of a reunion sometime and somewhere with the loved and lost.

Two decades later, again "the veiled shadow stole upon the scene," and the sublime mystery of life and death was revealed. The awful question, "If a man die shall he live again?" was answered, and to the great agnostic all was known.

XVII A CAMP-MEETING ORATOR

PETER CARTWRIGHT, METHODIST PREACHER—HIS FEARLESSNESS AND ENERGY— HIS OLD-FASHIONED ORTHODOXY—HOW HE CONVERTED A PROFANE SWEARER —HIS ATTENDANCE AT A BALL—OLD-TIME CAMP-MEETINGS—CARTWRIGHT'S AVERSION TO OTHER SECTS—CONVERSION OF A DESPERADO INTO A PENITENT —CARTWRIGHT MR. LINCOLN'S COMPETITOR FOR REPRESENTATIVE—HIS SPEECH AT A DEMOCRATIC STATE CONVENTION.

The Rev. Peter Cartwright was a noted Methodist preacher of pioneer days in Central Illinois. Once seen, he was a man never to be forgotten. He was, in the most expressive sense of the words, sui generis; a veritable product of the times in which he lived, and the conditions under which he moved and had his being. All in all, his like will not appear again. He was converted when a mere youth at a camp-meeting in southern Kentucky; soon after, he was licensed to preach, and became a circuit rider in that State, and later was of the Methodist vanguard to Illinois. It was said of him that he was of the church military as well as "the church militant." He was of massive build, an utter stranger to fear, and of unquestioned honesty and sincerity. He was gifted with an eloquence adapted to the times in which he lived, and the congregations to which he preached. There would be no place for him now, for the untutored assemblages who listened with bated breath to his fiery appeals are of the past.

"For, welladay! Their day is fled, Old times are changed, old manners gone."

The narrative of his tough conflicts with the emissaries of Satan is even now of the rarest reading for a summer's day or a winter's night. How he fought the Indians, fought the robbers, swam rivers, and threaded the prairies, in order that he might carry the Gospel to the remotest frontiersmen, was of thrilling interest to many of the new generation as his own sands were running low. He literally took no thought of the morrow, but without staff and little even in the way of scrip unselfishly gave the best years of a life extending two decades beyond the time allotted, to the service of his Master.

Until the Judgment leaves are unfolded the good which this man and many of his co-laborers did in the new country will never be known. A journey of days on horseback to fill an appointment, to perform a marriage ceremony, preach a funeral sermon, or speak words of hope and comfort to the sick or the bereaved, was part of the sum of a life of service that knew little of rest.

There would probably be few pulpits open to Peter Cartwright in these more cultivated times. Old things have passed away; the pioneer in his rough garb, with axe upon his shoulder, and rifle in hand, is now but a tradition, while the border line of civilization has receded westward to the ocean.

None the less, the typical minister of to-day would have had very scant welcome in the rude pulpits of the days of which we write. His elegant attire, conventional manners, written sermons, and new theology, would have been sadly out of place in the camp-meeting times, for be it remembered that Cartwright called things by their right names. He gave forth no uncertain sound. His theology was that of the Fathers. We hear little in these modern days of "The fire that quencheth not" and of "total depravity" and of "the bottomless pit." Such expressions are unfitted for ears polite. Higher criticism, new thought, and all kindred ideas and suggestions,

"Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer,"

were believed by Cartwright and his contemporaries to be mere contrivances of Satan for the ensnaring of immortal souls. His abhorrence of all these "wiles of the devil," and his scorn for their advocates, knew no bounds.

His preaching was of the John Wesley, George Whitefield, and Jonathan Edwards type. Mingled with his denunciations of sin, his earnest exhortations to repentance, his graphic description of the New Jerusalem, with its "streets of gold, walls of jasper, and gates of pearl," and of the unending bliss of the redeemed, were expressions now relegated to the limbo of the past. Little time, however, was wasted by the Rev. Peter in picking out soft words for fear of giving offence. To his impassioned soul "the final doom of the impenitent," the "torment of the damned," and "hell fire" itself, were veritable realities. And so indeed, when rolling from his tongue, did they appear, not alone to the rapt believer, but oftentimes to the ungodly and the sinner as well.

More than one marvellous conversion under his ministration is recorded by Brother Cartwright in the autobiography written in the closing years of his life. At one time in crossing a stream, he was deeply offended by the profanity of the boatman. The kindly admonition and the gentle rebuke of the minister apparently added zest and volume to the oaths of the boatman. Suddenly seizing the offender, the irate preacher ducked him into the river, and turned a deaf ear to his piteous appeals for succor until the half-drowned wretch had offered a prayer for mercy and made profuse promises of repentance. Hopeful conversion, and an ever-after life of Christian humility, were the gratifying sequels to the baptism so unexpectedly administered.

Another experience no less remarkable occurred when, during the early years of his ministry, he was crossing the mountains on his way to the General Conference. At a tavern by the wayside, where he had obtained lodging for the night, he found preparations in progress for a ball to come off that very evening. The protestation of the minister against such wickedness only aroused the ire of the landlord and his family. The dance promptly began at the appointed time.

"Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell."

There being but a single room to the house, and a storm raging without, the outraged and indignant minister was the unwilling witness to the ebb and flow of this tide of ungodliness. At length, as partners were being chosen for the Virginia Reel, a beautiful girl approached the solitary guest and requested his hand for the set just forming. The minister arose and intimated a ready compliance with her request, at the same time assuring her that he never entered upon any important undertaking without first invoking God's blessing upon it; and seizing her by the hand he fell upon his knees and with the voice of one born to be obeyed commanded silence and began his prayer. The dance was immediately suspended, and a solemnity and horror, as if the presage of approaching doom, fell upon the startled assemblage. Above the agonizing sobs of the lately impenitent revellers was heard, as was that of the ancient prophet above the din of the worshippers of Baal, the voice of the man of God in earnest appeals to the throne of grace for mercy to these "hell-deserving sinners."

An hour passed; lamentation and groans of sin-sick soul mingled meanwhile with the fervent exhortations and appeals of the man of prayer. Suddenly and in rapid succession shout after shout of victory from redeemed souls ascended, and as if by magic the late abode of scoffers became indeed a very Bethel. The incidents mentioned, and others scarcely less remarkable, will be found in Mr. Cartwright's autobiography. The present generation knows but little of the old-time camp-meeting; as it existed in the days and under the administration of Peter Cartwright and his co-laborers, it is verily a thing of the past.

"New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good uncouth."

Seventy years and more ago, the country new, the population sparse, the settlements few and far between, the camp-meeting was of yearly and, as it was believed, of necessary occurrence. It was, especially with the early Methodists, a recognized instrumentality for preaching the Gospel for the conversion of souls.

A convenient spot—usually near a spring or brook—being selected, a rude pulpit was erected, rough seats provided, a log cabin or two for the aged and infirm hastily constructed, and there in the early autumn large congregations assembled for worship. For many miles around, and often from neighboring counties, the people came, on horseback, in wagons, and on foot. Each family furnished its own tent, the needed bed-clothing, cooking utensils, and abundant provisions for their temporary sojourn in the wilderness. It was no holiday occasion, no time for merry making. It was often at much sacrifice and discomfort that such meetings were held, and preachers and people alike were in terrible earnest. Rigid rules for their government were formulated and enforced, and a proper decorum required and observed. Woe betide the wretch who attempted to create disturbance, or depart from the strictest propriety of deportment. Not infrequently in the early camp-meetings of Kentucky and Tennessee there were stalwart men keeping guard over these religious gatherings, who had in their younger days hunted the savage foe from his fastness, faced Tecumseh at Tippecanoe and the Thames, possibly been comrades of "Old Hickory" through the Everglades and at New Orleans.

A sufficient time being set apart for meals and the needed hours of rest, the residue was in the main devoted to public or private worship. Family prayer-meetings were held in each tent at the early dawn; public preaching by the most gifted speakers during two hours or more of the forenoon. After a hasty midday meal the public services were resumed, to be followed at the appointed time by meetings for special prayer, class meetings, and love feasts, all conducted with the greatest possible solemnity; and the exercises, after supper had been served and the candles lighted, concluded for the day with an impassioned sermon from the main stand. During the last-mentioned service especially, the scene presented was truly of a weird and picturesque character. The flickering lights of the camp, the dark forest around, the melodious concert of a thousand voices mingling in sacred song, the awe-inspiring, never-to-be-forgotten hymn,

"Come, humble sinner, in whose breast A thousand thoughts revolve,"

the fervid exclamations as convicted sinners gathered around the mourners' bench and the shouts of joy heard far beyond the limits of the camp as peace found lodging in sin-distracted souls, all impressed the memory and heart too deeply for even the flight of years wholly to dispel.

It need hardly be added that these scenes, of which but feeble description has been given, marked the hour of triumph of the truly gifted of the revival preachers of camp-meeting times. The echoes will never awake to the sound of such eloquence again. The orator and the occasion here met and embraced. In very truth, the joys of the redeemed, and the horrors of lost souls, were depicted in colors that only lips "touched with a live coal from the altar" could adequately describe. In the presence of such lurid imagery, even the inspired revelation of the apocalyptic vision seems but sober narrative of commonplace events.

With camp-meetings and their thrilling incidents of two generations ago in our Western country, the name of Peter Cartwright is inseparably associated. He was the born leader; par excellence, the unrivalled orator. Since the passing of Whitefield and Asbury a greater than he had not appeared. To those who have never attended an old-time camp-meeting the following quotation from Mr. Cartwright's autobiography may be of interest:

"The meeting was protracted for weeks and was kept up day and night. Thousands heard of the mighty work, and came on foot, on horseback, and in wagons. It was supposed that there were in attendance at different times from twelve to twenty-five thousand. Hundreds fell prostrate under the mighty power of God, as men slain in battle; and it was supposed that between one and two thousand souls were happily and powerfully converted to God during the meetings. It was not unusual for as many as seven preachers to be addressing the listening thousands at a time, from different stands. At times, more than a thousand persons broke out into loud shouting, all at once, and the shouts could be heard for miles around."

