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 5)

He never quite forgave Mr. Lincoln the reply he once made to an ill-advised interruption of the Doctor during a political speech. "Well, well, Doctor," replied Mr. Lincoln, good-humoredly, "I will take anything from you except your medicines."

The Doctor was a bachelor, and his "May of life" had fallen into the sear and yellow leaf at the time of which we write. He was still, however, as he more than once assured me, an ardent admirer of "the opposing sect."

In one of his most confidential moods, he disclosed to me the startling fact that he had in early life been the victim of a misplaced confidence. In an unguarded moment he entrusted the idol of his heart to the safe keeping of a friend, in the whiteness of whose soul he trusted as in a mother's love, while he, the confiding Doctor, journeyed westward to seek a home.

"He knew not the doctrine of ill-doing, Nor dreamed that any did."

Alas for human frailty, "the badge of all our race." Upon his return after an absence of several moons, he found to his unspeakable dismay that that same "friend" had taken to wife the idol whose image had so long found lodgment in the Doctor's own sad heart. Too late he realized, as wiser men have done before and since, that

"Friendship is constant in all other things Save in the office and affairs of love."

The Doctor was much given at times to what he denominated "low down talks" such as are wont when kindred souls hold close converse. Seated in my office on one occasion, at the hour when churchyards yawn, and being as he candidly admitted in a somewhat "reminiscent" mood, he unwittingly gave expression to thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls, when I made earnest inquiry, "Doctor, what in your judgment as a medical man is to be the final destination of the human soul?" The solemn hour of midnight, together with the no less solemn inquiry, at once plunged the Doctor into deep thought. First carefully changing his quid from the right to the left jaw, he slowly and as if thoughtfully measuring his words, replied: "Brother Stevenson, the solar system are one of which I have given very little reflection."

It is a sad fact that in this world the best of men are not wholly exempt from human frailties. Even in the noble calling of medicine there have been at times slight outcroppings of a spirit of professional jealousy. That the subject of these brief chronicles was no exception to this infirmity will appear from a remark he once made in regard to a professional contemporary whose practice had gradually encroached upon the Doctor's beat. Said he: "They talk a good deal about this Doc Wilson's practice; but I'll 'low that my books will show a greater degree of mortality than what hisn will."

The Doctor was one of the regular boarders at the historic inn already mentioned. By long and faithful service he had won the honored position of chief boarder, and his place by common consent was at the head of the table. No one who ever sat at that delightful board could forget the dignified manner in which the Doctor would take his accustomed seat, and without unnecessary delay proceed to appropriate whatever viands might be within his reach. As a matter of especial grace upon the part of the good landlady, an old-fashioned corn pone and a pitcher of sweet milk appeared occasionally upon the supper table of this most excellent inn. Such visitations were truly regarded, even by the veterans, as very oases in the desert of life. Now, it so happened, that upon a cold December evening, between the first and second tolling of the supper bell, the boarders in anxious expectancy were awaiting the final summons, in a small chamber hard by the dining-room. To this assembly the writer hereof remarked: "It seems to me, gentlemen, that it has been a long time since we have been favored with pone bread and sweet milk. I therefore move that Doctor John be appointed a committee of one to request Mrs. Sparks to have these delicacies for supper to-morrow night."

A hearty second was immediately given by Whig Ewing, Esq., at a later day distinguished both as an orator and a Judge. Without shadow of opposition the resolution was adopted, and upon summons the boarders were almost immediately thereafter in their accustomed places at the table. Turning to the landlady as she slowly approached with a platter of cold biscuits, the Doctor in most conciliatory tones said: "Mrs. Sparks, at a regular meeting of the borders held this evening I was appointed a committee of one to invite you to have corn pone and sweet milk to-morrow evening." A deep frown at once encircled the fair brow of our hostess. Unlike that of the late Mrs. Tam O'Shanter, her wrath needed no nursing to keep it warm. Advancing a step, and with apparent effort suppressing her emotion, she slowly articulated "What did you say, Doctor?" Presaging danger in the very air, the Doctor repeated in husky tones, "At a regular meeting of the boarders held this evening, I was appointed a committee of one to invite you to have corn bread for supper to-morrow evening." At the repetition the frown upon the brow of the fair one darkened and deepened. Advancing a step nearer the object of her wrath, she said, "If you or any of the other boarders are dissatisfied with my house, you can leave, and leave now!"

With the thermometer at zero and Peoria seventeen miles away, and the Illinois out of its banks, there was little that was comforting in her words. The stillness of the grave was upon that little assembly. At length, to relieve the strain of the situation, if possible, the writer inquired, "What was your remark, Doctor John?" to which the Doctor, in a tome somewhat hopeful but by no means confident, replied, "I was just remarking to our beloved landlady, brother Stevenson, that at a regular meeting of the boarders held this evening I was appointed a committee to invite her to have corn bread for supper to-morrow night." To which I modestly replied, "Well, if any such meeting as that was ever held, it is very strange that I heard nothing about it." This kindly observation only deepened the gloom, and perceptibly lessened the distance between the irate hostess and the chief boarder. The latter in sheer desperation at length appealed for succor to Ewing, who until this moment, strangely enough, had been an attentive listener. Thus appealed to, the latter, with Prince Albert buttoned to the very top, and with the statesman's true pose, said:

"I beg to assure you, Mrs. Sparks, that I am profoundly ignorant of any such meeting of the boarders as has been indicated. Had I been apprised that such meeting was contemplated I would have attended and used by utmost endeavor to secure the defeat of its ill-timed resolution. Let me say further, madam, that I am not fond of corn bread. The biscuits with which we are nourished from day to day are exactly to my taste, and even if they were a few degrees colder I would cherish them still the more fondly. In the years gone by, madam, I have been a guest at the Astor, the Galt, the St. Charles, and at the best hotels in London and upon the continent of Europe. None of them in my humble judgment are comparable to this. I assure you solemnly, madam, that I have lingered in this village month after month only because of my reluctance to tear myself away from your most excellent hotel."

With finger raised, step advanced, and eye fixed uncharitably upon the offending physician, the gentle hostess in voice little above a whisper, said, "Doc, I think you made that up out of whole cloth." The crisis was reached; flesh and blood could endure no more. The Doctor rose, and waiving all formalities and farewells, "stood not upon the order of his going."

For reasons unnecessary to explain, I did not seek the Doctor that evening nor the following day. Morning and noon came and went, but the chief boarder did not appear. The vacant chair was to those who lingered a pathetic reminder of the sad departure. When, upon the following evening, the surviving boarders gathered to their accustomed places, they beheld in wonderment a splendid pone, savory and hot, flanked upon its left by the old yellow pitcher filled to its brim with rich, sweet milk.

A moment later, and all eyes were turned to the open door through which a once familiar figure moved to his seat. Suddenly stretching both arms to the middle of the table, with one hand the good Doctor grasped the pone, and with the other the pitcher, and holding both aloft as he gazed upon each boarder in turn, exclaimed, "I understand the boarders are not fond of corn bread." In the twinkling of an eye, the Doctor, the pitcher, the pone had all disappeared from the dining-room, and the latter two were ne'er heard of more. The poetic justice of the situation, however, was so complete, that no word of complaint was ever uttered.

Some weeks after the events last narrated, I heard the sound of many voices accompanied by peals of laughter coming from the office of Doctor John. Stopping at his door, I soon learned that the tumult was occasioned by a discussion as to whether the Doctor could spell "sugar" correctly. The faction adverse to the physician was led by one William Hawkins, a country schoolmaster. The latter and his allies bantered and badgered the old Doctor to their hearts' content. Rendered desperate at length by their merciless gibes, the Doctor, taking from his vest pocket a five-dollar bill—one I had loaned him an hour before with which to pay a couple of weeks' boards—he offered to bet the full amount that he could spell the word correctly. A like amount being at length raised by the adverse faction, the question at once arose as to who should be the arbiter. Observing me for the first time as I stood at the door, the Doctor declared his willingness to accept me as "empire." It may here be remarked that the honorable office to which I was thus nominated is sometimes called "umpire." Webster, Worcester, and possibly other lexicographers give the latter pronunciation the preference. But the Doctor being "an old settler" and much better acquainted in that locality than either of the other authorities, his preference will be recognized, and "empire" it will be to the end of this chapter. At all events my nomination—for the first and only time—was unanimously concurred in. Stepping at once into the office and confronting the leaders of the opposing faction, I stated candidly that while I highly appreciated the distinction tendered, still I was unwilling to accept the responsible position of "empire" save upon the explicit agreement that, whatever the decision, there should be no complaint or grumbling upon the part of the disaffected or disgruntled hereafter; that "empires" after all were only men and liable to the mistakes and errors incident to our poor humanity. To the end, therefore, that an "empire" act with proper independence, it was all important that his decision pass unchallenged. These reasonable requirement being readily acquiesced in, the office was accepted and the money hazarded by each faction carefully deposited in the "empire's" vest pocket. The arbiter now solemnly addressing the principal actor said: "Doctor, the word is, 'sugar'; proceed to spell."

The Doctor immediately stood up. The psychological question, if it be such, is here presented whether standing is the more eligible position for the severe mental effort indicated above. Waiving all discussion upon this interesting point, the fact is here faithfully chronicled that the Doctor stood up. Looking neither to the right nor to the left, but standing majestically in the middle of the room, and presenting in some of its characteristics the beauty and symmetry of an inverted L, the Doctor began, "S-h-o-o-g ——" whereupon the little schoolmaster burst into loud laughing. Solemnly warning him against the repetition of such conduct, the arbiter reminded him that such manifestations in the very presence of the "empire," were in some countries punished with immediate death, and again significantly warned him against its recurrence. At the same time the Doctor was reminded that he had not yet completed the spelling of the word. The Doctor replied, "If it is all the same to you, Mr. Empire, I believe I will begin all over again." Permission being granted, the spelling was resumed: "S-h-o-o-g-o-r." To this the arbiter responded, "You have spelled the word correctly, Doctor," and immediately handed him the stakes.

