"It clearly appeared both from the complaints of the citizens and the admissions of the Mormons, that the whole proceedings of the Mayor, Council, and Municipal Court were illegal and not to be endured in a free country; but some apology might be made for the court, as it had been repeatedly assured by some of the ablest lawyers in the State of both political parties, when candidates before that people, that it had full and complete power to issue writs of habeas corpus in all cases whatever."

"In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, But, being seasoned with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil."

The incidents mentioned added quickly fuel to the flame. A new warrant was issued by a magistrate in Carthage for the arrest of the Mormon leaders and placed in the hands of an officer of the State for execution. The latter at once summoned the citizens of the county, as a posse comitatus, to aid in the arrests. At this critical moment Governor Ford, in the interest of peace, reached Carthage, the county seat. Upon his arrival he found the situation truly alarming. Several hundred armed men from the country around had hastily assembled and were encamped upon the public square. By order of the Governor, this force was organized into companies and placed under the immediate command of officers of his appointment. At the conclusion of a speech by the Governor, the officers and men pledged themselves to aid him in upholding the laws, and in protecting the Mormon prisoners when brought to Carthage for trial.

Meanwhile, Smith as lieutenant-general had called out the Nauvoo Legion and proclaimed martial law in that city. The Mormons from the country promptly obeyed the call of their leader and marched to his assistance, and Nauvoo became at once a vast military camp. Governor Ford now demanded of the Mormon leaders the return of the State arms furnished at the time of the organization of the Legion, this demand, if not promptly complied with, to be enforced by an immediate attack upon Nauvoo by the assembled forces encamped at Carthage.

Appreciating now for the first time the hopelessness of a conflict with State authorities, a number of the weapons were surrendered and the Smiths, accompanied by Taylor and Richards, two other Mormon leaders, went to Carthage and surrendered themselves to the officer holding the warrant for their arrest. Upon giving bond for their appearance, they were at once released on charge of riot. A new complaint, charging them with treason—in levying war against the State, declaring martial law in Nauvoo, and ordering out the Legion to resist the execution of lawful process—was immediately lodged against them, a warrant duly issued, the prisoners rearrested and committed to the common jail of the county. On the evening following this arrest, the guards stationed at the jail for the protection of the prisoners were attacked and overpowered by a mob of several hundred persons. Governor Ford states:

"An attempt was now made to break open the door; but Joseph Smith, being armed with a six-barrel pistol furnished by his friends, fired several times as the door was burst open and wounded three of the assailants. At the same time, several shots were fired into the room, wounding John Taylor and killing Hiram Smith. Joseph Smith now attempted to escape by jumping out of the second-story window; but the fall so stunned him that he was unable to rise, and being placed by the conspirators in a sitting posture, they despatched him by four balls shot through his body."

Thus perished, at the age of thirty-nine, the founder and prophet of the Mormon Church. Contradictory statements as to his real character have come down to the present generation. The estimate of Governor Ford, who knew him well, is as follows:

"He was the most successful impostor in modern times; a man who, though ignorant and coarse, had some great natural parts which fitted him for temporary success, but which were so obscured and counteracted by the inherent corruptness of his nature that he never could succeed in establishing a system of policy which looked to permanent success in the future. It must not be supposed that the pretended prophet practised the tricks of a common impostor; that he was a dark and gloomy person with a long beard, a grave and severe aspect, and a reserved and saintly carriage of his person. On the contrary, he was full of levity, even to boyish romping; dressed like a dandy, and at times drank like a sailor and swore like a pirate. He could, as occasion required, be exceedingly meek in his deportment, and then, again, be as rough and boisterous as a highway robber; being always able to prove to his followers the propriety of his conduct. He always quailed before power, and was arrogant to weakness. At times he could put on an air of a penitent, as if feeling the deepest humility for his sins, and suffering unutterable anguish, and indulging in the most gloomy foreboding of eternal woe. At such times he would call for the prayers of the brethren in his behalf with a wild and fearful anxiety and earnestness. He was six feet high, strongly built, and uncommonly full muscled. No doubt he was as much indebted for his influence over an ignorant people to the superiority of his physical vigor as to his great cunning and intellect."