Strange as the following may sound to the present generation, it is one of the many experiences recorded by Cartwright:

"The camp-meeting was lighted up, the trumpet blown, I rose in the stand and required every soul to leave the tents and come into the congregation. There was a general rush to the stand. I requested the brethren, if ever they prayed in their lives, to pray now. My voice was strong and clear, and my preaching was more of an exhortation than anything else. My text was: 'The gates of hell shall not prevail.' In about thirty minutes the power of God fell upon the congregation in such a manner as is seldom seen; the people fell in every direction, right and left, front and rear. It was supposed that not less than three hundred fell like dead men in mighty battle; and there was no need of calling mourners, for they were strewed all over the camp ground. Loud wailings went up to Heaven from sinners for mercy, and a general shout from Christians so that the noise was hear afar off."

That it was by no means an unusual occurrence for those who came to scoff to remain to pray will appear from the same book:

"Just as I was closing up my sermon and pressing it with all the force I could command, the power of God suddenly was displayed, and sinners fell by scores all through the assembly. It was supposed that several hundred fell in five minutes; sinners turned pale; some ran into the woods; some tried to get away, and fell in the attempt; some shouted aloud for joy."

The horror of Brother Cartwrights for "immersionists" and Calvinists of every degree, appears throughout his entire book. That his righteous soul was often sorely vexed because of them is beyond question. That his cup had not been drained to the dregs will appear from a new element he encountered when sent across the Ohio to the Scioto conference.

"It was a poor and hard circuit at that time, and the country round was settled in an early day by a colony of Yankees. At the time of my appointment I had never seen a Yankee, and I had heard dismal stories about them. It was said they lived almost entirely on pumpkins, molasses, fat meat, and Bohea tea; moreover that they could not bear loud and zealous sermons, and that they had brought on their learned preachers with them, and were always criticising us poor backwoods preachers."

The "isms" our circuit-rider now encountered would have appalled a less resolute man. He seems, however, to have gotten along fairly well except with one "female," who, from all accounts, was given over in about equal parts to "universalism" and "predestinarianism." This troublesome female, that he candidly admitted he had a hard race to keep up with, he has left impaled for all time as a "thin-faced, Roman-nosed, loquacious, glib-tongued Yankee."

Something of the antagonism of the different persuasions in the good old pioneer days, may be gathered from the tender farewell taken by Brother Cartwright of a former associate, one Brother D., "who left the Methodists, joined the Free-will Baptists, left them and joined the New Lights, and then moved to Texas, where I expect the devil has him in safe keeping long before this time!"

It would be idle to suppose that Peter Cartwright was a mere visionary or dreamer. Nothing could be farther from the truth. He was abundantly possessed with what, in Western parlance, is known as "horse sense." He was a student of men, and kept in close touch with the affairs of this world. His shrewdness, no less than his courage, was a proverb in his day. Upon one occasion, at the beginning of his sermon before a large audience, he was more than once interrupted by the persistent but ineffectual attempt of a saintly old sister to shout. Annoyed at length, turning to her he said: "Dear sister, never shout as a matter of duty; when you can't help it, then shout; but never shout as a mere matter of duty!"

At a camp-meeting on the banks of the Cumberland in the early years of the last century, an attempt was made by a band of desperadoes to create a disturbance. To this end their leader, a burly ruffian, stalked to the front of the pulpit, and with an oath commanded Cartwright to "dry up." Suspending divine service for a few minutes, and laying aside his coat, the preacher descended from the pulpit and springing upon the intruder, felled him to the earth and belabored him until the wretch begged for mercy. The precious boon was withheld until the now penitent disturber, after promising to repent, had been given the humblest seat in the "amen corner." This all satisfactorily completed, and his garment replaced, the minister, scarcely ruffled by the trifling incident, re-entered the pulpit, and with the words, "As I was saying, brethren, when interrupted," continued his discourse.

This little sketch would be unpardonably incomplete if the important fact were withheld that Peter Cartwright had a relish for politics, as well as for salvation. He was more than once a member of the General Assembly of Illinois, and be it said to his eternal honor his speech and vote were ever on the side of whatever conduced to the best interests of the State. In him the cause of education, and the asylums for the unfortunate, had ever an earnest advocate.

Though many years his senior, he was the contemporary of Abraham Lincoln, and a resident of the same county. Mr. Lincoln was, in 1846, the Whig candidate for Representative in Congress. The district was of immense area, embracing many counties of Central Illinois. Newspapers were scarce, and the old-time custom of joint discussions between opposing candidates for high office were still in vogue. Mr. Lincoln's unsuccessful competitor was none other than the subject of this article. The great Whig leader and his Democratic antagonist—"My friend the Parson," as Mr. Lincoln familiarly called him—were soon engaged in joint debate. It is to be regretted that there is no record of these debates. There is probably no man now living who heard them. But what rare reading they would be at this day, if happily they had been preserved. The earnest, inflexible parson,—even then "standing upon the Western slope,"—backed by his party, then dominant in the national government, upon the one side; the comparatively youthful lawyer, whose fame was yet to fill the world, upon the other. No doubt, daily upon "the stump" and at night at the village taverns, the changes were rung upon the then all-absorbing subjects, the Walker Tariff, the War with Mexico, and the Wilmot Proviso. These questions belong now to the domain of history; as do indeed issues of far greater consequence, upon which Lincoln and an antagonist more formidable than Cartwright crossed swords a dozen years later.

At the Democratic State Convention, which assembled in Springfield in the early spring of 1860, a resolution instructing the Illinois delegates to support Stephen A. Douglas for nomination to the Presidency at the approaching National Convention was adopted amidst great enthusiasm. Immediately upon its adoption, a delegate called attention to the fact that the venerable Peter Cartwright was present, and said he knew the Convention would be glad to hear a word from him. Immediately "Cartwright," "Cartwright," "Cartwright," was heard from all parts of the chamber. From his seat, surrounded by the Sangamon County delegates, near the central part of the hall, Mr. Cartwright arose, and with deep emotion, and scarcely audible voice, began:

"My friends and fellow-citizens, I am happy to be with you on the present occasion. My sun is low down upon the horizon, and the days of my pilgrimage are almost numbered. I have lived in Illinois during the entire period of its history as a State. I have watched with tender interest its marvellous growth from its feeble condition as a Territory, until it has reached its present splendor as a State. I have travelled over its prairies, slept with only the canopy of heaven for a covering; I have followed the trail of the Indians, fought the desperadoes, swam the rivers, threaded the almost pathless forests, in order that I might carry the tidings of the blessed Gospel to the loneliest cabin upon the border. Yes, my friends, for seventy long years, amid appalling difficulties and dangers, I have waged an incessant warfare against the world, the flesh, the devil, and all the other enemies of the Democratic party!"

XVIII CLEVELAND AS I KNEW HIM

CLEVELAND'S SPEECH ACCEPTING HIS NOMINATION—MR. BLAINE'S FRUITLESS TOUR AS A CANDIDATE—CLEVELAND'S INSIGHT INTO HUMAN CHARACTER—HIS TARIFF-REDUCTION MESSAGE—WITHDRAWAL OF THE HAWAIIAN ANNEXATION TREATY—HIS VENEZUELAN MISSION—HIS ACQUAINTANCE WITH THE SCIENCE OF GOVERNMENT—HIS QUALIFICATIONS FOR SOCIAL LIFE AND FOR SERVING THE COUNTRY.

Upon the adjournment of the Democratic National Convention of 1884, which had nominated Mr. Cleveland for the Presidency, in company with other delegates I visited him at the Executive Mansion at Albany, New York. The Hon. William F. Vilas was the chairman of our committee, and the purpose of the visit to notify Mr. Cleveland, officially, of his nomination to the great office. I saw him then for the first time.

He was then Governor of New York, having been but recently elected by an unprecedented majority. I recall him distinctly on this occasion as he responded to the eloquent speech of Colonel Vilas. Standing near him at the time were three men well known at a later date as members of his cabinet and his closest friends, Daniel Manning, William C. Whitney, and Daniel S. Lamont.

Cleveland's response to the speech of notification was in dignified, forceful phrase, and at once challenged public attention and gave the keynote to the memorable contest which immediately followed. In some of its aspects it was a Presidential struggle the like of which we may not again witness. As the day of election drew near, the excitement increased in intensity, and no efforts that gave hopes of success were spared by the opposing party managers.

The defection from his ranks by what in campaign publications of the day was known as the "mugwump" element, caused Mr. Blaine to venture upon a hazardous tour of speech-making. Enthusiastic audiences gathered around the brilliant Republican candidate during his Western tour. This, however, as the sequel showed, was time and energy wasted; Illinois and Ohio were safely in the Republican column, and the real battle-ground was New York state. Homeward bound at length from this strenuous pilgrimage demanded by no party necessity, Mr. Blaine was fated during his brief sojourn in New York to listen to the now historical words of Burchard, words which in all human probability proved the political undoing of the candidate to whom, with the best intentions, they were earnestly addressed.

New York, as has been its wont before and since, proved the pivotal State. For many days after the election the result was still in doubt. Party feeling was intense, and the result hinged upon the narrow margin in the vote of Blaine and Cleveland in one State.