One of the interesting events occurring during my residence in Metamora, was a noted temperance revival under the auspices of "the Grand Worthy Deputy" of a well-known temperance organization. A lodge was duly organized, and a profound interest aroused in the good work. During the visit of the excellent lady who bore with becoming modesty the somewhat formidable title above given, the interest deepened, meetings were of nightly occurrence, and large numbers were gathered into the fold. For many days ordinary pursuits were suspended, and the grand cause was the only and all-absorbing topic of conversation.

Chief among the initiated was our old friend Doctor John. His conversion created a profound sensation, and it veritably seemed for a time as though a permanent breach had been effected in the ramparts of Satan. It was even boasted that the Presbyterian clergyman, one saloon keeper, and the writer of these truthful annals were, as Judge Tipton would say, "substantially" the only adherents remaining to His Satanic Majesty. The pressure was, however, soon irresistible, and the writer, deserting his sometime associates, at length passed over to the _un_silent majority.

The Doctor was the bearer of my petition, and in due time and as the sequel will show, for only a short time, I was in good and regular standing. As explanatory of the sudden termination of what might under happier auspices have proved an eminently useful career, it may be casually mentioned that upon the writer's first introduction into the lodge, in answer to the official inquiry solemnly propounded, "Why do you seek admission into our honorable order?" he unwittingly replied, "Because Doctor John joined."

This was for the moment permitted to pass, and the exercises of the session reached the high-water mark of entertainment. At some time during the evening, by way of "exemplifying the work," Doctor John had for the second time taken the solemn vow henceforth and forever to abstain from the use of all fluids of alcoholic, vinous, or fermented character.

The hour for separation at length drew nigh. Thus far all had gone merry as a marriage bell. All signs betokened fair weather. Barring the temporary commotion occasioned by the uncanonical reply of the writer above given, not a ripple had appeared upon the surface. It was at length announced that this was the last evening that the Grand Worthy Deputy could be with us, as she was to leave for her distant home by the stage coach in the early morning. Splendidly set off in her great robes of office, her farewell words of instruction, encouragement, and admonition, were then most tenderly spoken. Before pronouncing the final farewell—"that word which makes us linger"—she calmly remarked that this would be her last opportunity to expound any constitutional question that might hereafter arise pertaining to the well-being of the order, and that she would gladly answer any inquiry that any brother or sister about the lodge might propose. Her seat was then resumed, and silence for the time reigned supreme. At length, amid stillness that could no longer be endured, she arose and advancing to the front of the platform, repeated, in manner more solemn than before, the invitation above given. Still there was no response. It all seemed formidable and afar off. In the hope that he might in some measure dispel the embarrassment, the unworthy chronicler of these important events, from his humble place in the northwest corner of the lodge, for the first and last time addressed the chair. Permission being graciously given him to proceed, he candidly admitted that he had no constitutional question himself to propound, but that Brother John was in grave doubt touching a question upon which he would be glad to have the opinion of the chair.

"I understand," continued the speaker, "from the nature of the pledge that if any brother, or sister even for that matter, should partake of liquors alcoholic, vinous, or fermented, he or she would be liable to expulsion from the order. Am I correct?"

"That is certainly correct, Brother Stevenson," was the prompt reply in no uncertain tone.

"I so understand it," continued the speaker, "and so does Brother John. What he seeks to know is this: If in an unguarded moment he should hearken to the voice of the tempter, and so far forget his solemn vows as to partake of alcoholic, vinous, or fermented liquors, and be expelled therefor, would he thereby be wholly beyond the pale of the lodge, or would he by virtue of his second obligation taken this night, have another chance, and still retain his membership in the order?"

The official answer, in tone no less uncertain than before, was instantly given.

"No, sir, if Brother John or you either, should drink one drop of the liquors mentioned and be expelled therefor, you would both be helplessly beyond the pale of the lodge, even though you had both taken the obligation a thousand times!"

As the ominous applause which followed died away, Brother John, half arising in his seat, vehemently exclaimed,

"Mrs. Worshipful Master, I never told him to ask no such damn fool question!"

XXV A QUESTION OF AVAILABILITY

A POLITICAL BANQUET IN ATLANTA, GA.—GENERAL GORDON PROPOSED "THE DEMOCRACY OF ILLINOIS"—THE WRITER'S RESPONSE—A DESIRE IN ILLINOIS TO NOMINATE THE HON. DAVID DAVIS FOR PRESIDENT.

About the year of grace 1889, a number of distinguished statesmen were invited to attend a political banquet to be given by the local Democratic Association of the splendid city of Atlanta, Georgia. Among the guests were Representative Flower of New York and General Collins of Massachusetts; the chief guest of the occasion was the Hon. David B. Hill, then the Governor of New York. The banquet was under the immediate auspices of the lamented Gordon, and of Grady of glorious memory. The board literally groaned under the rarest viands, and Southern hospitality was at its zenith. It was, all in all, an occasion to live in memory. I was not one of the invited guests of the committee, but being in a neighboring city was invited by Mr. Grady to be present.

At the conclusion of the feast, a toast was proposed to "The Gallant Democracy of New York." Glasses were touched and the enthusiasm was unbounded. The toast was of course responded to by the distinguished Governor of the Empire State. He was at his best. His speech, splendid in thought and diction, was heard with breathless interest.

The keynote was struck, and speech after speech followed in the proper vein. There was no discordant note, the burden of every speech being the gallant Democracy and splendid statesmanship of the great State of New York.

When the distinguished guests had all spoken, the master of ceremonies, General Gordon, proposed a toast to "The Democracy of Illinois," and called upon me to respond. I confessed that I was only an average Democrat from Illinois; that way out there we were content to be of the rank and file, and of course to follow the splendid leadership and the gallant Democracy of which we had heard so much. To vote for a New York candidate had by long usage become a fixed habit with us, in fact, we would hardly know how to go about voting for a candidate from any other State; and I then related an incident on the question of supporting the ticket, which I thought might be to the point.

In 1872, in the portion of Illinois in which I live, there was an earnest desire on the part of conservative Democrats and liberal Republicans, to elect the Hon. David Davis to the Presidency. He had been a Whig in early life, brought up in the school of Webster and Clay, and was later the devoted personal and political friend of Mr. Lincoln. An earnest Union man during the war, he had at its close favored the prompt restoration to the Southern people of all their rights under the Constitution. As a judge of the Supreme Court, he had rendered a decision in which human life was involved, in which he had declared the supremacy of the Federal Constitution in war as well as in peace. Believing that he would prove an acceptable candidate, I had gladly joined the movement to secure his nomination at the now historic convention which met at Cincinnati in May, 1872. For many weeks prior to the meeting of that convention, there was little talked of in central Illinois but the nomination of Judge Davis for President. Morning, noon, and night, "Davis, Davis, Davis," was the burden of our song.

He did not, as is well known, receive the nomination, that honor, of course, passing to a distinguished Democratic statesman of New York.

Two or three days before I was to leave my home for the Cincinnati convention, an old Democratic friend from an adjoining county came into my office. He was an old-timer in very truth. He was born in Tennessee, had when a mere boy fought under Jackson at Talladega, Tallapoosa, and New Orleans, had voted for him three times for the Presidency, and expected to join him when he died. He had lived in Illinois since the "big snow," and his party loyalty was a proverb.

As I shook hands with him when he came into my office, he laid aside his saddle-bags, stood his rifle in the corner, took off his blanket overcoat, and seating himself by the fire, inquired how my "folks" all were. The answer being satisfactory, and the fact ascertained by me that his own "folks" were well, he asked.

"Mr. Stevenson, who are you fur fur President?"

Unhesitatingly and earnestly I replied, "Davis."

A shade, as of disappointment, appeared for a moment upon his countenance, but instantly recovering himself, he said, "Well, if they nominate him, we will give him the usual majority in our precinct, but don't you think, Mr. Stevenson, it is a leetle airly to bring old Jeff out?"

XXVI A STATESMAN OF A PAST ERA

ZEBULON B. VANCE, THE IDOLIZED GOVERNOR OF NORTH CAROLINA—HIS LEARNING AND HIS HUMOR—HE RECALLS MEN AND MATTERS OF THE OLDEN TIME—HE SUITS HIS CREED TO HIS AUDIENCE—HIS SPEECH IN FAVOR OF HORACE GREELEY.

A name to conjure with in the old North State is Zeb Vance. What Lee was to Virginia, Hendricks to Indiana, Clay to Kentucky, and Lincoln to Illinois, Zebulon B. Vance was for a lifetime to North Carolina. He was seldom spoken of as Governor, or Senator, but alike in piny woods and in the mountains, he was familiarly called "Zeb Vance." He was the idol of all classes and conditions. A decade has gone since he passed to the grave, but his memory is still green. A grateful people have erected a monument to commemorate his public services, while from the French Broad to the Atlantic, alike in humble cabin and stately home, his name is a household word.

"He had kept the whiteness of his soul, And thus men o'er him wept."

The expression "rare," as given to Ben Jonson, might with equal propriety be applied to Senator Vance. Deeply read in classic lore, a profound lawyer, and an indefatigable student from the beginning in all that pertained to human government, he was the fit associate of the most cultured in the drawing-room or the Senate. None the less, with the homely topics of everyday life for discussion, he was equally at home, and ever a welcome guest at the hearthstone of the humblest dweller in pine forest and mountain glen of his native State.