Of a wholly different tenor is the tribute of Parley P. Pratt, the poet and historian of the Mormon Church:

"President Smith was in person tall and well built, strong and active; of a light complexion, light hair, blue eyes, and of an expression peculiar to himself, on which the eye naturally rested with interest and was never weary of beholding. His countenance was very mild, affable, and beaming with intelligence and benevolence mingled with a look of interest and an unconscious smile of cheerfulness, and entirely free from all restraint or affectation of gravity; and there was something connected with the serene and steady penetrating glance of his eye, as if he would penetrate the deepest abyss of the human heart, gaze into eternity, penetrate the heavens, and comprehend all worlds. He possessed a noble boldness and independence of character; his manner was easy and familiar, his rebuke terrible as the lion, his benevolence unbounded as the ocean, his intelligence universal, and his language abounding in original eloquence peculiar to himself."

For a brief period following the assassination of the Smiths, comparative quiet prevailed in the Mormon country. The selection of a successor to their murdered prophet, was now the absorbing question among the Mormon people. Revelations were published that the prophet, in imitation of the Saviour, was to rise from the dead, and some even reported that they had seen him attended by a celestial army coursing the air on a great white horse.

Sydney Rigdon now aspired to be the head of the Church as the successor to the martyred prophet. His claims were verified by a pretended revelation direct from heaven. He was, however, at once antagonized by the "quorum of the Twelve," and after a bitter struggle, Apostle Brigham Young was chosen, and Rigdon expelled from the Church and "given over to the buffetings of Satan."

The quiet immediately succeeding the tragedy was of short duration. It was only the calm which precedes the storm. While his followers were invoking the vengeance of the law upon the murderers of the prophet, the anti-Mormons were quietly organizing a crusade for the expulsion of the entire Mormon population from the State. The trial of the assassins of the Smiths resulted in their acquittal, as was to have been expected when the intense anti-Mormon feeling existing throughout the immediate country is taken into account. The result is even less surprising when it is remembered that the principal witness for the prosecution supplemented his testimony of having seen the crime committed, by the remarkable declaration that immediately upon the death of Joseph, "a bright and shining light descended upon his head, that several of the conspirators were stricken with total blindness, and that he heard supernatural voices in the air confirming the divine mission of the murdered prophet."

In the narration of these exciting events, the names of men who at a later day achieved national distinction frequently occur. The Hon. O. H. Browning, since Senator and member of the Cabinet, was chief counsel for the alleged murderers of the Smiths. He was at the time a distinguished Whig leader, and one of the most eloquent men in the State. The disorder and outrages that followed the acquittal just mentioned called Governor Ford again to the seat of war. He says:

"When informed of these proceedings, I hastened to Jacksonville, where in a conference with General Hardin, Judge Douglas, and Mr. McDougal the Attorney-General of the State, it was agreed that these gentlemen should proceed to Hancock County in all haste with whatever force had been raised, and put an end to these disorders. It was also agreed that they should unite their influence with mine to induce the Mormons to leave the State. The twelve apostles had now become satisfied that the Mormons could not remain, or, if they did, that the leaders would be compelled to abandon the sway they exercised over them. Through the intervention of General Hardin, acting on instructions from me, an agreement was made between the hostile parties for the voluntary removal of the greater part of the Mormons across the Mississippi in the spring of 1846."

Of the advisors of the Governor in the adjustment mentioned, Douglas and McDougall were at a later day distinguished Senators, respectively from Illinois and California, and Hardin was killed while gallantly leading his regiment at the battle of Buena Vista.

To the peaceable accomplishment of the purposes mentioned, a small force under a competent officer was stationed for a time in Hancock County. The Governor justly felicitates himself that thereby "the greater part of the Military Tract was saved from the horrors of civil war in the winter time, when much misery would have followed by the dispersion of families and the destruction of property."

The Mormon exodus from Illinois, once the "land of promise," now began in terrible earnest. Many farms and homes and large quantities of personal effects were hastily disposed of at a great sacrifice. The speeding was far different from the welcome but a few years before so heartily extended to the incoming "saints." The "Holy City" and sacred temple soon to be destroyed were abandoned for perilous journeyings in the wilderness. The chapter that immediately follows in the history of this people is indeed pathetic. The terrible sufferings of the aged and infirm, of helpless women and children, as the shadows of the long night of winter gathered about them on their journey, can never be adequately told. But, inspired with the thought that they were the Israel of God, that Brigham Young was their divinely appointed leader, that the pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night ever went before them on their journeyings, they patiently endured all dangers and hardships.