During the strenuous days that passed from the election until the authoritative announcement of the result, one man alone, amid the high tide of party passion, remained calm. To all appearances unmoved, Grover Cleveland sat in his office day after day, no detail of official duty failing to receive his careful attention. The fact just stated is explanatory of much in his subsequent career.

When first nominated for the Presidency, Mr. Cleveland had little personal knowledge of public men outside of his own State. How rapidly he acquired the information necessary to a successful administration of the government was indeed a marvel. It was no "Cleveland luck" or haphazard chance that called into his first Cabinet such men as Bayard, Manning, Garland, Vilas, and Whitney. It can safely be asserted that Mr. Cleveland was an excellent judge of men and of their capacity for the particular work assigned them. As if by intuition, he thoroughly understood after a single interview the men with whom he was brought in contact. As an object lesson a better appointment to high office has rarely been made than that of Fuller to the chief justiceship of the great court. No less fortunate was his selection of Vilas to the responsible position of Postmaster-General. And yet both of these gentlemen were personally strangers to Mr. Cleveland when he was first named for the Presidency. His appointments to important diplomatic positions likewise strikingly illustrated his aptness in forming a correct estimate of men from whom his appointees were to be chosen.

No incumbent of the Presidency was ever less of a time-server than Cleveland. "Expediency" was a word scarcely known to his vocabulary. Recognizing alike the dignity and responsibility of the great office, he was in the highest degree self-reliant. None the less he at all times availed himself of the wise counsel of his official advisers. In matters falling within their especial province their determination was, except in rare instances, conclusive. In no sense was his mind closed against the timely counsel of his friends. Far from being opinionated, in the offensive sense of the word, the ultimate determination, however, was after "having taken counsel from himself."

The incident contributing perhaps more than any other to his defeat in 1888 was his tariff-reduction message to Congress one year prior to that election. An abler state paper has rarely been put forth. It was a clear, succinct presentation of existing economic conditions; in very truth an unanswerable argument for tariff reduction. It is not yet forgotten how promptly this message was denounced by the entire opposition press as a "free-trade manifesto," and how this cry increased in voice and volume until the close of the Presidential contest. And yet, in sending this message to Congress, Mr. Cleveland was entirely consistent with himself. Its utterances were in clear accord with the platform upon which he had been nominated and with his letter of acceptance. It is one of the anomalies of politics that the clear-cut sentences measurably instrumental in compassing his defeat in 1888, were upon the banners of his triumphant partisans in the campaign of 1892.

In the year last named, Mr. Cleveland was for the third time the candidate of his party for the Presidency. His nomination, by a two-thirds vote, was upon the first ballot, and marked an era in the history of national conventions. His candidacy was bitterly antagonized by the delegation from his own State, his name being presented by Governor Abbott of New Jersey. It is a fact of much significance that neither in the platform upon which he was nominated, nor in the letter of acceptance, was there the slightest departure from his emphatic utterances upon the tariff in the memorable message of 1887. The salient issues of the campaign were "tariff reform" and hostility to the then pending "Force bill." From first to last Mr. Cleveland was in close consultation with the leaders of his party and advised as to every detail of the contest. The result was a vindication of his former administration and an unmistakable endorsement of the tenets of the Democratic faith.

In this brief sketch, there can be but slight reference to the important questions which now for four years engaged his attention. Almost his first official act after his second inauguration was the withdrawal from the Senate of the Hawaiian Annexation Treaty recently submitted by President Harrison for ratification. Firmly believing that the late United States Minister to the unfortunate island had at least acquiesced in the overthrow of the Hawaiian Government, President Cleveland, with the hope that he might measurably repair the wrong, recalled the Annexation Treaty, as stated. In his message of withdrawal were the words: "A great wrong has been done to a feeble and independent State." This almost forgotten incident is now recalled only to emphasize the spirit of justice that characterized his dealings with foreign Governments.

And yet history will truly say of him that, while just to other Governments, no President has more firmly maintained the rights of his own. This assertion finds verification in the Venezuelan message, which, for the moment, almost startled the country. By many it was for the time believed to be the prelude to war. In very truth, as the sequel proved, it was a message of peace. It was a critical moment, and the necessity imperative for prompt, decisive action. If the Monroe Doctrine was to be maintained, Great Britain could not be permitted arbitrarily to divest Venezuela of any portion of her territory. The arbitration proposed by President Cleveland, resulting in peaceable adjustment, established what we may well believe will prove an enduring precedent. One sentence of the memorable message is worthy of remembrance by the oncoming generations: "The Monroe Doctrine was intended to apply to every stage of our national life, and cannot become obsolete while our Republic endures."

I had excellent opportunities to know Mr. Cleveland. I was a member of the first and third conventions which named him for the Presidency, and actively engaged in both the contests that resulted in his election. As assistant Postmaster-General during his first term, and Vice-President during the second, I was often "the neighbor to his counsels." I am confident that a more conscientious, painstaking official never filled public station. In his appointments to office his chief aim was to subserve the public interests by judicious selections. The question of rewarding party service, while by no means ignored, was immeasurably subordinate to that of the integrity and efficiency of the applicant. He was patriotic to the core, and it was his earnest desire that the last vestige of legislation inimical to the Southern States should pass from the statute books. He did much toward the restoration of complete concord between all sections of the country.

Mr. Cleveland possessed a kind heart, and was ever just and generous in his dealings. Wholly unostentatious himself, the humblest felt at ease in his presence. Possibly no incumbent of the great office was more easily accessible to all classes and conditions. Courteous at all times, no guards were necessary to the preservation of his dignity. No one would have thought of an undue familiarity.

He was a profound student of all that pertained to human affairs. He had given deep thought to the science of government, and was familiar with the best that had been written on the subject. Caring little for the light literature of the day, his concern was with the practical knowledge bearing upon existing conditions and that might aid in the solution of the ever-recurring problems confronting men in responsible positions. He loved to talk of the founders of the Government, and of the matchless instrument, the result of their wise deliberations, declared by Gladstone, "the most wonderful work ever struck off at a given time from the brain and purpose of man." The Constitution was in very truth "the man of his counsel," and, in my opinion, no statesman in ancient or modern times so challenged his profound admiration as did James Madison.

Mr. Cleveland was sociable in the best sense of that word, and the cares of state laid aside, in the company of friends he was an exceedingly agreeable companion. While by no means the best of story-tellers himself, he had a keen appreciation of the humorous and ludicrous phases and incidents of life. I shall not soon forget an evening I spent with him in company with Governor Proctor Knott of Kentucky. The greatest story-teller of the age was at his best, and the delight of the occasion was, as Cleveland declared, "beyond expression."

More than once I have been a guest in his home. During the campaign of 1892, when his associate on the national ticket, I spent some days in conference with him at Gray Gables. The memory of that long-ago visit lingers yet. He was the agreeable host, the gentleman; more than that, the tender, considerate husband, the kind, affectionate father. It has never been my good fortune to cross the threshold of a more delightful home.

I saw Mr. Cleveland last upon the occasion of his visit to Arbor Lodge, Nebraska, to deliver an address at the unveiling of a statue of the late Sterling Morton, former Secretary of Agriculture. The address was worthy of the occasion, and indeed a just and touching tribute to the memory of an excellent man, an able and efficient Cabinet Minister. In my last conversation with Mr. Cleveland upon the occasion mentioned, he spoke feelingly of our old associates, many of whom had passed away. I remember that the tears came to his eyes when the name of Colonel Lamont happened to be mentioned.

During our stay at Arbor Lodge, the beautiful Morton home, by invitation of the superintendent, Mr. Cleveland visited the State Asylum for the Blind at Nebraska City. In his brief address to the unfortunate inmates of the institution, Mr. Cleveland mentioned the fact that in his early life he had been for some time a teacher in an asylum for the blind, and spoke of his profound interest in whatever concerned their welfare. I have heard him many times, but never when he appeared to better advantage, or evinced such depth of feeling as upon this occasion.

The passing of Cleveland marks an epoch. He was indeed a striking figure in American history. Take him all in all, we may not look upon his like again. The "good citizenship," an expression frequently on his lips, to which he would have his countrymen aspire, was of the noblest, and no man had a clearer or loftier conception of the responsible and sacred character of public station. With him the oft-quoted words, "A public office is a public trust," was no mere lip-service. His will be a large place in history. His administration of the government will safely endure the test of time.

"Whatever record leaps to light, He never can be shamed."

In victory or defeat, in office or out, he was true to his own self and to his ideals. His early struggles, his firmness of purpose, his determination that knew no shadow of wavering, his exalted aims, and the success that ultimately crowned his efforts have given him high place among statesmen, and will be a continuing inspiration to the oncoming generations of his countrymen.

XIX A UNANIMOUS CHOICE FOR SPEAKER

A MEETING OF PROSPECTIVE SPEAKERS—DR. ROGERS WITHIN SIGHT OF THE GOAL OF HIS AMBITION—HE STATES THE GROUND OF HIS HOPE—THE FOUNDATION PROVES TO BE ONLY SAND—A TEMPEST CALMED BY THE DOCTOR.

At a banquet in Washington in the winter of 1880-81, a large number of Representatives were present. Among the number were Reed, McKinley, Cannon, and Keifer. These gentlemen were all prospective candidates for the Speakership of the then recently elected House of Representatives. The best of feeling prevailed, and the occasion was one of rare enjoyment and mirth. Each candidate in turn was introduced by the toast-master as "the Speaker of the next House," and in his speech each claimed all the others as his enthusiastic and reliable supporters. The apparent confidence of each candidate in the support of his rivals reminded Mr. Cannon of the experience of an Illinois legislator, which he requested his colleague from the Bloomington district to relate.