Of all the men I have ever known, Vance was par excellence the possessor of the wondrous gift of humor. It was ingrained; literally a part of his very being. He once told me that he thought his fame for one generation, at least, was secure, inasmuch as one-half of the freckled-faced boys and two-thirds of the "yaller" dogs in North Carolina had been named in his honor.

Upon one occasion in the Senate, a bill he had introduced was bitterly antagonized by a member who took occasion in his speech, while questioning the sincerity of Vance, to extol his own honesty of purpose. In replying to the vaunt of superior honesty by his opponent, Vance quoted the old Southland doggerel:

"De darky in de ole camp ground Dat loudest sing and shout Am gwine to rob a hen-roost Befo' de week am out."

The summer home of Senator Vance during the later years of his life was in his native county of Buncombe, about twenty miles from Asheville, where for some days I was his guest, many years ago. Leaving the cars at the nearest station and following the trail for a dozen miles, I found the Senator snugly ensconced in his comfortable home at the top of the mountain. He was alone, his family being "down in the settlements," as he told me. An old negro man to whom Vance once belonged, as he assured me, was housekeeper, cook, and butler, besides being the incumbent of various other offices of usefulness and dignity.

The first inquiry from Vance as, drenched with rain, I entered his abode and approached a blazing fire, was, "Are you dry?" It would only gratify an idle curiosity to tell how the first moments of this memorable visit passed. Suffice it to say that old-time Southern hospitality was at its best, and so continued till the morning of the fifth day, when I descended in company with my host to the accustomed haunts of busy men.

The days and evenings passed with Vance at the cheerful fireside of his mountain home still live in my memory. He literally "unfolded himself," and it was indeed worth while to listen to his description of the quaint times and customs with which he was familiar in the long ago, to hear of the men he had known and of the stormy events of which he had been a part.

His public life reached back to a time anterior to the war. He was in Congress when its Representatives assembled in the Old Hall, now the "Valhalla" of the nation. Events once of deep significance were recalled from the mists of a long past; men who had strutted their brief hour upon the stage and then gone out with the tide were made to live again. Incidents once fraught with deep consequence but now relegated to the by-paths of history, were again in visible presence, as if touched by the enchanter's wand.

The scenes, of which he was the sad and silent witness, attendant upon the withdrawal of his colleagues and associates from both chambers of the Capitol, and the appeal to the sword—precursors of the chapter of blood yet to be written—were never more graphically depicted by mortal tongue.

I distinctly recall, even at this lapse of time, some of the incidents he related. When first he was a candidate for Congress, far back in the fifties, his district embraced a large portion of the territory of the entire western part of his State. Fully to appreciate what follows, it must be remembered that at that time there was in the backwoods country, and in the out-of-the-way places, far off from the great highways, much of antagonism between the various religious denominations. At times much of the sermons of the rural preachers consisted of denunciations of other churches. By a perusal of the autobiography of the Rev. Peter Cartwright, it will be seen that western North Carolina was only in line with other portions of the great moral vineyard. The doctrines peculiar to the particular denomination were preached generally with great earnestness and power. "Blest be the tie that binds our hearts in Christian love," was too seldom heard in the rural congregations. In too many, indeed, Christian charity, even in a modified form, was an unknown quantity.

Under the conditions mentioned, to say that seekers of public place obeyed the Apostolic injunction to be "all things to all men" is only to say that they were—candidates.

It so fell out that our candidate for Congress at the time mentioned was quietly threading his way on horseback to meet his appointment. Far out from the county seat, in a wild and sparsely populated locality, at a sudden turn in the road he found himself in the immediate presence of a worshipping congregation in God's first temple. It was what is known in mountain parlance as a "protracted meeting." The hour was noon, and the little flock had just been called from labor to refreshment. The cloth was spread in the shade of a large tree, and liberally supplied with ham, fried chicken, salt-rising bread, corn dodgers, cucumber pickles, and other wholesome edibles. When Vance appeared upon the scene, the leader of the little flock at once greeted him with cordial invitation to "light and take a bite with us." The candidate accepted the invitation, and fastening his horse to a convenient tree, approached the assembled worshippers, introducing himself as "Zeb Vance, Whig candidate for Congress." The thought uppermost in his soul as he shook hands all around and accepted the proffered hospitality was, "What denomination is this? Methodist? Baptist? What?" As soon as this inquiry could be satisfactorily answered, he was, of course, ready to join; his "letter" was ready to be handed in. But as he quickly scanned the faces about him, he could get no gleam of light upon the all-important question. Suddenly his meditations were ended, the abstract giving way to the concrete, by the aforementioned leader abruptly inquiring, "Mr. Vance, what persuasion are you of?"

The hour had struck. The dreaded inquiry must be answered satisfactorily and at once. That Vance was equal to the emergency will be seen from the sequel.

Promptly laying down the chicken leg, the chunk of salt-rising bread, and cucumber pickle with which he had been abundantly supplied by one of the dear old sisters, and assuming an appropriate oratorical pose, with his eyes intent upon his interrogator, he began:

"My sainted grandfather was, during the later years of his long and useful life, a ruling elder in the Presbyterian Church." The gathering brow and shaking head of the local shepherd would even to a less observing man than the candidate have been sufficient warning that he was on the wrong trail. "But," continued the speaker, "my father during long years of faithful service in the Master's cause was an equally devout member of the Methodist Episcopalian Church."

The sombre aspect of the shepherd, with the no less significant shake of the head, was unmistakable intimation to our candidate that danger was in the very air. Rallying himself, however, for the last charge, with but one remaining shot in his locker, the orator earnestly resumed: "But, when I came to the years of maturity, and was able, after prayer and meditation, to read and understand that blessed book myself, I came to the conclusion that the old Baptist Church was right."

"Bless God!" exclaimed the old preacher, seizing Vance by the hand. "He is all right, brethren! Oh, you'll get all the votes in these parts, Brother Vance!"

Talking along religious lines at the time of the visit mentioned, he illustrated the difference between profession and practice. "Now, there is my brother Bob," referring to General Robert B. Vance; "he is, you know, a Methodist, and believes in falling from grace, but he never falls, while I am a Presbyterian, and don't believe in falling from grace, but I am always falling!"

The first wife of Senator Vance was a Presbyterian. Some years after her death, he was married to an excellent lady, a devoted member of the Roman Catholic Church. Soon thereafter, he was taken to task by an old Presbyterian neighbor, who expressed great surprise that he should marry a Catholic. "Well," replied the Senator with imperturbably good humor, "the fact is, Uncle John, as I had tried Rum, and tried Rebellion, I just thought I would try Romanism too!"

Many years ago, near the western border of Buncombe County, lived an old negro who had in early life been a member of the family of the father of Senator Vance. In a little cabin at the foot of the mountain, "Uncle Ephraim," as the old negro was familiarly called, was, as he had been for two or three decades, "living on borrowed time." How old he was no man could tell. When in confidential mood, he would sometimes tell of the troubles he and his old master used to have with the Tories during the Revolutionary War.

Mr. Vance, in his first race for Congress, having finished his speech at the cross-roads near by, visited the old man, from whom, of course, he received a warm welcome. In reply to the inquiry of his visitor as to how he was getting along, the old negro slowly replied:

"Mighty po'ly, mighty po'ly, Mause Zeb, mighty po'ly forninst the things of dis world, but it's all right over yander, over yander."

"What church do you belong to, Uncle Ephraim?" said Vance.

"Well, Mause Zeb, I's a Presbyterian."

"Uncle Ephraim," said Vance with great solemnity, "do you believe in the doctrine of election?"

After a pause and with equal solemnity, the old man responded: "Mause Zeb, I don't pertend to understand fully the ins and outs of dat doctrine, but 'cordin' to my understandin', it's de doctrine of de Bible, and I bleebes it."

"Uncle Ephraim," said Vance, "do you think I have been elected?"

"Mause Zeb," said the old man in pathetic tone, "ef it's jest de same to you, I would a leetle ruther you would wifdraw dat question. I's poorty ole and gittn' a little too near de grabe to tell a lie, but de fac am, I bin livin' round in dese parts nigh onto a hundred years and knowed a heap of de big mens dat's dead and gone, and I neber yet knowed nor hear tell of no man bein' 'lected, what wan't a candidate."

Like many other orators of his party, Senator Vance found the position of champion of the Democratic nominee for President in 1872 one of extreme embarrassment. A story he occasionally told, however, relieved the situation greatly. He said: "My fellow-citizens, I am somewhat in the position of an old-time illiterate backwoods preacher, who was with great difficulty able to read off, after a fashion, one favorite hymn at which his book always opened at the opportune moment. One Sunday morning, just before the beginning of the services, some mischievous boys, not having the fear of the Lord before their eyes, got hold of the book and pasted 'Old Grimes' over the favorite hymn. At the auspicious moment the book opened at the accustomed place, and the old preacher, after properly adjusting his glasses, slowly began: 'Old Grimes is dead, that good old man.' Amazed beyond description, the preacher instantly suspended the reading, carefully wiped off his glasses, looked appealingly to the congregation, and again solemnly and slowly began: 'Old Grimes is dead, that good old man.' The congregation now equally astonished with himself, the aged pastor suspended the reading, carefully removed his glasses, and laying down the book, solemnly observed: 'My beloved friends, I have been a-readin' and a-singin' outen this blessed book for nigh onto forty year, and I never seed this hymn in thar before; but it's in thar, brethren, and we'll sing it through if it smashes up this meetin!'