High upon the western slope of the Wasatch hard by the old wagon trail which led down into the valley stands a huge rock around whose base the Mormon leader assembled his followers just as the last rays of a summer sun were falling upon the mountains. In stirring words he recalled their persecutions and trials, told them that their long pilgrimage, the weary march by day and lonely vigil by night, were now ended, and their Canaan the great valley which stretched out before them.

Upon a visit to Salt Lake City nearly a third of a century ago, I attended service in the great Tabernacle when it was filled to overflowing, and yet so excellent were its acoustic arrangements that every word of the speaker and every note of the organ could be heard distinctly. The surroundings were indeed imposing. Upon the great platform sat the President and his Council, the twelve apostles, the seventy elders, with an innumerable army of bishops, teachers, deacons, and other functionaries constituting the lower order of the Mormon hierarchy. The sermon was delivered by the famous Orson Pratt, the Saint Paul of the Mormon Church, a venerable patriarch of four score years, and yet, withal, a man of wonderful power.

As our little party passed in front of the speaker's platform to reach the door, he halted in his discourse, and stated to the audience that the strangers within their gates were leaving because of the near departure of their train and not because of any disrespect to the service. Then, bowing his aged head, he invoked the blessing of the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, upon the Gentile strangers, and prayed "that their long journey might be ended in safety, and that in the fulness of time, having witnessed the manifestations of Almighty Power, they might return again, not as sojourners, but as fellow-citizens with the saints, to dwell in the Holy City."



XIV A KENTUCKY COLONEL

COL. WINTERSMITH'S GREAT POPULARITY—HIS ADMIRATION FOR MR. CLAY —HIS MARVELLOUS MEMORY—HIS WIT AND HUMOR.

Few men were better known in Washington, a quarter of a century and more ago, than Colonel Dick Wintersmith of Kentucky. He had creditably filled important positions of public trust in his native State. His integrity was beyond question, and his popularity knew no bounds. Without the formality of party nomination, and with hardly the shadow of opposition at the polls, he had held the office of State Treasurer for nearly a score of years. An ardent Whig in early life, he was a devout worshipper at the shrine of Henry Clay. In the later years of his life, he would often with the deepest emotion refer to himself as "the last of the old guard." He never tired of relating interesting incidents of Mr. Clay. It was his glory that he had accompanied "the great pacificator" to Washington, when, with the fond hope of being able by his historic "compromise" to pour oil on the troubled waters, he returned to the Senate for the last time.

Wintersmith was the close friend of Theodore O'Hara, and stood beside him when at the unveiling of the monument to the Kentuckians who had fallen at Buena Vista he pronounced his now historic lines beginning—

"On fame's eternal camping-ground Their silent tents are spread."

Colonel Wintersmith knew, as he knew his children, two generations of the public men of Kentucky. His memory was a marvel to all who knew him. He could repeat till the dawn, extracts from famous speeches he had heard from the lips of Clay, Grundy, Marshall, and Menifee. More than once, I have heard him declaim the wonderful speech of Sargent S. Prentiss delivered almost a half-century before, in the old Harrodsburg Court-house, in defence of Wilkinson for killing three men at the Galt House.

It is hardly necessary to say that the Colonel was the soul of generosity. It was a part of his living faith that—

"Kind hearts are more than coronets."

That he was possessed in no stinted measure of wit and its kindred quality, humor, will appear from an incident or two to be related.

The Hon. Ignatius Donnelly, member of Congress from Minnesota, had written a book to prove that Lord Bacon was the veritable author of the plays usually accredited to Shakespeare. Soon after the appearance of Donnelly's book, he met Colonel Wintersmith on Pennsylvania Avenue.

After a cordial greeting, the Colonel remarked, "I have been reading your book, Donnelly, and I don't believe a word of it."

"What?" inquired Donnelly, with great surprise.

"Oh, that book of yours," said the Colonel, "in which you tried to prove that Shakespeare never wrote 'Hamlet' and 'Macbeth' and 'Lear' and all those other plays."

"My dear sir," replied Donnelly with great earnestness, "I can prove beyond all peradventure that Shakespeare never wrote those plays."