That the reader may appreciate the incident then related, some mention must be made of Dr. Thomas P. Rogers of Bloomington. He was a gentleman of the old school, a politician from the beginning, of inflexible integrity and an earnestness of purpose that knew no shadow of turning. He was as devoid of any possible touch of humor as was his own marble bust of Thomas Jefferson. He was the personal friend of Lincoln and of Douglas, and the political follower of the latter. The fondness of a mother for her first-born hardly exceeded that of Dr. Rogers for the party of his choice. Any uncomplimentary allusion to his "principles" was considered a personal injury, and his devotion to party leaders, from Jackson to Douglas, savored of idolatry. Some camp-meeting experiences in early life had given zest and tone to his style of oratory, which stood him well in hand in his many political encounters of a later day.

For three consecutive terms the Doctor had been a member of the Legislature, and his record from every point of view was without a blemish. At his fourth election, it was found that for the first time in a decade or more his party had secured a majority in the House, to which the Doctor had just been elected. The goal of his ambition was the Speakership, and it truly seemed that his hour had now come.

Soon after these facts were known beyond peradventure, the Doctor came one day into my office. After election matters had been talked over at length and with much satisfaction, the Doctor modestly intimated a desire to be a candidate for the Speakership. I at once gave him the promise of my earnest support and inquired whether he had any friends upon whom he could rely in the approaching caucus. He assured me that there were four members of the last House re-elected to this, upon whom he knew he could absolutely depend under all circumstances. Upon my inquiry as to their names, he said:

"Hadlai,"—the Doctor, it may be here mentioned, had from my boyhood kindly given me the benefit of an "H" to which I laid no claim and was in no way entitled—"Hadlai, you take your pencil and take down their names as I give them to you."

I at once took my seat, and pencil in hand, looked inquiringly toward the Doctor.

"Hadlai," he continued, "put down Heise of Cook. John and I have been friends for more than thirty years; I worked for him for a delegate-at-large to the last National Convention, and he told me then, 'Doctor, if there is anything I can do for you, just let me know.'"

To which I replied, "Heise of Cook, dead sure," and his name was at once placed in the Rogers column.

"Now, Hadlai," continued the Doctor, "there is Armstrong of La Salle; Wash and I were boys together in Ohio, and sat side by side in the Charleston Convention when we were trying to nominate Douglas. He has told me more than once that if ever we carried the House, he was for me for Speaker above any man on earth." At which I unhesitatingly placed Armstrong of La Salle in the same column with Heise of Cook.

"Now, Hadlai," continued the Doctor, after a moment's pause, "there is Cummins of Fulton; I helped elect Jim Chairman of the last State Convention, and he has told me again and again that he hoped he would live to see me Speaker, so I can count on Jim without doubt."

I at once placed Cummins in the column of honor with Heise and Armstrong, and calmly awaited further instructions.

"Now, Hadlai, there is Moore of Adams; Alf got into trouble over a bill he had in the last Legislature; he could neither get it out of the committee, nor the committee to take any action, so he came over to my seat terribly worried, and says he, 'Doctor, for God's sake, get me out of this!' I did, Hadlai, and Alf was the most grateful man you ever saw on earth, and told me then, 'Doctor, I would get up at two o'clock at night to do you a favor.' I can safely count on him."

It is needless to say that Moore of Adams rounded out the quartette of faithful supporters.

"Now, Hadlai," remarked the Doctor, after contemplating with apparent satisfaction the list I had handed him, "if you will give me some paper and envelopes and a pen and some stamps, if you have them handy, I will write to all of them now." The articles mentioned were produced, the letters written, stamped, and duly mailed, and the good Doctor departed in an exceedingly comfortable frame of mind.

Time passes, as is its wont; but for some weeks I neither saw nor heard from the Doctor. Meeting him on the street at length, I at once inquired whether he had received replies to his letters.

"Come into the office, Hadlai, and I will explain." Pained to observe that the tone and air of confidence so perceptible in our last interview was lacking, I followed with some misgiving into his office.

"Yes, Hadlai," he slowly began, "I have heard from all of them. Heise of Cook [the familiar appellations of the former interview were wanting] writes assuring me that there is no man living for whom he entertains a more profound respect then for myself, Hadlai; but that owing to unforseen complications arising in his county, he has reluctantly consented to allow his own name to be presented to the caucus."

The name of Heise of Cook was immediately stricken from the head of the list. Then a reverie into which the Doctor had fallen was at length disturbed by my inquiry, "What about Armstrong?"

"Yes, Hadlai, Armstrong of La Salle writes me that in his judgment there is no man living so deserving of the gratitude of the party, or so well qualified for the office of Speaker as myself, but that the pressure from his constituents has been so great that he has finally consented to allow his own name to be presented to the caucus."

"Fare-you-well, Mr. Armstrong," was my hurried observation, as the name of that gentleman disappeared from my list.

Arousing the Doctor at length from the reverie into which he had again fallen, I ventured to inquire as to the state of mind of Mr. Cummins.

"Yes, Hadlai, Cummins of Fulton says that in a certain contingency he will himself be a candidate, and Moore of Adams writes me that he is a candidate!"

It may not be out of place to supplement this little narrative by relating an incident that illustrates the fact that a man wholly devoid of any sense of humor himself may at times be the unconscious cause of amusement in others.

Imprimis: The Doctor, while a member of the General Assembly, voted for a measure known in local parlance as "the Lake Front Bill." The criticisms which followed vexed his righteous soul, and he patiently awaited the opportunity for public explanation and personal vindication.

Now it so fell out that at the time whereof we write there was much excitement—a tempest in a tea-pot—in the little city of Bloomington, over a change in "readers" recently ordered in the schools by the Board of Education. After much discussion on the streets and at the corners, a public indignation meeting was called for Saturday evening at the east door of the Court-house. Meanwhile the indignation against the offending Board intensified, and there was some apprehension even of serious trouble. At the appointed time and place, the meeting assembled and was duly organized by the selection of a Chairman. Calls at once began for well-known orators at the bar and upon the hustings. "Ewing," "Fifer," "Rowell," "Prince," "Lillard," "Phillips," "Kerrick," "Weldon," were heard from the crowd in rapid succession. It was like "calling spirits from the vasty deep." No response was given, no orator appeared; and, as is well known, an indignation meeting without an orator is as impossible as "Hamlet" with the Prince of Denmark omitted.

But sure enough—

"Fortune sometimes brings in boats that are not steered."

At the auspicious moment, from the rear of the crowd Tom Hullinger called out, "Doctor Rogers, Doctor Rogers!" The hour had struck. Without waiting further call, the Doctor promptly took the stand and waiving the formality of an introduction, began:

"I am deeply gratified to have this opportunity to explain to my fellow-citizens who have known me from my early manhood my vote upon the Lake Front Bill," and a two-hour vindication immediately followed. No allusion being made to the object of the meeting, or the change of school-books, of which the Doctor knew as little and cared as little as he did of the thirteenth century controversy between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines, with the waning hours the excitement subsided. The change of readers became a dead issue; the era of good feeling was restored; and to this blessed hour, except in a spirit of mirth, the school-book question has never been mentioned.

XX A LAWYER OF THE OLD SCHOOL

JUDGE ARRINGTON, THE IDEAL LAWYER—EULOGIZED BY OTHER JUDGES—BOOKS HIS EARLY COMPANIONS—BECOMES SUCCESSIVELY A METHODIST PREACHER, A LAWYER, AND A JUDGE—WRITES SOME SKETCHES OF LIFE IN THE SOUTHWEST —HIS APOSTROPHE TO WATER RECITED BY GOUGH.

In the old Supreme Court-room at Ottawa, almost a half-century ago, I saw and heard Judge Alfred A. Arrington for the first time. For two hours I listened with the deepest attention to his masterly argument in a cause then exciting much interest because of the large amount involved. The dry question of law under discussion, "as if touched by the enchanter's wand," was at once invested with an interest far beyond its wont. As I listened to the argument of Judge Arrington, and witnessed the manner of its delivery, he appeared in the most comprehensive sense the ideal lawyer. He seemed, indeed, as he probably was, the sole survivor of the school of which Wirt and Pinckney were three generations ago the typical representatives. His dignified bearing, old-time apparel, and lofty courtesy toward the Court and opposing counsel, all strengthened this impression. He had a highly attractive appearance, and as was said by a contemporary, "to crown all, a massive Websterian forehead, needing no seal to give the world assurance of a man."

"Sage he stood, With Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear The weight of mightiest monarchies; his look Drew audience and attention still as night Or summer's noontide air."

Since then I have listened to advocates of national renown in our great court and in the Senate sitting as a High Court of Impeachment, but at no time or place have I heard an abler, more scholarly, or more eloquent argument than that of Judge Arrington in the old court-room at Ottawa, Illinois, on that day long gone by.

The most eminent members of the Chicago bar were the eulogists of Judge Arrington when he passed to his grave, near the close of the great Civil War. Judge Wilson, in presenting resolutions in honor of the deceased, voiced the sentiments of his associates when he said:

"For more than thirty years at the bar and upon the bench, I have been associated with the legal profession; and I may say without offence that of the many able men I have known I regard Judge Arrington, take him all in all, as the ablest."

The venerable Judge Drummond said:

"I have rarely heard a man whose efforts so constantly riveted the attention from the beginning to the close of his discourse. For while he trod with firm and steady steps the path of logic, his vivid imagination was constantly scattering on each side flowers of fragrant beauty, to the wonder and delight of all who heard him. He was a great lawyer in the highest and largest sense of the term —great in the extent and thoroughness of his legal learning, in the vigor and acuteness of his reasoning, and in the power of his eloquence."