"Now," continued Vance, "my beloved brethren, I have been a-readin' and a-votin' of the Democrat ticket nigh onto forty year, and I never seed the name of old Horace Greeley on a Democrat ticket before; but it's on thar, brethren, and we'll vote it through if it kills us—and it does come devilish near killing the most of us!"

XXVII NOT GUILTY OF PREACHING THE GOSPEL

THE "DRAKE CONSTITUTION" IN MISSOURI—THE CRIME OF PREACHING THE GOSPEL—A PROVISION OF THIS CONSTITUTION FOUND TO BE A VIOLATION OF THE CONSTITUTION OF THE UNITED STATES—MINISTERS OF VARIOUS SECTS TRIED FOR PREACHING WITHOUT FIRST TAKING AN OATH TO SUPPORT THE "DRAKE CONSTITUTION"—THE JUDGE FINDS THAT NOT ONE OF THEM HAS PREACHED THE GOSPEL.

The "holding" of a nisi prius judge upon one of the western circuits of Missouri, near the close of the Civil War, is without a precedent, and it is quite probable that no occasion will ever arise for citing it as an authority. It will remain, however, a case in point of how a "horse-sense" judge can protect the innocent against unusual and unjust prosecution.

What is known in Missouri history as the "Drake Constitution" had then but recently supplanted the organic law under which the State had for a long time had its being. No counterpart of the Constitution mentioned has ever been framed in any of the American States. It could have been only the product of the evil days when "judgment had fled to brutish beasts, and men had lost their reason." Possibly at no time or place in our history has there been more emphatic verification of the axiom, "In the midst of arms, the laws are silent."

The "Drake Constitution" was formulated at a time when fierce passion was at its height, when the sad consequences of civil war were felt at every fireside, when neighbor was arrayed against neighbor, the hand of brother uplifted against brother, and "a man's foes were they of his own household." As is well known, certain provisions of this Constitution were, at a later day—upon a writ of error—set aside by the Supreme Court of the United States as being in violation of the Federal Constitution. One of the thirty distinct affirmations or tests of the Drake Constitution was to the effect that, if any minister or priest should be guilty of the crime of preaching the Gospel, or of solemnizing the rite of marriage, without first having taken an oath to support said Constitution, he should, upon conviction, be subjected to a fine of not less than five hundred dollars, imprisonment for six months in the common jail, or both.

Under the provision indicated, a Catholic priest was convicted in one of the circuit courts of Missouri, and duly sentenced to fine and imprisonment. Upon his appeal, the Supreme Court of the United States reversed the decision of the lower court, and virtually abrogated the provision of the Constitution under which the accused had been convicted. The great court of last resort decided the test oath, imposed as above mentioned, to be a violation of that provision of the Constitution of the United States which declares, "No State shall pass any bill of attainder, or ex post facto law." It held a bill of attainder to be "a legislative act which inflicts punishment without a judicial trial"; and an ex post facto law "one which imposes a punishment for an act which was not punishable at the time it was committed; or imposes additional punishment to that then prescribed." The court said: "The oath thus required is, for its severity, without any precedent that we can discover. In the first place, it is retrospective; it embraces all the past from this day; and if taken years hence, it will also cover all the intervening period. . . . It allows no distinction between acts springing from malignant enmity, and acts which may have been prompted by charity, or affection, or relationship. . . . The clauses in question subvert the presumption of innocence, and alter the rules of evidence which heretofore, under the universally recognized principles of the common law, have been supposed to be fundamental and unchangeable. They assume that the parties are guilty; they call upon the parties to establish their innocence; and declare that such innocence can only be shown in one way—by an inquisition in the form of an expurgatory oath into the consciences of the parties." And then, as preliminary to the discharge of the priest from long imprisonment, the court concluded its opinion with a pertinent question from the writings of Alexander Hamilton: "It substitutes for the established and legal mode of investigating crimes and inflicting forfeitures, one that is unknown to the Constitution, and repugnant to the genius of our law."*

[*Footnote: Fourth Wallace Reports.]

During the period extending from the promulgation of the Drake Constitution to the setting aside of some of its obnoxious provisions as heretofore mentioned, an old-time judge still held court on one of the Missouri circuits. He had somehow been overlooked in the political upheaval to which the State had been subjected. He had come down from a former generation, and, unabashed by the clash of arms, still served sturdily on his wonted way. The rife spirit that boded destruction to ancient landmarks had passed him by; Magna Charta and the Bill of Rights were to him abiding verities.

Now it so fell out that during the period mentioned, while presiding in one of the border counties of his circuit, he was greatly astonished, at the opening of his court upon a certain morning, to find half a dozen ministers of the Gospel, all of whom were personally known to him, snugly seated in the prisoners' box.

With characteristic brusqueness, the judge at once demanded of the attorney for the Commonwealth why these men were under arrest. The not unexpected reply was, that they had been indicted for preaching without first taking an oath to support the Constitution of the State of Missouri.

"Ah, Mr. Prosecutor, a very serious offence, a very serious offence indeed. The makers of our fundamental law have wisely provided that no man shall be permitted to preach the Gospel until he has first taken an oath to support the Constitution of the State of Missouri. It is the duty of this court to see to it that this wholesome provision of our Constitution is duly enforced."

Addressing himself now to the prisoner nearest him, His Honor inquired: "Is it possible, sir, that you have been guilty of the crime of preaching the Gospel without having first taken an oath to support the Constitution of the State of Missouri?" The prisoner, a tall, venerable-appearing gentleman, in typical black, quietly replied that he could not conscientiously take the required oath, but had only continued in the pastoral work in which he had been for a lifetime engaged.

"A mere subterfuge, a mere subterfuge, Mr. Prosecutor," observed the judge, as with apparent fierceness his eyes were fixed upon the offender. "This prisoner cannot be permitted, sir, to interpose his conscience as a barrier against the enforcement of this salutary provision of our most excellent Constitution. He must be punished, sir, he must be punished."

After reading aloud the penalty imposed for the commission of the offence mentioned, and with pen in hand as if about to make the appropriate entry upon the docket, His Honor again turned to the prisoner and inquired:

"Of what church are you a minister?" The steady reply, as of one prepared for the worst, was,

"I am a Presbyterian, Your Honor."

"Presbyterian! Presbyterian!" quickly observed the sage interpreter of the law. "Oh, you preach the tenets and doctrines of the Presbyterian Church, do you?" An affirmative reply was modestly given.

"You preach," continued His Honor in apparent amazement, "the doctrine of infant baptism, and of the final perseverance of the saints, do you?" An answer like the last being given, the judge remarked:

"You appear to be a man of intelligence, but don't you know, sir, that that isn't the Gospel? He has not been guilty of preaching the Gospel, Mr. Prosecutor, and will have to be discharged. You can go, sir, but if this court ever hears that you have been actually guilty of preaching the Gospel, you will be punished to the full extent of the law."

Addressing himself now to the comparatively youthful occupant of the lately vacated seat, His Honor inquired:

"What is your church, sir?"

In a manner by no means aggressive, and with tones the counterpart of the humblest that ever came from an Amen corner, the reply was,

"I am a Methodist, may it please the Court."

Eying the prisoner keenly, and with a manner expressive of surprise to which all that had gone before seemed indifference itself, his Honor, with apparent difficulty, at length ejaculated:

"A Methodist, a Methodist, Mr. Prosecutor. Oh, you preach the doctrine of the Methodist Church, do you?—infant baptism, and falling from grace?" To these hurried interrogatories, an affirmative was meekly but distinctly given.

"Well, don't you know that that isn't the Gospel? He is not guilty of preaching the Gospel, Mr. Prosecutor, and will have to be discharged. You can go, sir, but if this Court ever learns that you have been really guilty of preaching the Gospel without first taking an oath to support the Constitution of the State of Missouri, you will have to be punished, sir; the Court will see that there is no evasion of this salutary provision of our most excellent Constitution. Go, sir."

A clean-shaven, benevolent-looking gentleman of middle age was next in evidence. He had but recently assumed his present pastorate and was a deeply interested and attentive observer of all that was happening. In reply to the inquiry from the bench, he answered that he was a Universalist.

"A Universalist!" replied the judge, almost astounded beyond the power of expression. Recovering himself, he at length inquired:

"You preach the doctrine of universal salvation, do you?"

A slight bow indicated such to be the fact.

"You preach," continued his Honor, with warmth well suited to the subject-matter, "that there is no hell?"

A bow, much more emphatic, was unmistakable evidence that its author was a man who had the courage of his convictions.

"He doesn't believe that there is any hell, Mr. Prosecutor," thundered the judge, "he will have to be discharged; it is no violation of the Constitution of the State of Missouri to preach such infernal nonsense as that."

The official admonition, "Depart, sir," was promptly obeyed, and the apostle of the broad highway followed quickly in the wake of the aforementioned disciples of Calvin and Wesley, in the "narrow path" which led straightway out of the crowded court-room.

In rapid succession the two remaining prisoners on the front bench were questioned, and each in turn found "not guilty" of preaching the Gospel. An avowal of his belief in the tenet of "the Apostolic succession" instantly resulted in the acquittal of the first, while the second was with equal promptness found "not guilty" upon his admission that he preached the doctrine of "regeneration by ——" There was much confusion in the court-room at this moment, and the reporter failed to catch the concluding words of the confession. Finding himself, moreover, getting into deep water, he thoughtfully left on record that both the Episcopalian and the Christian pastor left the court-room with the admonition ringing in their ears, that if they were ever actually found guilty of preaching the Gospel they should be duly punished.