"He did," replied Wintersmith, "he did write them, Donnelly, I saw him write three or four of them, myself."

"Impossible!" replied Donnelly, who was as guiltless of anything that savored of humor as the monument recently erected to the memory of Hon. John Sherman, "impossible, Colonel, that you could have seen Shakespeare write those plays; they were written three hundred years ago."

"Three hundred years, three hundred years," slowly murmured the Colonel in pathetic tone, "is it possible that is has been so long? Lord, how time does fly!"

The Colonel often told the following with a gravity that gave it at least the semblance of truth. Many years ago, his State was represented in part in the Upper House by a statesman who rarely, when in good form, spoke less than an entire day. His speeches, in large measure, usually consisted of dull financial details, statistics, etc. He became in time the terror of his associates, and the nightmare of visitors in the galleries. His "Mr. President," was usually the signal for a general clearing out of both Senate Chamber and galleries.

"Upon one occasion," said Colonel Dick, "I was seated in the last tier in the public gallery, when my Senator with books and documents piled high about him solemnly addressed the Chair. As was the wont, the visitors in the gallery as one man arose to make their exit. With a revolver in each hand, I promptly planted myself in front of the door, and in no uncertain tone ordered the crowd to resume their seats, and remain quietly until the Senator from Kentucky had concluded his remarks. They did so and no word of complaint reached my ears. Hour after hour during the long summer day the speech drew itself along. At length as the shadows were lengthening and the crickets began to chirp, the speech ended and the Senator took his seat. I promptly replaced my pistols and motioned the visitors to move out. They did so on excellent time. As the last man was passing out, he quietly remarked to me, 'Mister, that was all right, no fault to find, but if it was to do over again, you might shoot.'"



XV FORGOTTEN EVENTS OF THE LONG AGO

THE WRITER MEETS MISS GRAHAM, SISTER-IN-LAW OF MR. GILES, A REPRESENTATIVE IN THE DAYS OF WASHINGTON—HIS MEETING WITH THE DAUGHTER OF THOMAS W. GILMER, SECRETARY OF THE NAVY UNDER PRESIDENT TYLER—THE SECRETARY KILLED, AND THE PRESIDENT ENDANGERED BY AN EXPLOSION—SPECULATION AS TO POSSIBLE POLITICAL CHANGES HAD THE PRESIDENT BEEN KILLED.

During my sojourn in Washington I visited the "Louise Home," one of the splendid charities of the late W. W. Corcoran. Two of the ladies I there met were Miss Graham and Miss Gilmer. The turn of Fortune's wheel had brought each of them from once elegant Virginia homes to spend the evening of life in the Home which Mr. Corcoran had so kindly and thoughtfully provided. It was in very truth the welcome retreat to representatives of old Southern families who had known better days. Here in quiet and something of elegant leisure, the years sped by, the chief pastime recalling events and telling over again and again the social triumphs of the long ago. Thus lingering in the shadows of the past, sadly reflecting, it may be, in the silent watches, that—

"The tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me,"

these venerable ladies were in sad reality "only waiting till the shadows had a little longer grown."

There was something pathetically remindful of the good old Virginia days in the manner in which Miss Graham handed me her card and invited me to be seated. Looking me earnestly in the face, she said, "Mr. Vice-President, you must have known my brother-in-law, Governor Giles."

"Do you mean Senator William B. Giles of Virginia?" I inquired.

"Yes, yes," she said, "did you know him?"

"No, madam," I replied, "I did not; he was a member of Congress when Washington was President; that was a little before my day. But is it possible that you are a sister-in-law of Governor Giles?"

"Yes, sir," she answered, "he married my eldest sister and I was in hope that you knew him."

I assured her that I had never known him personally, but that I knew something of his history: that he was a soldier of the Revolution; that he began his public career with the passing of the old Confederation and the establishment of the National Union; that as Representative or Senator he was in Congress almost continuously from the administration of Washington to that of Jackson. I then repeated to her the words Mr. Benton, his long-time associate in the Senate, had spoken of her brother-in-law: "Macon was wise, Randolph brilliant, Gallatin and Madison able in argument, but Giles was the ready champion, always ripe for the combat." And I told her that John Randolph, for many years his colleague, had said: "Giles was to our House of Representatives what Charles James Fox was to the British House of Commons—the most accomplished debater our country has known."