The Hon. Melville W. Fuller, the present Chief Justice of the United States, said:

"When he arose to discuss a question, he exhibited a perfect knowledge of every phase in which it could be presented; and men never grew weary (especially if the argument involved Constitutional construction, in which department he stood primus inter illustres) of admiring the amplitude of his legal attainments, the accuracy of his learning, the compactness of his logic, and the majestic flow of his eloquence, and more than all, that firmness and breadth of mind which lifted him above the ordinary contest of the forum.

"It is a source of the deepest consolation that he found peace at the last; that the grand spirit, before it took its everlasting flight, reposed in confidence on the Book of Books; that its departure was illumined by that precious light which ever renders radiant the brief darkness 'twixt mortal twilight and immortal dawn."

And yet, alas, his name has now almost passed from the memories of men; the veil of time has settled over him; no distinct image is recalled by the mention of his name. How suggestive this, of the ephemeral fame of even a great lawyer:

"Swift as shadow, short as any dream Brief as the lightning in the collied night."

Words long since uttered by an eminent jurist have not lost their significance:

"There is, perhaps, no reputation that can be achieved amongst men that is so transitory, so evanescent, as that of a great advocate. The very wand that enchants us is magical. Its effects can be felt; it influences our actions; it controls and possesses us; but to define it, or tell what it is, or how it produces these effects, is as far beyond our power as to imprison the sunbeam. In the presence of such majestic power we can only stand awed and silent."

There was much of romance, and somewhat of mystery, that gathered about the life of Judge Arrington. Born of humble parentage in the pine forests of North Carolina, with no advantages other than those common in the remoter parts of our country a century ago, from the beginning he apparently dwelt apart from the conditions surrounding him. At an early age he removed with his father's family to the then wilds of the Southwest.

There, upon the very border line of civilization, his associates for a time were the advance guard, the adventurers and soldiers of fortune that in a large measure constituted the civilization of the southwestern frontier during the early years of the last century. With his early environment, his subsequent career seems a marvel. It can only be explained upon the supposition that through with them, he was not of them.

"His soul was like a star, and dwelt apart."

His companions were his books. Denied the advantages of early scholastic training, he was, from the beginning, an omnivorous reader. He cared little for the allurements and excitement of society. At the age of seventeen, he joined the Methodist Episcopal Church, and was soon after licensed to preach. For four years he rode the circuit, enduring all the discomforts and dangers then and there incident to his calling. His field may be called the Ultima Thule, bordering upon the Rio Grande and inhabited by Indians. Untutored audiences were stirred to the depths by his fervid appeals. Church buildings were yet in the future; the congregations assembled in God's first temples, and listened with rapt attention to the fiery eloquence of the delicate, youthful messenger, whose soul seemed on fire.

A gentleman who had heard Arrington writes:

"He was then young, delicate, as brilliant as a comet, and almost as erratic. Without research or mental discipline, he could electrify an audience beyond all living men, and arouse in the minds of those who heard him the wildest enthusiasm."

For some cause, possibly never to be explained, he suddenly abandoned the ministry, began the study of the law, and when a little past the age of twenty-one, was admitted to the bar. After some years of successful practice in the rude frontier courts of Arkansas, he removed to Texas, where he was soon appointed a judge, and assigned to the Rio Grande circuit. In addition to his judicial labors, he now wrote and published some graphic and interesting sketches of border life, vivid pictures of conditions then existing in the Southwest among a people the like of which we shall not see agin, a people upon whom the restraints and amenities of civilized life sat but lightly, who were in large degree a law unto themselves, and with whom revenge was virtue.

One of his publications, "Paul Denton," still has a place in many of our libraries. It is, in part, a narrative of the thrilling experiences of an early Methodist circuit-rider—presumably himself —upon the southwest border. In this will be found his marvellous apostrophe to water, which, as was said by Judge Dent, "was so familiar to the lecture-going public of the last generation owing to its frequent declamation from the rostrum by the temperance lecturer, Gough."

The hero of the book, Paul Denton, had been announced to preach at a famous Spring, where "plenty of good liquor" was promised to all who would attend. During the sermon, a desperado demanded: "Mr. Denton, where is the liquor you promised?"

"There!" answered the preacher in tones of thunder, and pointing his motionless finger at a spring gushing up in two strong columns from the bosom of the earth with a sound like a shout of joy. "There," he repeated, "there is the liquor which God the Eternal brews for all his children. Not in the simmering still over the smoky fires choked with poisonous gases, surrounded with stench of sickening odors and corruptions, doth your Father in heaven prepare the precious essence of life—pure cold water; but in the green glade and grassy dell, where the red-deer wanders and the child loves to play, there God brews it; and down, low down, in the deepest valleys, where the fountains murmur, and the rills sigh, and high upon the mountain-tops where the naked granite glitters like gold in the sun, where the storm-cloud broods and the thunder-storms crash; and far out on the wide, wild sea, where the hurricane howls music and the big waves roll the chorus, sweeping the march of God—there he brews it, the beverage of life, health-giving water.

"And everywhere it is a thing of life and beauty—gleaming in the dew-drop; singing in the summer rain; shining in the ice gem till the trees all seem turned to living jewels; spreading a golden veil over the sun or a white gauze around the midnight moon; sporting in the glacier; folding its bright snow-curtain softly about the wintry world; and weaving the many-colored bow whose warp is the rain-drops of earth, whose woof is the sunbeam of heaven, all checkered over with the mystic hand of refraction.

"Still it is beautiful, that blessed life-water! No poisonous bubbles are on its brink; its foam brings not murder and madness; no blood stains its liquid glass; pale widows and starving orphans weep not burning tears into its depths; no drunkard's shrieking ghost from the grave curses it in the world of eternal despair. Beautiful, pure, blessed, and glorious. Speak out, my friends, would you exchange it for the demon's drink, alcohol?"

In Calvary Cemetery, Chicago, rests all that is mortal of Judge Arrington.

"Tread lightly on his ashes, ye men of genius, for he was your kinsman! Weed clean his grave, ye men of goodness, for he was your brother!"

XXI HIGH DEBATE IN THE MOUNTAINS

COLONEL WOOLFORD, A HERO UNDER GENERAL ZACHARY TAYLOR—HIS MANNER OF FIGHTING—HIS DEFENCE OF A YOUTH CHARGED WITH MURDER—HE MAKES A SPEECH THAT INFURIATES GENERAL FRY.

One of the men not easily forgotten was the Hon. Frank Woolford, a member of Congress from the mountains of Kentucky nearly a quarter of a century ago. He was without reservation a typical mountaineer. He practised law in the local courts, and was prominent in the politics of his State. His style of oratory bore little resemblance to that of the British House of Lords. He had been a soldier in two wars, and his dauntless courage and inexhaustible good humor made him the idol of his comrades. He had been of the heroic band of "Old Rough and Ready" that repelled the charge of twenty thousand lancers under Santa Ana at Buena Vista. He was as brave as Marshal Ney, and it was said of him that the battle-field was his home as the upper air was that of the eagle.

He promptly espoused the cause of the Union at the outbreak of the Civil War and was chosen Colonel of a mounted regiment gathered from his own and adjacent counties. He knew how to fight, but of the science of war as taught in the schools he was as ignorant as the grave. It was said that his entire tactics were embraced in two commands: "Huddle and fight," and "Scatter." When the first was heard his men "huddled and fit"; and when retreat was the only possible salvation, the command to "scatter" was obeyed with equal alacrity. Each man was now for himself, and "devil take the hindmost" for a time, but the sound of Woolford's bugle never failed to secure prompt falling into line at the auspicious moment. "Woolford's cavalry" was the synonym for daring, even at the time when the recital of the deeds of brave men filled the world's great ear.

Woolford and his troopers were in the thickest of the fight at Mill Spring, where Zollicoffer fell; later, they hung upon the flanks of Bragg on his retreat southward from the bloody field of Perryville. More than once during those troublous times our hero was a "foeman worthy the steel" of John Morgan, Forrest, and the gallant Joe Wheeler of world renown.

At the close of the war, Colonel Woolford returned to his mountain home and was in due time elected a Representative in Congress. Years later, with life well rounded out, he met the only foe to whom he ever surrendered, and lamented by all, passed to the beyond.

Some faint idea of Colonel Woolford's style of eloquence at the bar may possibly be gathered from the following. He was retained to defend a half-grown, illiterate youth under indictment for murder. The crime was committed near "Jimtown," but by a change of venue the trial took place at Danville, in the neighboring county of Boyle. Danville, it must be remembered, was the Athens of Kentucky. It was the seat of Centre College, of a Presbyterian theological Seminary, and of more than one of the public institutions of the State. It was the home of men of prominence and wealth, and for three generations had been renowned for the high character, attainments, and culture of its people.

In his speech to the jury in behalf of his unfortunate client, the Colonel insisted that the poor boy at the bar of justice, born and reared in the mountains, without any of the advantages of churches and schools, was not to be held in the same degree responsible as if his lot had been cast in Danville. In his argument he said:

"Here you have your schools, your Centre College, your Theological Seminary, your churches. Every third man you meet on the streets is a minister of the Gospel, and the others are all teachers in the Sunday school. Here you have your great preachers, Young, Green, Humphreys, Yerkes, Robertson, Breckenridge—in fact, Presbyterianism to your hearts' content in the very air. But this poor boy has known nothing of these things. O gentlemen, what might not this poor boy have been, and what might not poor Jimtown have been, with all these advantages?"

Throwing up his arms, in tragic tones he exclaimed:

"Oh, Jimtown! Jimtown! Had the mighty things that have been done in Danville been done in thee, thou wouldst long since have repented in sackcloth and ashes!"