A lone prisoner remained in the dock. The days of the years of his pilgrimage were not few, and quite probably, except in a figurative sense, not evil. He was of sturdy build, quiet manners, and his countenance was indicative of great sincerity. In a voice extremely deferential he stated that he had once ministered to a dying Confederate, and it was impossible for him to take the required oath that he had never expressed any sympathy for any person who had ever been engaged in the Rebellion.

"Of what church are you a minister?" interrupted the judge.

"The Baptist Church," was the answer.

"The Baptist Church," instantly repeated the judge, and looking very earnestly at the accused, he asked;

"Do you preach the doctrines of the Baptist Church?"

An affirmative answer having been given, His Honor said:

"Upon his own confession he is guilty, Mr. Prosecutor: the Court holds the Baptist to be the true church, and this defendant has been guilty of preaching the Gospel without first taking the oath to support the Constitution of the State of Missouri. He will have to be punished."

Addressing the prisoner, he said: "You will have to be punished, sir; this Court can permit no excuse or evasion."

The graveyard stillness that now fell upon the little assemblage was at length broken by His Honor reading aloud the prescribed punishment for preaching the Gospel without first having taken the required oath.

"Yes, a fine of five hundred dollars or six months in the common jail, or both. A clear case, Mr. Prosecutor, this prisoner must be made an example of; hand me the docket, Mr. Clerk. Yes, the full penalty."

Then, before making the fatal entry, suddenly turning to the prisoner, he demanded:

"How long have you been preaching the Gospel?"

In hardly audible accents, the answer tremblingly given was,

"I have been trying to preach the Gospel ——"

"Only trying to preach the Gospel, only trying to preach the Gospel!" exclaimed the judge. "There is no law, Mr. Prosecutor, against merely trying to preach the Gospel. You can go, sir; but if this Court ever hears that you have succeeded in actually preaching the Gospel, you will be punished, sir!"

XXVIII AMONG THE ACTORS

THE GIVING OF PLEASURE THE ACTOR'S AIM—PRAISE OF NOTABLE ACTORS —BARRETT, FORREST, McCULLOUGH, EDWIN BOOTH, WILKES BOOTH, JEFFERSON, IRVING—MACBETH'S PRAISE OF SLEEP.

On the evening of October 27, 1908, a meeting was held in the Grand Opera House, Chicago, Illinois, in the interest of the Democratic candidates in the campaign then pending. The meeting began a few minutes after midnight, and the immense audience consisted, in a large measure, of actors and actresses and their attendants from the various theatres of the city.

After an eloquent political speech of the Hon. Samuel Alschuler and a stirring recitation by one of the actors, I was introduced, and spoke as follows:

"I am grateful for the opportunity under such happy auspices, to bid you good-morning. I would count myself fortunate, indeed, could I contribute even the smallest mite to the enjoyment of those who have in such unstinted measure dispensed pleasure to so many of the human family, to the representatives of a profession which, struggling up through the centuries, has at last found honored and abiding place in a broader civilization, a calling whose sublime mission it is to give surcease to harassing care, to smooth out the wrinkles from the brow, bring gladness to the eye, to teach that

'Behind the clouds is the sun still smiling';

in a word, to add to the sum of human happiness.

"It has been my good fortune, in the happy years gone by, to have had the personal acquaintance of some of the most eminent of your profession. Under the witchery of this inspiring presence, 'the graves of memory render up their dead.' Again I hear from the lips of Barrett: 'Take away the sword; States can be saved without it!' 'How love, like death, levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook beside the sceptre!'

"Who that ever saw Forrest 'sitting as if in judgment upon kings' could forget that superb presence? In the silent watches, even yet, steal upon us in ominous accents the words, 'Put out the light, and then put out the light!' Complimented upon the manner in which he played Lear, he angrily exclaimed: 'Played Lear, played Lear? I play Hamlet, I play Macbeth, I play Othello; but I am Lear!' Possibly the art of the tragedian has known no loftier triumph than in Forrest's rendition of Lear's curse upon the unnatural daughter:

'Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth; With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks; Turn all her mother's pains and benefits To laughter and contempt!'

"A third of a century ago, I made the acquaintance of John McCullough, then at the very zenith of his fame. In even measure as was the elder Booth Richard the Third, Forrest, King Lear, or Edwin Booth, Hamlet, so was McCullough the born Macbeth. When I first saw him emerge with dishevelled hair and bloody hands from the apartment of the murdered king, I was, I confess, in mortal dread of the darkness. I have heard another since of even greater repute in that masterful impersonation, but with me to the last, John McCullough will remain the veritable Macbeth. His are the words that linger:

'I go, and it is done; the bell invites me, Hear it not, Duncan; for it is the knell That summons thee to heaven or to hell.'

"Edwin Booth has stepped from the stage of living men, and when in the tide of time will such a Hamlet again appear? To him Nature had been prodigal of her choicest blessings. Every gift the gods could bestow to the full equipment of the interpreter, the actor, the master, was his.

'He was a man, take him for all in all, We shall not look upon his like again.'

Many moons will wax and wane before from other lips, as from his, will fall:

'Or that the Everlasting had not fixed His canon 'gainst self-slaughter.'

or, giving expression to thoughts from the very depths, which have in all the ages held back from such dread ending:

'To die, to sleep; To sleep! perchance to dream; aye, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause.'

"The ever-abiding memory that his brother was the real actor in a tragic scene that gave pause to the world, burdened the heart and mellowed the tone of Edwin Booth, and no doubt linked him in closer touch with what has, as by the enchanter's wand, been portrayed of the 'melancholy Dane.'

"Two years before the assassination of President Lincoln I heard Wilkes Booth as Romeo at the old McVicker. The passing years have not wholly dimmed his

'Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops,'

and then, as if forecasting a scene to strike horror even in 'States unborn and in accents yet unknown,' the exclamation:

'I must be gone and live, Or stay and die!'

"High on the list of the world's benefactors write the name of Joe Jefferson, as one who loved his fellow-men. Whatever betide, his fame is secure. 'Age cannot wither'; it was in very truth high privilege to have known him; to have met him face to face.

"There come moments to all when we gladly put aside the masterpieces of the great bard, and find solace in simpler lays; such as, it may be, appear of kinship with the happenings of daily life. The mighty thoughts of the former unceasingly suggest life's endless toil and endeavor.

"In words that have touched many hearts our own poet suggests:

'Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart; . . . . . . . Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care.'

"And so, there are times when the stately rendition of the masterpieces, even with the greatest tragedians in the role, weary us, and we give glad welcome to Bob Acres with 'his courage oozing out at his finger ends,' or to dear old Rip and 'Here's to yourself and to your family. Jus' one more; this one won't count!'

"The superb acting of Irving in Louis the Eleventh; the grandeur of Forrest with 'Othello's occupation gone'; of McCullough in Macbeth, 'supped full with horrors'; even of Booth with the ever-recurring 'To be, or not to be,' the eternal question, all pass with the occasion. But who can forget the gladsome hours of mingled pathos and mirth with glorious Joe Jefferson, the star! His life was hourly the illustration of the sublime truth:

'There is nothing so kingly as kindness.'

"Upon his tablet might truly be written:

'He never made a brow look dark, Nor caused a tear but when he died.'

"It is ever an ungracious task to speak in terms of disparagement of a lady. There is one, however, of whom, even in this gracious presence, I am constrained to speak without restraint. To the splendid assemblage before me she was unknown; possibly, however, some veteran upon this platform may have enjoyed her personal acquaintance. I refer to the late Mrs. Macbeth. I would not be misunderstood. My criticism of the conduct of this lady has no reference to her share in the 'taking off' of the venerable Duncan. Even barring her gentle interposition, he would long ere this have 'paid his breath to time and mortal custom.' My cause of complaint is more serious and far-reaching. It will be remembered that her high-placed husband upon a time was the victim of insomnia. In his wakeful hours, as he tossed upon his couch, he even made the confession, now of record, that

'Glamis hath murdered sleep.'

"He apparently drew no comfort from the reflection that his late benefactor, the murdered king,

'After life's fitful fever he sleeps well.'

"Burdened with thoughts beyond the reaches of our souls, the sometimes Thane of Cawdor indulged in an apostrophe to 'the dull god' which has enduring place in all language:

'Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in Life's feast, ——'

"At this crucial moment, came the untimely interruption of Mrs. Macbeth, demanding of her husband, 'What do you mean?'

"The spell was broken, and for all time the sublime apostrophe to sleep unfinished. What he might next have said, whose lips can tell? Words possibly to be spoken by every tongue, to be crystallized into every language. Her ill-fated interruption can never be forgiven. The practical lesson to be drawn, one for all the ages, is the peril involved in a wife's untimely interruption of the wise observations and sage reflections of her husband.

"This coming together to-night may justify the remark that satire upon the proverbial caution of candidates in expressing an opinion upon any subject was perhaps never better illustrated than in the incident now to be related. Upon a time many years ago, when approaching the Capitol from Pennsylvania Avenue in company with my friend Proctor Knott, a tall, solemn-appearing individual addressed the latter as follows; 'Mr. Knott, I would like to have your opinion as to which is the best play, "Hamlet" or "Macbeth."' With a characteristic expression of countenance, Knott, with deprecatory gesture, slowly replied:

"'My friend, don't ask me that question; I am a politician, a candidate for Congress, and my district is about equally divided; Hamlet has his friends down there, and Macbeth has his, and I will take no part between them.'