I might have said to Miss Graham, but did not, that her brother-in-law, then a member of the House, had voted against the farewell address of that body to President Washington upon his retirement from the great office. Strange indeed to our ears sound the words that even mildly reflect upon the Father of his Country. Of this, however, we may be assured, that the Golden Age of our history is but a dream; "the era of absolute good feeling,"—the era that has not been.

"Past and to come seem best; Things present, worst."

Before condemning Mr. Giles too severely the words of Edmund Burke may well be recalled: "Party divisions, whether upon the whole operating for the best, are things inseparable from free Government." Party divisions came in with our Constitution; partisan feeling almost with our first garments.

In this connection it will be remembered that this country has known no period of more intense and bitter party feeling than during the administration of the immediate successor of Washington, the period which witnessed the downfall of the Federal party, and the rise of the party of Jefferson. It was after the election but before the inauguration of John Adams, that the following words were spoken of President Washington by the brother-in-law of the little old lady to whom I have referred:

"I must object to those parts of the address which speak of the wisdom and firmness of the President. I may be singular in my ideas, but I believe his administration has neither been firm nor wise. I must acknowledge that I am one of those who do not think so much of the President as some others do. I wish that this was the moment of his retirement. I think that the Government of the United States can go on without him. What calamities would attend the United States, and how short the duration of its independence, if but one man could be found fitted to conduct its administration! Much had been said and by many people about the President's intended retirement. For my own part, I feel no uncomfortable sensations about it."

As I thus recalled the man whose public life began with that of Washington, his kinswoman at my side seemed indeed the one living bond of connection between the present and the long past, that past which had witnessed the Declaration of Independence, the War of the Revolution, and the establishment of the Federal Government.

The younger, by many years, of the two ladies, was the daughter of the Hon. Thomas W. Gilmer, a distinguished member of Congress during the third decade of the century, later the Governor of Virginia, and at the time of his death the Secretary of the Navy. The mention of his name recalls a tragic event that cast a pall over the nation and shrouded more than one hearthstone in deepest gloom. During later years, the horrors of an internecine struggle that knows no parallel, the assassination of three Presidents of the United States, and the thousand casualties that have crowded in rapid succession, have almost wiped from memory the incident now to be mentioned.

The pride of the American Navy, the man-of-war Princeton, Commodore Stockton in command, was lying in the Potomac just below Washington, on the morning of February 28, 1843. The day was beautiful, and the distinguished commander, who had known much of gallant service, had invited more than one hundred guests to accompany him on a sail to a point a few miles below Mount Vernon. Among the guests were President Tyler and two members of his Cabinet; Mr. Upshur, Secretary of State, and Mr. Gilmer, Secretary of the Navy; the widow of Ex-President Madison; Mr. Gardner, a prominent citizen of New York, and his accomplished daughter; Commodore Kennan; and a number of Senators and Representatives. Commodore Stockton was anxious to have his guests witness the working of the machinery of his vessel and to observe the fire of his great gun, his especial pride. Mr. Gardner and his daughter were guests at the Executive Mansion; and to the latter, the President—then for many years a widower —was especially attentive. Officers and guests were all in the best of sprits, and nothing seemed wanting to make the occasion one of unalloyed pleasure. Upon the return, and when almost directly opposite Mount Vernon, the company were summoned by the Commodore from the dinner table to witness the testing of the gun. Preceded by an officer, the guests were soon assembled in proximity to the gun. A place at the front was reserved for the President, but just as he was advancing, his attention was directed by his fair guest to some object on the shore. This for a moment arrested his progress, and prevented his instant death, for at this critical moment the gun exploded, causing the immediate death of more than twenty persons, and serious injuries to many others. Among the injured were Senator Benton and Commodore Stockton. The list of the dead included Secretary of State Upshur, Secretary of the Navy Gilmer, Commodore Kennan—one of the heroes of the second war with Great Britain,—and Mr. Gardner, the father of the lady whose timely interposition had caused the moment's delay which had saved the President from the terrible fate of his associates. Upon the return of the Princeton to Washington the dead were removed to the Executive Mansion, and the day, so auspicious in the beginning, ended in gloom.