The incident which I shall now relate was told me by my kinsman, General S. S. Fry of Danville. He and Colonel Woolford were friends from boyhood, and comrades in the Mexican and Civil wars. Their party affiliations, however, were different, General Fry being a Republican, and Colonel Woolford a Democrat.

During the reconstruction period, soon after the close of the Civil war, a barbecue was given to the Colonel, then a candidate for Congress, in one of the mountain counties of his district. As a matter of course, the Colonel was to be the orator of the occasion.

In order, if possible, to counteract the evil effect of his speech, the Republican State Committee requested General Fry to attend the barbecue, and engage Colonel Woolford in public debate. In compliance with this request, General Fry, after a horseback ride of many hours, put in an appearance at the appointed time and place. The attendance was general; the people of the entire county, of both sexes and of all ages and conditions, were there. The barbecue was well under way when General Fry arrived. A table of rough boards and of sufficient length had been constructed, and was literally covered with savory shote and mutton just from the pit where barbecued. These viands were abundantly supplemented with fried chicken, salt-rising bread, beaten biscuit, "corn dodgers," and cucumber pickles. To this add several representatives of the highly respectable pie family, and possibly an occasional pound cake, and the typical barbecue is before you.

General Fry, upon his arrival, was warmly greeted by Colonel Woolford, whose hearty invitation to partake was not limited to the viands mentioned. The feast being at length happily concluded, and the crowd assembled around the speaker's stand, Colonel Woolford said to his old-time comrade; "Now, General Fry, you just go ahead and speak just as long as you want to. The boys have all heard me time and again, and I have nothing new to tell them, but they will be glad to hear you. When you get through, of course, if there is a little time left, I may say 'howdy' to the boys, and talk a little while, but you just go ahead."

After formal introduction by the Colonel, General Fry did "go ahead," and discuss the financial question, the tariff, reconstruction, and dwelt earnestly and at length upon the magnanimity of the Republican party toward the men lately in rebellion against the Government. Since the surrender at Appomattox, no life had been taken, no one punished, no man ever put on his trial. It was without a parallel in history, and as a matter of simple gratitude, the Republican party was entitled to the support of the entire Southern people for such magnanimity.

The speech at length concluded, Colonel Woolford arose and without even the formality of saying "howdy," or honoring finance or tariff with the briefest mention, proceeded:

"General Fry has dwelt long and loud upon the magnanimity of the Republican party. He has told you that when the war was over and the last rebel had laid down his arms, a hand-shaking took place all around, everybody was forgiven, and the peace of heaven came down like a dove upon the whole Southern people. Yes—a hell of a magnanimity it was! How did they show the magnanimity that General Fry talks so much about? You all remember Stonewall Jackson, one of the grandest men God ever made. This same magnanimous Republican party took him prisoner, tried him by a drumhead court-martial, and shot him down like a mad dog after he had surrendered up his sword."

At which Colonel Fry interposed:

"Why, Colonel Woolford, you ought not to make such a statement as that. Stonewall Jackson was accidentally shot by one of his own men in battle, and his memory is honored by all the people North and South."

To this the Colonel replied:

"Don't try to deceive these people. We don't put on style and wear store clothes like you big folks down about Danville, but we live in our plain way, wear our home-spun and eat our hog and hominy; but if there is anything on earth that these people do love, it is the truth. What did this same magnanimous Republican party that General Fry had told you so much about do with General Robert E. Lee? I knew General Lee, I served with him in Mexico, and although we fought on different sides in the last war, I always respected him as a brave soldier. Well, after he had surrendered at Appomattox, and his men had all laid down their arms, what did this same magnanimous party that General Fry talked so much about do with General Lee? Why, they tried him by a drumhead court-martial and shot and quartered him right on the spot!"

Again interrupting, General Fry indignantly exclaimed:

"It is an outrage, Colonel Woolford, to attempt to deceive these people by such statements. General Lee was never even imprisoned, and is still alive, the president of a college in Virginia, and highly esteemed by everybody."

The Colonel answered:

"Now, General Fry, you have been treated like a gentleman ever since you came to these mountains; we gave you the best we had to eat, gave you the last drop out of the bottle, and listened quietly to you just as long as you wanted to speak. We don't wear Sunday clothes, General Fry, like you do down in Danville, but just live in our plain way in our log cabins, and eat our hoe-cake, and say our prayers, but if there is anything on God's earth that we do love, it is the truth. It is wrong for you, General Fry, to try and fool these people. Yes, this same magnanimous party that General Fry has been telling you about, what did they do with poor old Jeff Davis after he was captured? Now, I never was fond of old Jeff myself, and I fought four years against him in the last war. But I was on the same side with him in Mexico, I saw him head the charge of the Mississippi rifles, and drive back the Mexican lancers after McKee and Clay and Hardin had been killed at Buena Vista, and I know he was no coward. Well, after he was in prison and as helpless as a child, what did they do with him? Why, they just took him out, and without even giving him a drumhead trial, tied him up and burned him to ashes at a stake!"

Fry sprang to his feet, exclaiming:

"Great God! Jeff Davis is still alive, at his home in Mississippi, and has never even been tried; it is damnable to make such statements to these people, Colonel Woolford!"

The Colonel thereupon, with a deeply injured air, said:

"General Fry, you and I have been friends a life-time. We hooked watermelons, hunted coons, and attended all the frolics together when we were boys. We slept under the same blanket, belonged to the same mess, and fought side by side at Palo Alto and Cerro Gordo; we shed our blood on the same battlefields when fighting to save this glorious Union. I have loved you, General Fry, like a brother, but this is too much, it is putting friendship to a turrible test; it is a little more than flesh and blood can stand."

Pausing for a moment, he apparently recovered himself from the deep emotion he had just shown, then quietly resuming, he said, "What I have said about the way they treated old Jeff is true, and here is my witness." He called out, "Bill, tell the General what you saw them do with old Jeff."

Bill, a tall, lank, one-gallowsed mountaineer, leaning against a sapling near by, promptly deposed that he was present at the time, saw old Jeff led out, tied to a stake and finally disappear in a puff of smoke. At this, General Fry, without the formality of a farewell, immediately shook the mountain dust from his feet, mounted his horse, and, looking neither to the right nor to the left, retraced his steps to Danville, and without delay informed the State Committee that if they wanted any further joint debates with old Frank Woolford, they would have to send some one else.

Years after, seated at my desk in the Postoffice Department in Washington, after I had appointed a few cross-road postmasters for Congressman Woolford, I ventured to inquire of him whether he had ever had a joint debate with General Fry. With a suppressed chuckle, and a quaint gleam of his remaining eye, he significantly replied, "It won't do, Colonel, to believe everything you hear!"

XXII THE SAGE OF THE BAR

WITTY SAYINGS OF MR. EVARTS—HE DEFENDS PRESIDENT JOHNSON BEFORE THE COURT OF IMPEACHMENT—DIFFERENT OPINIONS AS TO THE REAL CHARACTER OF THAT TRIBUNAL—MR. BOUTWELL'S ATTEMPT TO INDICATE THE PUNISHMENT MERITED BY THE PRESIDENT—MR. EVARTS'S REPLY—EXCHANGE OF COURTESIES BY MEMBERS OF THE HOUSE.

The late William M. Evarts, at one time the head of the American bar, said many things in his lighter moments worthy of remembrance.

Upon his retirement from the bar to accept the position of Secretary of State, a farewell dinner was given him by prominent lawyers of New York. The appointments, viands, etc., it is needless to observe were all after the most approved style. Somewhat out of wont, however, a magnificent goose with all its appurtenances and suitably dished was placed immediately in front of the guest of honor.

The grosser part of the feast concluded, the toast was proposed: "The Sage of the Bar." Slowly arising, Mr. Evarts surveyed for a moment the dish before him, and began: "What a wonderful transition! An hour ago you beheld a goose stuffed with sage; you now behold a sage stuffed with goose!"

It is not entirely forgotten that during the administration of which Mr. Evarts was a part, total abstinence was faithfully enforced in the great dining-room of the Executive Mansion upon all occasions. To those who knew the Secretary of State, it is hardly necessary to say that he had little sympathy with this arrangement, that to him it was a custom "more honored in the breach than the observance."

Now it so happened that at a state dinner, upon a time, a mild punch in thimbleful instalments was served to the guests in lieu of more generous beverages. Raising the tiny vessel and bowing to the Austrian Ambassador at his side, Mr. Evarts in undertone significantly observed, "Life-saving station!"

To a "candid friend"—from whom God preserve us—who once took him to task for his lengthy and somewhat involved sentences, Evarts replied, "Oh, you are not the first man I ever encountered who objected to a long sentence."

During his official term above mentioned, Mr. Evarts accompanied a prominent member of the British Parliament to Mount Vernon. Standing in front of the old mansion, so dear to all American hearts, the distinguished visitor, looking across to the opposite shore, remarked: "I read in a history that when Washington was a boy he threw a dollar across the Potomac; remarkable indeed that he could have thrown a dollar so far, a mile away across the Potomac; very remarkable indeed, I declare." "Yes," replied Evarts, "but you must remember that a dollar would go a great deal farther then than it does now."

This incident being told to a member of Congress of Hibernian antecedents, he immediately replied: "Yes, he might have told the Britisher that when Washington was a boy he sure enough threw a dollar across the Potomac, and when he got to be a grown-up man, he threw a sovereign across the Atlantic."

Mr. Evarts was counsel for President Johnson in his famous arraignment before the Senate, sitting as a High Court of Impeachment. His speech, lasting many hours, was an able and exhaustive discussion of the salient questions involved in the trial. The leading managers upon the part of the House of Representatives were Benjamin F. Butler, George S. Boutwell, and John A. Bingham. The retort courteous was freely indulged in many times by the managers and counsel from the beginning to the close of the long-drawn-out prosecution.