"This observation recalls an incident of recent occurrence in a neighboring city. A friend of mine, a minister of the Gospel—you will bear in mind that my friends are not all actors—and this recalls the dilemma of a candidate who, upon inquiry as to the comparative merits of heaven and its antipode, cautiously declined to express an opinion, on the ground that he had friends in both places—this minister, upon being installed in a new pastorate, was almost immediately requested to preach at the funeral of a prominent member of his congregation. Unacquainted as he was with the life of the deceased, he made inquiry as to his last utterances.

"He recalled the last words of Webster, 'I am content'; of John Quincy Adams, 'This is the last of earth'; and even the cheerless exclamation of Mirabeau, 'Let my ears be filled with martial music, crown me with flowers, and thus shall I enter on my eternal sleep.' Charged with these reflections, and hoping to find the nucleus of a funeral sermon, the minister made inquiry of the son of the deceased parishioner, 'What were the last words of your father?' The unexpected reply was 'Pap he didn't have no last words; mother she just stayed by him till he died.'

"And now, my friends, as the curtain falls, my last words to you:

'Say not Good-night, But in some brighter clime Bid me Good-morning!'"

XXIX THE LOST ART OF ORATORY

DANIEL WEBSTER'S SPEECHES—HIS PATRIOTIC SERVICE IN FORMULATING THE ASHBURTON TREATY—PRENTISS'S DEFENCE OF THE RIGHT OF MISSISSIPPI TO REPRESENTATION—THE EFFECT OF HIS ELOQUENCE ON A MURDERER—HIS PLEA FOR MERCY TO A CLIENT—WEBSTER WINS AN APPARENTLY HOPELESS CASE—INGERSOLL'S REVIEW OF THE CAREER OF NAPOLEON—HON. ISAAC N. PHILLIPS'S EULOGY UPON ABRAHAM LINCOLN—SENATOR INGALLS'S TRIBUTE TO A COLLEAGUE—A SINGLE ELOQUENT SENTENCE FROM EDWARD EVERETT— SPEECH OF NOMINATION FOR WILLIAM J. BRYAN—MR. BRYAN'S ELOQUENCE —CLOSING SENTENCES OF HIS "PRINCE OF PEACE."

One of the must cultured and entertaining gentlemen I have ever known was the late Gardner Hubbard. His last years were spent quietly in Washington, but earlier in life he was an active member of the Massachusetts bar.

In my conversations with him he related many interesting incidents of Daniel Webster, with whom he was well acquainted. In the early professional life of Hubbard, Mr. Webster was still at the bar; his speech for the prosecution in the memorable Knapp murder trial has been read with profound interest by three generations of lawyers. As a powerful and eloquent discussion of circumstantial evidence, in all its phases, it scarcely has a parallel; quotations from it have found their way into all languages. How startling his description of the stealthy tread of the assassin upon his victim! We seem to stand in the very presence of murder itself:

"Deep sleep had fallen on the destined victim and on all beneath his roof. A healthful old man, to whom sleep was sweet, and the first sound slumbers of the night held him in their soft but strong embrace. The assassin enters through the window, already prepared, into an unoccupied apartment. With noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall, half lighted by the moon; he winds up the ascent of the stairs, and reaches to door of the chamber …. The face of the innocent sleeper is turned from the murderer, and the beams of the moon, resting on the gray locks of his aged temple, show him where to strike. The fatal blow is given, and the victim passes, without a struggle, from the repose of sleep to the repose of death. The deed is done. He retreats, retraces his steps to the window, passes out through it as he came in, and escapes. He has done the murder. No eye has seen him, no ear has heard him. The secret is his own, and it is safe."

The speech throughout shows Webster to have been the perfect master of the human heart,—of its manifold and mysterious workings. What picture could be more vivid than this?

"Such a secret can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither nook nor corner where the guilty can bestow it and say it is safe. Not to speak of that eye which pierces through all disguises and beholds everything as in the splendor of noon, such secrets of guilt are never safe from detection even by men. True it is, generally speaking, that murder will out. True it is, that Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern things, that those who break the great law of Heaven by shedding man's blood seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Meantime the guilty soul cannot keep its own secret. It is false to itself; or rather, it feels an irresistible impulse of conscience to be true to itself. It labors under its guilty possession, and knows not what to do with it. The human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant."

The closing sentences of the speech—which resulted in the conviction and execution of the prisoner—will endure in our literature unsurpassed as an inspiration to duty:

"There is no evil that we cannot either face or fly from but the consciousness of duty disregarded. A sense of duty pursues us ever. It is omnipresent like the Deity. If we take to ourselves the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, duty performed, or duty violated, is still with us, for our happiness or our misery. If we say, 'the darkness shall cover us,' in the darkness as in the light our obligations are yet with us. We cannot escape their power, nor fly from their presence. They are with us in this life, will be with us at its close; and in that scene of inconceivable solemnity which lies yet farther onward, we shall still find ourselves surrounded by the consciousness of duty, to pain us wherever it has been violated, and to console us so far as God may have given us grace to perform it."

Upon one occasion, when in Boston, Mr. Hubbard and I visited together Faneuil Hall. He pointed out the exact place upon the platform where he saw Mr. Webster stand when he delivered his speech in vindication of his course in remaining in the Cabinet of President Tyler after all his Whig colleagues had resigned. The schism in the Whig ranks, occasioned by the veto of party measures, paramount in the Presidential contest of 1840, and the bitter antagonism thereby engendered between Henry Clay and President Tyler, will readily be recalled. The rupture mentioned occasioned the retirement of the entire Cabinet appointed by the late President Harrison, except Mr. Webster, the Secretary of State. His reasons for remaining were in the highest degree patriotic, and his speech in Faneuil Hall a triumphant vindication. The enduring public service he rendered while in a Cabinet with which he had not partisan affiliation was formulating, in conjunction with the British Minister, the Ashburton treaty. If Mr. Webster had rendered no other public service, this alone would have entitled him to the gratitude of the country. This treaty, advantageous from so many points of view to the United States, adjusted amicably the protracted and perilous controversy—unsettled by the convention at Ghent—of our northeastern boundary, and possibly prevented a third war between the two great English-speaking nations. The words once uttered of Burke could never with truth be spoken of Webster: "He gave to party that which was intended for his country."

Mr. Hubbard insisted that the speech mentioned stood unrivalled in the realm of sublime oratory. He declared that the intervening years had not dimmed his recollection of the appearance of "the God-like Webster" when he exclaimed "The Whig party die! The Whig party die! Then, Mr. President, where shall I go?"

Some years before, I heard Wendell Phillips allude to the above speech in his celebrated lecture upon Daniel O'Connell. He said, when the startling words, "Then, Mr. President, where shall I go?" fell from the lips of the mighty orator, a feeling of awe pervaded the vast assemblage; something akin to an awful foreboding that the world would surely come to an end when there was no place in it for Daniel Webster.

This seems a fitting place to allude to possibly the highest tribute ever paid by one great orator to another—in the loftiest sense, a tribute of genius to genius. Mr. Hubbard told me he was one of the immense audience gathered in Faneuil Hall to ratify the nomination of Harrison and Tyler soon after the adjournment of the Whig National Convention in 1840. Edward Everett presided; and among the speakers were Winthrop, Choate, Webster, and the gifted Sargent S. Prentiss of Mississippi. The eloquence of the last named was a proverb in his day. He had but recently delivered a speech in the House, vindicating his right to his seat as a Representative from Mississippi, which cast a spell over all who heard it, and which has come down to the present generation as one of the masterpieces of oratory. The closing sentence of this wondrous speech—a thousand times quoted—was: "Deny her representation upon this floor; then, Mr. Speaker, strike from yonder escutcheon the star that glitters to the name of Mississippi—and leave only the stripe, fit emblem of her degradation!"

Upon the conclusion of Prentiss's Faneuil Hall speech, just mentioned, amidst a tumult of applause such as even Faneuil Hall had rarely witnessed, Mr. Everett, turning to Mr. Webster, inquired: "Did you ever hear the equal of that speech?" "Never but once," was the deep-toned reply, "and then from Prentiss himself."

Judge Baldwin, his long-time associate at the bar of Mississippi, has given a vivid description of the effect of the power of Mr. Prentiss before the jury in the prosecution of a noted highwayman and murderer in that State:

"Phelps was one of the most daring and desperate of ruffians. He fronted his prosecutor and the court not only with composure, but with scornful and malignant defiance. When Prentiss arose to speak, and for some time afterwards, the criminal scowled upon him a look of hate and insolence. But when the orator, kindling with his subject, turned upon him and poured down a stream of burning invective like lava upon his head; when he depicted the villainy and barbarity of his bold atrocities; when he pictured, in dark and dismal colors, the fate which awaited him, and the awful judgment to be pronounced at another Bar upon his crimes when his soul be confronted with his innocent victims; when he fixed his gaze of concentrated power upon him, the strong man's face relaxed; his eyes faltered and fell; until, at length, unable to bear up under self-conviction, he hid his head beneath the bar, and exhibited a picture of ruffianly audacity cowed beneath the spell of true courage and triumphant genius."

In his early practice in Mississippi, in closing a touching and eloquent appeal to the jury on behalf of a client whose life was trembling in the balance, Prentiss said:

"I have somewhere read that when God in His eternal councils conceived the thought of man's creation, he called to him the three ministers who wait constantly upon the throne, Justice, Truth, and Mercy, and thus addressed them:

"'Shall we make man?'

"Then said Justice, 'O God, make him not, for he will trample upon Thy laws.'

"Truth made answer also, 'O God, make him not, for he will pollute Thy sanctuaries.'

"Then Mercy, dropping upon her knees and looking up through her tears, exclaimed, 'O God, make him. I will watch over him through all the dark paths he may have to tread.'