It is a singular fact, and to this generation renders the entire proceeding measurably farcical, that the managers upon the part of the House, and the counsel for the impeached President, were at cross-purposes from the beginning as to the real character of the tribunal before which they were appearing. The latter regarded it as a court, and constantly addressed its presiding officer, the Chief Justice of the United States, as "Your Honor"; while the former insisted that it was only the Senate, and continually addressed the Chief Justice as "Mr. President."

The issues involved were likewise argued by the opposing counsel from wholly different standpoints. The contention of the defence as stated by counsel was:

"We are then in a court. What are you to try? You are to try the charges contained in these articles of impeachment, and nothing else. Upon what are you to try them? Not upon common fame; not upon the price of gold in New York, or upon any question of finance; not upon newspaper rumor; not upon any views of party policy; you are to try them upon the evidence offered here and nothing else, by the obligation of your oaths."

The contrary contention as stated by one of the managers was as follows:

"We define, therefore, an impeachable high crime or misdemeanor, to be one in its nature or consequences subversive of some fundamental or essential principle of government, or highly prejudicial to the public interest; and this may consist of a violation of the Constitution, of law, or of duty by an act committed or omitted, or without violating positive law, by the abuse of discretionary powers from improper motives, or for any improper purpose."

With gulf as broad between managers and counsel as that separating Dives and Lazarus, not only as to the issues to be tried, but as to the nature of the functions and designation of the tribunal before which they were appearing, and with the decision of the Chief Justice upon questions of law arising continually over-ruled by the majority of the Senators, it may reasonably be supposed that there was much in the way of "travelling out of the record" in the heated discussion which followed.

The associates of Mr. Evarts—Stanberry, Curtis, Groesbeck, and Nelson—were the most solemn of men, and whatever there was "bright with the radiance of utterance" to lessen the tension of the protracted struggle, came from his own lips.

Near the close of his speech, Manager Boutwell, in attempting to indicate the punishment merited by the accused, said:

"Travellers and astronomers inform us that in the southern heavens near the Southern Cross there is a vast space which the uneducated call a hole in the sky, where the eye of man, with the aid of the telescope, has been unable to discover nebula, or asteroid, planet, comet, star or sun. In that dreary, cold, dark region of space, which is only known to be less than infinite by the evidences of creations elsewhere, the Great Author of celestial mechanism has left the chaos which was in the beginning. If this earth were capable of the sentiments and emotions of justice and virtue which in human mortal beings are the evidences and the pledge of our divine origin and immortal destiny, it would heave and throw with the energy of the elemental forces of nature, and project this enemy of two races of men into that vast region, there forever to exist in a solitude eternal as life, or as the absence of life, emblematical of, it not really, that outer darkness of which the Saviour of Man spoke in warning to those who are the enemies of themselves, of their race, and of their God."

To the above Mr. Evarts replied:

"I may as conveniently at this point of the argument as at any other pay some attention to the astronomical punishment which the learned and honorable manager, Mr. Boutwell, thinks would be applied to this novel case of impeachment of the President. Cicero, I think it is, who says that a lawyer should know everything, for sooner or later there is no fact in history, in science, or of human knowledge, that will not come into play in his argument. Painfully sensible of my ignorance, being devoted to a profession which sharpens and does not enlarge the mind, I yet can admit without envy the superior knowledge evinced by the honorable manager. Indeed, upon my soul, I believe he is aware of an astronomical fact of which many professors of that science are wholly ignorant. Nevertheless, while some of his honorable colleagues were paying attention to an unoccupied and unappropriated island on the surface of the seas, Mr. Manager Boutwell, more ambitious, had discovered an untenanted and unappropriated region in the skies reserved, he would have us think, in the final counsels of the Almighty as the place of punishment for convicted and deposed American Presidents. At first I thought that his mind had become so enlarged that it was not sharp enough to discover that the Constitution had limited the punishment, but on reflection I saw that he was as legal and logical as he was ambitious and astronomical, for the Constitution has said 'removal from office,' and has put no distance to the limit of removal, so that it may be, without shedding a drop of his blood, or taking a penny of his property, or confining his limbs, instant removal from office, and transportation to the skies. Truly this is a great undertaking and if the learned manager can only get over the obstacles of the laws of nature, the Constitution will not stand in his way. He can contrive no method but that of a convulsion of the earth, that shall project the deposed President to this infinitely distant space; but a shock of nature of so vast energy and for so great a result on him, might unsettle even the footing of the firm members of Congress. We certainly need not resort to so perilous a method as that. How shall we accomplish it? Why, in the first place, nobody knows where that space is but the learned manager himself, and he is the necessary deputy to execute the judgment of the court."

Two of the managers, Butler and Bingham, were at sword's points, and had but recently assailed each other with great bitterness in the House. How all this was turned to account by the counsel will now appear. In vindicating the President against the charge of undignified utterances and impropriety of speech in recent public addresses, Mr. Evarts candidly admits that the Executive, whose early educational advantages had been meagre indeed, and who was confessedly untaught of the schools, "had gotten into trouble by undertaking to be logical with a metaphor."

He insisted, however, that the President should be bound by no higher standard of propriety of speech than that set by the House of which the Honorable Managers were members. The rule governing the House in such matters will readily appear from a recent exchange of courtesies between the two distinguished members referred to above, Mr. Bingham and Mr. Butler. The former said:

"I desire to say, Mr. Speaker, that it does not become a gentleman who recorded his vote fifty times for Jefferson Davis as his candidate for President of the United States, to undertake to damage this cause by attempting to cast an imputation either upon my integrity or my honor. I repel with scorn and contempt any utterance of that sort from any man, whether he be the hero of Fort Fisher, not taken, or of Fort Fisher, taken!"

To which Mr. Butler replied:

"But if during the war, the gentleman from Ohio did as much as I did in that direction, I shall be glad to recognize that much done. But the only victim of the gentleman's prowess that I know of was an innocent woman on the scaffold, one Mrs. Surratt. I can sustain the memory of Fort Fisher if he and his present associates can sustain him in shedding the blood of a woman tried by a military commission and convicted, in my judgment, without sufficient evidence!"

To which Mr. Bingham replied: "I challenge the gentleman, I dare him anywhere, in this tribunal or any tribunal, to assert that I spoliated or mutilated any book. Why, sir, such a charge without one tittle of evidence is only fit to come from a man who lives in a bottle, and is fed with a spoon!"

"Now, what under heavens that means," protested Evarts, "I do not know, but it is within the common law of courtesy in the judgment of the House of Representatives."

XXIII "THE GENTLEMAN FROM MISSISSIPPI"

JOHN ALLEN, MEMBER OF CONGRESS—HE PAYS A COMPLIMENT TO GENERAL WHEELER—HIS MODEST LUNCH—A SOUTHERNER'S VIEW OF PREDESTINATION —A SKULKER'S OBJECTION TO BE SHOT BY A "LOW-DOWN YANKEE"—JOHN ALLEN'S TILT WITH COLONEL FELLOWS.

The subject of this brief sketch is still in life, very much so; and that he

"Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath To time and mortal custom"

is the prayer of friends and political foes alike. Who does not know or has not heard of "Private John Allen," the sometime member of Congress from Mississippi? A more charming gentleman or delightful companion for the hours of recreation and gladness has rarely appeared in this old world. He was, while in his teens, a private soldier in the Confederate army, later was a practising lawyer, and in time "reluctantly yielding to the earnest solicitations of his friends," generously consented to serve a few terms in Congress. From his first entrance into the House, he was well known to all its members. No one needed an introduction—they all knew John Allen.

Upon the conclusion of his first speech, which possibly referred to the improvement of the Tombigbee River, he modestly remarked: "Now I am through my speech for this time, Mr. Speaker, and will immediately retire to the cloak-room to receive the congratulations of my friends."

Speaker Reed, with whom he was a great favorite, never failed to "recognize" John, and in fact by common consent he was always entitled to the floor. This fact will shed some light upon the following incident. During the roll-call of the House upon a motion to adjourn at a late hour of a night session, Mr. Allen passed down the aisle, with hat and overcoat upon his arm, and, stopping immediately in front of the Clerk's desk, said "Mr. Speaker, ——"

"For what purpose," said Reed, "does the gentleman from Mississippi interrupt the roll-call?"

"Mr. Speaker," continued Allen, "I rise to a parliamentary inquiry. I want to know how General Wheeler voted on this motion." To this "parliamentary inquiry" the Speaker after ascertaining the fact replied that the gentleman from Alabama had voted "aye."

"Well, then, Mr. Speaker," said John, "just put me down the same way with General Wheeler; I followed him four years, and he never led me into danger yet."

Seated one day in the Senate restaurant, I observed Mr. Allen standing at the entrance. Upon my invitation, he took a seat at my table. "What will you have, John?" said I. With an abstracted air, and the appearance of being extremely embarrassed by his surroundings, he replied, "It makes mighty little difference about me anyway," and turning to a waiter he slowly drawled out, "Bring me some terrapin and champagne." Then, in an apologetic tone he quietly observed, "I got used to that durin' the Wah."

After a moment's pause, he continued, "By the way, did you ever hear the expression 'before the Wah'?" I intimated that the expression had not wholly escaped me.

"I heard it once under rather peculiar circumstances," said John. "Down in the outskirts of my deestrict, there is an old-time religious sect known as the 'hard-shell' or 'iron-jacket' Baptists; mighty good, honest people, of course, but old-fashioned in their ways and everlastingly opposed to all new-fangled notions, such as having Temperance societies, Missionary societies, and Sunday schools. They would, however, die in their tracks before they would ever let up on the good old church doctrines, especially predestination. Oh, I tell you they were predestinarians from away back. John Calvin with his vapory views upon that question would not have been admitted even on probation. Sometimes the preacher during his sermon, turning to the Amen corner would inquire: 'When were you, my brother, predestinated to eternal salvation, or eternal damnation?'

"Well, the answer that had come down from the ages always was, 'From the foundation of the world.'

"When I was making my first race for Congress, I spoke in that neighborhood one Saturday, and stayed all night with one of the elders, and on Sunday of course I went to church. During the sermon, the preacher while holding forth as usual on his favorite doctrine, suddenly turning to a stranger who had somehow got crowded into the Amen corner, said: 'My brother, when were you predestinated to eternal salvation or eternal damnation?' To which startling inquiry the stranger, terribly embarrassed, hesitatingly answered: 'I don't adzactly remember, Parson, but I think it was befo' the Wah.'"

A comrade of John in Company G was a tow-headed, lantern-jawed fellow who never failed somehow to get to the rear and to a place of comparative safety at the first intimation of approaching battle. He was proof alike against the gibes of his comrades and the threats of his officers. Upon one occasion the approach of the enemy was heralded by a few shells bursting suggestively near the spot where Company G was stationed. The tow-headed veteran immediately began preparations to retire. With threatening mien, levelled revolver, and oaths that would have done no discredit to "our army in Flanders," the Captain ordered the skulker back into line, upon pain of instant death. Leaning upon his musket, and with familiar gaze upon his irate superior, the culprit slowly drawled: "I don't mine bein' muddered by a high-tone Southern gentleman like you, Cappen, but dam if I'm gwyen to eternally disgrace my family by lettin' one of them low-down Yankees shoot me!"

Allen was no exception to the rule that men gifted like himself are subject to occasional seasons of gloom, but his greeting usually came as a benediction. At the banquet table, when dull care was laid aside and he was surrounded by genial companions,—"for 'tis meet that noble minds keep ever with their likes"—his star was at its zenith. Then indeed, all rules were suspended; no point of order suggested—"The man and the hour had met." His marvellous narratives of quaint incidents and startling experiences, his brilliant repartee, sallies of wit, banter, and badinage have rarely been heard since the days of the Round Table or the passing of "the Star and Garter."

Once, however, John Allen confessedly met his match in the person of the Hon. John R. Fellows, who had been Colonel of an Arkansas regiment in the Confederate service; later a prominent leader of Tammany Hall, and was at the time mentioned, a Representative in Congress from New York. He was the "Prince Rupert of Debate," and was gifted with eloquence rarely equalled. At a banquet given in his honor upon his retirement from Congress, a hundred or more of his associates were guests, including, of course, the subject of this sketch. Men high in councils of State, leaders of both parties, and of both Houses, had gathered around the board, and good-fellowship and mirth reached the high-water mark. By common consent Fellows and Allen were in undisputed possession of the floor. Such passages-at-arms no pen can describe. Even "John Chamberlain's" in its palmiest days has never known the like.

Near the close Allen said:

"There is one thing I would like to have Colonel Fellows explain. He was captured the first year of the war, and never exchanged, but held as a prisoner by the Federals until the war was over. I was taken prisoner five times, and always promptly exchanged. I would like Colonel Fellows to explain how it was that he was kept in a place of safety, while I was always at the front?"

When the applause which followed had subsided, Colonel Fellows arose and said:

"I am grateful to my friend from Mississippi for giving me an opportunity to explain that part of my military record which I apprehend has never been sufficiently clear. It is true. I was taken prisoner the first year of the war, and the enemy, well knowing the danger of my being at large, persistently refused to release me until peace was restored. Had I been promptly exchanged, the result of that war might have been different! But why it was, that my friend from Mississippi was so repeatedly and promptly exchanged is a question that until yesterday I have never been able to understand. It has given me deep concern. I have pondered over it during the silent watches of the night. Yesterday, however, my mind was completely set at rest upon that question by reading the correspondence—to be found in Volume 748, page 421 of the 'Record of the War of the Rebellion'—between President Lincoln and President Davis relating to the exchange of Private John Allen of Company G, Fourteenth Mississippi Volunteers. The correspondence covers many pages of this valuable publication, but I will read only the closing communication."

And while John with a new supply of terrapin before him was listening intently, Fellows carefully adjusting his eye-glasses and taking a letter from his pocket, continued:

"The letter I will read from President Lincoln concluded the correspondence, and is as follows: 'Dear Jeff: With this I return you Private John Allen of Company G, Fourteenth Mississippi. I require no prisoner in exchange. The Lord's truth is, Jeff, I had rather fight John than feed him!'"

XXIV AN OLD-TIME COUNTRY DOCTOR

THE WRITER AT HIS INN, THE TRAVELLER'S HOME—DOCTOR JOHN, ONE OF HIS EARLIEST ACQUAINTANCES—THE DOCTOR'S LIBERALITY IN ADMINISTERING MEDICINE—A DISAPPOINTMENT IN EARLY LIFE—THE DOCTOR'S IGNORANCE OF THE "SOLAR SYSTEM"—A DIFFICULTY WITH THE LANDLADY—A QUESTION OF ORTHOGRAPHY—THE DOCTOR AS A MEMBER OF A TOTAL-ABSTINENCE SOCIETY.

Upon my admission to the bar in 1858, I located at Metamora, a village of five hundred inhabitants, about forty miles northwest of Bloomington. It was beautifully and quietly situated, eight miles from the railroad, and was at the time the county-seat of Woodford County, one of the finest agricultural portions of Illinois.

Metamora contained many delightful families, and a cordial welcome was accorded me. The old tavern, "Traveller's Home," was mine inn, and as a hostelry it possessed rare advantages. The one that chiefly recommended it to me was its extremely moderate charges. Two dollars and a half per week for board and lodging, "washing and mending" included, were the inviting terms held out to all comers and goers. There was much, however, in the surroundings, appointments, etc., of this ancient inn, little calculated to reconcile delicately toned mortals to things of sense. It was of this place of entertainment that Colonel Ingersoll spoke when, in his description of the tapestry of Windsor Castle, he said that it reminded him of a Metamora table-cloth the second week of court.

The dear old tavern has fallen a victim to the remorseless tooth of time, but, in the palmy days of Metamora, when it was the county-seat, and the Spring and Fall terms of court were as regular in their coming as the seasons themselves, the old tavern was in its glory, and for all "transients" and "regulars" it was the chief objective point. For a decade or more its walls gave shelter to Judge Treat, Judge Davis, Mr. Lincoln, General Gridley, Judge Purple, and more than once to General Shields and Stephen A. Douglas. At a later date it was upon like occasion the stopping place of Colonel Ingersoll, John Burns, Judge Shaw, James S. Ewing, Robert E. Williams, Judge Richmond, and other well-known members of the bar.

One of my earliest acquaintances in Metamora, and one not soon to be forgotten, was Doctor John—familiarly called "Doc," except upon state occasions. As I write, the vision of the Doctor arises before me out of the mists of the shadowy past. His personal appearance was indeed remarkable. Standing six feet six in his number elevens, without an ounce of superfluous flesh, a neck somewhat elongated and set off to great advantage by an immense "Adam's apple," which appeared to be constantly on duty, head large and features a trifle exaggerated, and with iron gray locks hanging gracefully over his slightly stooped shoulders, the Doctor would have given pause to the McGregor, even with foot upon his native heather. He first saw the light of day in the "Panhandle" of the Old Dominion; the part thereof afterwards detached for the formation of the new State. How this all came about was to the Doctor as inexplicable as the riddle of the Sphinx; but he scouted the thought that he had ever ceased to be a son of "the real old Virginny." He claimed to be a descendant of one of "the first families," and there lingered about him in very truth much of the chivalric bearing of the old cavalier stock. No man living could possibly have invited a gentleman "to partake of some spirits" or "to participate in a glass of beer," in a loftier manner than did the Doctor. Not himself a member of the visible church, nor even an occasional attendant upon its service, the heart of the Doctor nevertheless, like that of the renowned Cave Burton, responded feelingly to every earnest supplication "for the preservation of the kindly fruits of the earth to be enjoyed in due season." And with the Doctor, as with Cave, the question of the quantity of the kindly fruits thus preserved was of far greater moment than any mere matter of sentiment as to their quality.

The intellectual attainments of the Doctor, it must be admitted, were not of the highest order. He was a student of men rather than of books. He had journeyed but little along the flowery paths of literature. He never gave "local habitation or name" to the particular Medical College which had honored him with its degree. He was, as he often asserted, of the "epleptic" school of medicine. In reply to my inquiry as to what that really was, he solemnly asservated that it was the only school which permitted its practitioners to accept all that was good, and reject all that was bad, of all the other schools. In his practice he had a supreme contempt for what he called "written proscriptions," and often boasted that he never allowed one of them to go out of his office. He infinitely preferred to compound his own medicines, which, with the aid of mortar and pestle, he did in unstinted measure in his office. On rainy days and during extremely healthy seasons, his stock was thereby largely augmented. In administering his "doses" his generous spirit manifested itself as clearly as along other lines. No "pent-up Utica" contracted his powers. It has been many times asserted, and with apparent confidence, that no patient of his ever complained of not having received full measure. There were no Oliver Twists among his patients. It was a singular fact in all the professional experience of this eminent practitioner, that his patients, regardless of age or sex, were all afflicted with a like malady. Many a time as he returned from a professional visit, mounted on his old roan, with his bushel measure medicine bag thrown across his saddle, in answer to my casual inquiry as to the ailment of his patient, he gave in oracular tones, the one all-sufficient reply, "only a slight derangement of the nervous system."