"Then God made man and said to him: 'Thou art the child of Mercy; go and deal in mercy with thy brother.'"

In speaking of Mr. Webster's marvellous power over a jury, Mr. Hubbard told me that he was present during the trial of a once celebrated divorce case in one of the courts of Boston. The husband was the complainant, and the alleged ground the one of recognized sufficiency in all countries. Mr. Webster was the counsel for the husband; Rufus Choate for the wife. As an advocate, the latter has had few equals, no superiors, at the American bar. In the case mentioned, with a distressed woman for a client, what was dearer than life, her reputation, in the balance, it may well be believed that the wondrous powers of the advocate were in requisition to the utmost.

At the conclusion of Choate's speech, as Mr. Hubbard assured me, the case of the injured husband appeared hopeless. It seemed impossible that such a speech could be successfully answered.

The opening sentence, in deep and measured tones, of Webster in reply, the prelude to an unrivalled argument and to victory, was:

"Saint Paul in the twenty-fourth verse of the seventh chapter of his wondrous Epistle to the Romans says: 'O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?' You alone, gentlemen, can deliver this wretched man from the body of this dead woman!"

What in word-painting can exceed the following from an address by Robert G. Ingersoll?

"A little while ago, I stood by the grave of the old Napoleon—a magnificent tomb of gilt and gold, almost fit for a dead deity— and gazed upon the sarcophagus of black Egyptian marble where rest the ashes of that restless man. I leaned over the balustrade and thought about the career of the greatest soldier of the modern world.

"I saw him walking upon the banks of the Seine contemplating suicide. I saw him at Toulon; I saw him putting down the mob in the streets of Paris; I saw him at the head of the army in Italy; I saw him crossing the bridge at Lodi with the tricolor in his hand; I saw him in Egypt in the shadow of the Pyramids; I saw him conquer the Alps and mingle the eagles of France with the eagles of the crags; I saw him at Marengo, at Ulm, and at Austerlitz; I saw him in Russia, where the infantry of the snow and the cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions like winter's withered leaves; I saw him at Leipsic in defeat and disaster—driven by a million bayonets back upon Paris—clutched like a wild beast—banished to Elba. I saw him escape and retake an empire by the force of his genius. I saw him upon the frightful field of Waterloo, where Chance and Fortune combined to wreck the fortunes of their former king, and I saw him at St. Helena, with his hands crossed behind him, gazing out upon the sad and solemn sea.

"I thought of the orphans and widows he had made, of the tears that had been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him, pushed from his heart by the cold hand of ambition; and I said I would rather have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes; I would rather have lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door, and the grapes growing purple in the rays of the autumn sun; I would rather have been that poor peasant with my loving wife by my side, knitting as the day died out of the sky, with my children about my knee and their arms about me; I would rather have been that man and gone down to the tongueless silence of the dreamless dust, than have been that imperial impersonation of force and murder."

In his eloquent eulogy upon Abraham Lincoln, my neighbor and friend, Hon. Isaac N. Phillips, said:

"He lived with Nature and learned of her. He toiled, but his toil was never hopeless and degrading. His feet were upon the earth but the stars shining in perennial beauty were ever above him to inspire contemplation. He heard the song of the thrush, and the carol of the lark. He watched the sun in its course. He knew the dim paths of the forest, and his soul was awed by the power of the storm."

The closing sentences of Senator Ingalls's tribute to a departed colleague were sombre indeed:

"In the democracy of Death all men are equal. There is neither rank, nor station, nor prerogative, in the republic of the grave. At that fatal threshold the philosopher ceases to be wise, and the song of the poet is silent. There Dives relinquished his riches and Lazarus his rags; the creditor loses his usury, and the debtor is acquitted of his obligation; the proud man surrenders his dignity, the politician his honors, the worldling his pleasures. Here the invalid needs no physician, and the laborer rests from unrequited toil. Here at last is Nature's final decree of equity. The wrongs of time are redressed, and injustice is expiated. The unequal distribution of wealth and honor, capacity, pleasure, and opportunity, which makes life so cruel and inexplicable a tragedy, ceases in the realms of Death. The strongest has there no supremacy, and the weakest needs no defence. The mightiest captain succumbs to the invincible adversary who disarms alike the victor and the vanquished."

In his day Edward Everett was the most gifted of American orators. His style, however, to readers in "these piping times of peace," seems a trifle stilted. What orator of the twentieth century would attempt such a sentence as the following from Everett's celebrated eulogy upon Washington:

"Let us make a national festival and holiday of his birthday; and ever, as the twenty-second of February returns, let us remember that, while with these solemn and joyous rites of observance we celebrate the great anniversary, our fellow-citizens on the Hudson, on the Potomac, from the Southern plains to the Western lakes, are engaged in the same offices of gratitude and love. Nor we, nor they alone; beyond the Ohio, beyond the Mississippi, along that stupendous trail of immigration from the East to the West, which, bursting into States as it moves westward, is already threading the Western prairies, swarming through the portals of the Rocky Mountains and winding down their slopes, the name and the memory of Washington on that gracious night will travel with the silver queen of heaven through sixty degrees of longitude, nor part company with her till she walks in her brightness through the Golden Gate of California, and passes serenely to hold midnight court with her Australian stars. There and there only in barbarous archipelagos, as yet untrodden by civilized man, the name of Washington is unknown; and there, too, when they swarm with enlightened millions, new honors shall be paid with ours to his memory."

In my judgment the greatest living orator is William J. Bryan. I have never known a more gifted man. A thorough scholar—having like Lord Bacon taken all knowledge for his province—a fearless champion of what he deems the right, he is in the loftiest sense "without fear and without reproach."

In introducing him to an immense audience in Bloomington when he was first a candidate for the Presidency, I said:

"The National Democracy in the Chicago convention selected for the Presidency a distinguished statesman of the great Northwest. For the first time in more than one hundred years of our history, a candidate for the great office has been taken from a State lying west of the Mississippi.

"In the nomination of our standard-bearer, the convention builded better than it knew. Each passing hour has but emphasized the wisdom of its choice. Truly it has been said: 'When the times demand the man, the man appears.' The times demanded a great leader—the great leader has appeared! His campaign is the marvel of the age. From the Atlantic seaboard, two thousand miles to the westward, his eloquent words have cheered the despondent, given new hopes and aspirations to the people, touched the hearts of millions of his countrymen. In advocating his election we have kept the faith. We have not departed from the teachings of our fathers. We sacredly preserve the ancient landmarks—the landmarks of all previous Democratic conventions."

Rarely has a speech been uttered so effective in its immediate results as that of Mr. Bryan in the Democratic National Convention of 1896. The occasion was one never to be forgotten. When Mr. Bryan began his speech he had not been mentioned as a candidate for the Presidency; at its close there was no other candidate. The closing sentences of the memorable speech were:

"Our ancestors, when but three millions in number, had the courage to declare their political independence of every other nation; shall we, their descendants, when we have grown to seventy millions, declare that we are less independent than our forefathers? No, my friends, that will never be the verdict of our people. Therefore, we care not upon what lines the battle is fought. If they say bimetallism is good, but that we cannot have it until other nations help us, we reply that, instead of having a gold standard because England has, we will restore bimetallism, and then let England have bimetallism because the United States has it. If they dare to come out in the open field and defend the gold standard as a good thing, we will fight them to the uttermost. Having behind us the productive masses of this nation and the world, supported by the commercial interests, the laboring interests, and the toilers everywhere, we will answer their demand for a gold standard by saying to them: 'You shall not press down upon the brow of labor this crown of thorns, you shall not crucify mankind upon a cross of gold.'"

The closing sentences of his "Prince of Peace" have been read in all languages:

"But this Prince of Peace promises not only peace but strength. Some have thought His teachings fit only for the weak and the timid and unsuited to men of vigor, energy, and ambition. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Only the man of faith can be courageous. Confident that he fights on the side of Jehovah, he doubts not the success of his cause. What matters it whether he shares in the shouts of triumph? If every word spoken in behalf of truth has its influence and every deed done for the right weighs in the final account, it is immaterial to the Christian whether his eyes behold victory or whether he dies in the midst of the conflict.

'Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When they who helped thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust, Like those who fell in battle here. Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.'

"Only those who believe attempt the seemingly impossible and, by attempting, prove that one with God can chase a thousand and two can put ten thousand to flight. I can imagine that the early Christians who were carried into the arena to make a spectacle for those more savage than the beasts, were entreated by their doubting companions not to endanger their lives. But, kneeling in the centre of the arena, they prayed and sang until they were devoured. How helpless they seemed and, measured by every human rule, how hopeless was their cause! And yet within a few decades the power which they invoked proved mightier than the legions of the emperor, and the faith in which they died was triumphant o'er all that land. It is said that those who went to mock at their sufferings returned asking themselves, 'What is it that can enter into the heart of man and make him die as these die?' They were greater conquerors in their death than they could have been had they purchased life by a surrender of their faith.

"What would have been the fate of the Church if the early Christians had had as little faith as many of our Christians now have? And, on the other hand, if the Christians of to-day had the faith of the martyrs, how long would it be before the fulfilment of the prophecy that every knee shall bow and every tongue confess?

"Our faith should be even stronger than the faith of those who lived two thousand years ago, for we see our religion spreading and supplanting the philosophies and creeds of the Orient.

"As the Christian grows older he appreciates more and more the completeness with which Christ fills the requirements of the heart and, grateful for the peace which he enjoys and for the strength which he has received, he repeats the words of the great scholar, Sir William Jones:

'Before thy mystic altar, heavenly truth, I kneel in manhood, as I knelt in youth. Thus let me kneel, till this dull form decay, And life's last shade be brightened by thy ray.'"

XXX THE COLONELS

A CONVIVIAL MEETING OF LAWYERS—HILARITY SMOTHERED BY THE MAINE LAW—A FAINTING WAYFARER IS REFUSED A DRINK IN A MAINE VILLAGE— THE APOTHECARY DEMANDS A PHYSICIAN'S PRESCRIPTION—SNAKE-BITES IN GREAT DEMAND.

Some years ago, I spent a few weeks of inclement weather in a beautiful village in southern Georgia. Upon calling at his office to renew my acquaintance with a well-known lawyer, he soon invited in the remaining members of the local bar. Everything was propitious, and the conversation never for a moment flagged, many experiences of the legal practitioners of the South and of the North being related with happy effect.

I at length remarked that since my arrival, I had, somewhat to my surprise, learned that "local option" had been adopted in their county. An aged brother, in a tone by no means exultant, assured me that such was the fact. I then observed that I was not a hard drinker, but being a total stranger and liable to sudden sickness, I asked what I would do under such circumstances.

An equally venerable brother, who bore the unique title of "Colonel," slowly responded, "Have to do without, sir, have to do without; not a drop to be had in the county, absolutely not a drop, sir."

The brief silence which followed this announcement was broken by the corroborative testimony of a more youthful associate of similar official distinction, and a genial and hospitable expression of countenance, somehow suggesting memories of old cognac.

"Yes, sir, the use of spirituous liquors is now only a tradition with us; but I have heard my father say, that before the war, the indulgence in such hospitality was not uncommon among gentlemen."

At the conclusion of still further cumulative testimony of the same tenor, I remarked that something about the general situation reminded me of an incident that occurred in a State far to the north while the "Maine Law" was in operation.

A dilapidated-looking pedestrian, with a pack on his back, early one afternoon of a hot July day pulled up in front of the post-office in a small village in the interior of Maine. Humbly addressing a citizen who was just coming out with his copy of the Weekly Tribune in hand, he inquired,

"Where can I get a drink?"

"The Maine Law is in force," was the reply, "and it is impossible for you to get a drink in the State."

The heart of the wayfarer sank within him.

"Would you let a man die right here on your streets, for lack of a drink?"

The "better angel" of the citizen being touched thereat, he replied,

"My friend, I am very sorry for you, but no liquor is ever sold here, except by the apothecary, and then only as a medicine."

Upon further inquiry, the important fact was disclosed that the shop of the apothecary was three-quarters of a mile away, on the left-hand side of the road. With an alacrity indicating something of hope, the pedestrian immediately gathered up his pack, and through the dust and heat at length reached the designated place. Sinking apparently exhausted upon the door-step, he feebly requested the man behind the counter to let him have something to drink. The immediate reply of the apothecary was that the Maine Law was in force, and no spirituous liquors could be sold except upon the prescription of a physician. After earnest inquiry, it was ascertained that the nearest doctor's office was one mile away, and the man with the pack again betook himself to the weary highway. Returning an hour later, in tone more pitiful than before, he begged the apothecary, as he hoped for mercy himself, to let him have a drink. Upon inquiry as to whether he had procured the required certificate, he said, "No, the doctor wouldn't give me any."

The assurance of the apothecary that the case appeared hopeless only added to the distress of the poor man, whose sands seemed now indeed to be running low.

Stirred to the depths by the agony of his visitor, the apothecary at length said,

"My friend, I would be glad to help you, but it is impossible for me to let you have a drink of spirituous liquor unless you have a doctor's certificate or have been snake-bit."

At the last-mentioned suggestion, the face of the man of repeated disappointments measurably brightened, and he eagerly inquired where he could find a snake. The now sympathetic man of bottles told him to follow the main road three miles to the forks, and then a few hundred yards to the west, and he would find a small grove of decayed tress, where there still lingered a few snakes, and by the exercise of a reasonable degree of diligence he might manage to get bit, and thereby lay the foundation for the desired relief. With bundle again in place, and evincing a buoyancy of manner to which he had been a stranger for many hours, the traveller resumed the quest.

Hours later, when the shadows had lengthened, and the fire-flies were glistening in the distance,

"With a look so piteous in purport, As if he had been loosed out of hell To speak of horrors,"

he re-entered the apothecary's shop, threw down his bundle, and in tones suggestive of the agony of lost souls, again begged for a drink.

"Did you get snake-bit?" was the feeling inquiry of the man at the helm.

"No," was the heart-rending reply, "every snake I met had engagements six months ahead, for all the bites he could furnish!"

XXXI REMINISCENCES

A BARBECUE AT THE BLUE SPRING, KY.—NOTABLE NATIVES OF THE NEIGHBORHOOD —THE SCHOOLHOUSE CHURCH—SOME OF THE PREACHERS—THE TEACHER OF SINGING—HOW THE SCHOOLMASTER WAS PAID—MANNERS AND DISCIPLINE—THE DEBATING SOCIETY—THE WRITER'S SPEECH TO HIS OLD NEIGHBORS—SOME BOYHOOD FRIENDS.

Soon after my nomination for the Vice-Presidency, in 1892, I attended a barbecue at the Blue Spring, a stone's throw from my father's old home in Kentucky. This was in the county of Christian, in the southwestern part of the State. It is a large and wealthy county, its tobacco product probably exceeding that of any other county in the United States.

Christian County was the early home of men distinguished in the field, at the bar, and in the State and National councils. Hopkinsville, the county-seat, had been the home of Stites, the learned Chief Justice of the Court of Appeals; of Jackson, who fell while gallantly leading his command at the battle of Perryville; of Morehead, an early and distinguished Governor of the Commonwealth; of Sharp, whose legal acumen would have secured him distinction at any bar; of McKenzie, whose wit and eloquence made him the long-time idol and the Representative in Congress, of the famed "Pennyrile" district; of Bristow, the accomplished Secretary of the Treasury during the administration of President Grant; of the Henry brothers, three of whom, from different States, were at a later day Representatives in Congress, and one the Whig candidate against Andrew Johnson for Governor of Tennessee.

Hon. Gustavus A. Henry, well known as the "Eagle Orator of Tennessee," was the Whig candidate for Governor of the State in opposition to Andrew Johnson, at a later day President of the United States. The latter was at the time an old-fashioned, steady-going mountain orator with none of the brilliancy of his gifted antagonist. At the close of a series of joint debates Johnson said: "This speech terminates our joint debates. I have now encountered the 'Eagle Orator' upon every stump in the State, and come out of the contest with no flesh of mine in his claws—no blood of mine upon his beak." To which Henry instantly replied: "The eagle—the proud bird of freedom—never wars upon a corpse!"

A few miles from the Blue Spring, in the same county, were the early homes of Senator Roger Q. Mills of Texas, Governor John M. Palmer of Illinois, and Jefferson Davis of the Southern Confederacy. Less than a score of miles to the southward, upon the banks of the Cumberland in Tennessee, stood historic Fort Donelson; while a few hours' journey to the northward stands the monument which marks the birthplace of Abraham Lincoln.

Following the earliest westward trail from Iredell County, North Carolina, across the Blue Ridge Mountains, for a great distance along the banks of the romantic French Broad my grandfathers, "Scotch-Irish Presbyterians," James Stevenson and Adlai Ewing, with their immediate families and others of their kindred, had in the early days of the century, after a long and perilous journey, finally reached the famous Spring already mentioned. Near by, their tents were pitched, and in time permanent homes established in the then wilderness of southwestern Kentucky.

The first public building constructed was of logs, with puncheon floor, and set apart to the double purpose of school-house and church for the use of all denominations. Its site was near the spot where the speaker's stand was now erected for the barbecue which I have mentioned.

From the pulpit of this rude building, the early settlers had more than once listened spell-bound to the eloquence of Peter Cartwright, Henry B. Bascom, Nathan L. Rice, Finis Ewing, and Alexander Campbell.

In this old church the time-honored custom was for some one of its officers to line out the hymn, two lines at a time, and then lead the singing, in which the congregation joined. Among my earliest recollections is that of my uncle, Squire McKenzie, one of the best of men, standing immediately in front of the pulpit, and faithfully discharging this important duty after the hymn had been read in full by the minister. I distinctly recall the solemn tones in which, upon communion occasions, he lined out, in measured and mellow cadence, the good old hymn beginning:

"'T was on that dark, that doleful night, When powers of earth and hell arose."

Mr. Sawyer, too, the old-time singing-school teacher, has honored place in my memory. Once a month, in the old church, the singing-school class of which we were all members regularly assembled. The school was in four divisions, Bass, Tenor, Counter, and Treble; each member was provided with a copy of the "Missouri Harmony," with "fa," "sol," "la," "mi," appearing in mysterious characters upon every page; the master, magnifying his office, as with tuning-fork in hand he stood proudly in the midst, raised the tune, and as it progressed smiled or deeply frowned upon each of the divisions as occasion seemed to require. His voice has long been hushed, but I seem again to hear his cheery command, "Attention, class! Utopia, page one hundred!"

Looking back through the long vista of years, it is my honest belief that such singing as his, at home or abroad, I have never heard. Upon his tablet might appropriately have been inscribed:

"Sleep undisturbed within this sacred shrine, Till angels wake thee with notes like thine."

To this old field school came in the early time the "scholars" for many miles around. It was in very truth the only Alma Mater, for that generation, of almost the entire southern portion of the county. My father in his boyhood attended this school, as did his kinsmen, John W. and Fielding N. Ewing; the last named of whom was, at a much later period, the pastor of the First Presbyterian Church of Bloomington, Illinois, and his elder brother was the Mayor of that city.