Something in the way of romance is the sequel to that sad event. A few months later Miss Gardner, the fair guest of the President upon the ill-fated Princeton, became his bride, and during the remainder of his term of office did the honors of the Executive Mansion.

The thousands of visitors who have, during the past sixty years, passed through the spacious rooms of that Mansion, have paused before a full-length portrait of one of the most beautiful of women. Possibly the interest of no one who gazed upon her lovely features was lessened when told that the portrait was that of the wife of President Tyler, the once charming and accomplished Miss Gardner, whose name is so closely associated with the long-ago chapter of sorrow and of romance.

A thought pertaining to the domain of the real rather than of the romantic is suggested by the sad accident upon the Princeton. But for the trifling incident which detained President Tyler from the side of his Cabinet officers at the awful moment, the administration of the Government would have passed to other hands. As the law then stood, the Speaker of the House of Representatives would have succeeded to the Presidency; and how this might have changed the current of our political history is a matter of at least curious speculation.

Remembering that—

"Two stars keep not Their motion in one sphere,"

might not the removal of one have healed the widening breach in the Whig party? What might have been its effect upon the grand Internal Improvement Scheme—the darling project of Henry Clay? what upon the determination of the Oregon Boundary Question—whether by diplomacy or war? and how might the destiny of the "Lone Star," the Republic of Texas, have been changed? What might have been the effect upon the political fortunes of Tyler's great antagonist, around whom the aggressive forces of the party he had founded were even then gathering for a life-and-death struggle against a comparatively obscure rival in the Presidential campaign of 1844?

Trifles light as air are sometimes the pivots upon which hinge momentous events. The ill-timed publication of a personal letter defeated Cass in 1848; and within our day the utterance of a single word, unheard by the candidate to whom it was addressed, lost the Presidency to Blaine.

The antagonism of Tyler and his adherents eliminated, it is within the bounds of probability that Henry Clay would have triumphed in his last struggle for the Presidency. If so, what change might not have been wrought in the trend of history? Under the splendid leadership of the "great pacificator," what might have been the termination of vital questions even then casting their dark shadows upon our national pathway?

With Clay at the helm, himself the incarnation of the spirit of compromise, possibly—who can tell?—the evil days so soon to follow might have been postponed for many generations.



XVI ROBERT G. INGERSOLL

MR. INGERSOLL'S ELOQUENCE WHILE A YOUNG MAN—HIS CANDIDACY FOR CONGRESS—HIS AGNOSTICISM A HINDRANCE TO HIS POLITICAL ADVANCEMENT —HIS ORATION AT THE FUNERAL OF HIS BROTHER.

It was in April, 1859, that for the first time I met Robert G. Ingersoll. He came over from his home in Peoria to attend the Woodford Circuit Court. He was then under thirty years of age, of splendid physique, magnetic in the fullest significance of the word, and one of the most attractive and agreeable of men. He was almost boyish in appearance, and hardly known beyond the limits of the county in which he lived. He had but recently moved to Peoria from the southern part of the State.

To those who remember him it is hardly necessary to say that even at that early day he gave unmistakable evidence of his marvellous gifts. His power over a jury was wonderful indeed; and woe betide the counsel of but mediocre talents who had Ingersoll for an antagonist in a closely contested case.

The old Court-house at Metamora is yet standing, a monument of the past; the county seat removed, it has long since fallen from its high estate. In my boyhood, I have more than once heard Mr. Lincoln at its bar, and later was a practitioner there myself—and State's Attorney for the Circuit,—when Mr. Ingersoll was attendant upon its courts. Rarely at any time or place have words been spoken more eloquent than fell from the lips of Lincoln and Ingersoll in that now deserted Court-house, in the years long gone by.

The first appearance of Mr. Ingersoll in the political arena was in the Presidential struggle of 1860. In his later years he was a Republican, but in the contest just mentioned he was the earnest advocate of the election of Mr. Douglas to the Presidency and was himself the Democratic candidate for Congress in the Peoria District. His competitor was Judge Kellogg, a gentleman of well-known ability and many years' experience in Congress. Immediately upon his nomination, Ingersoll challenged Kellogg to a series of joint debates. The challenge was accepted, and the debates which followed were a rare treat to the throngs who heard them. The discussion turned upon the vital issues yet pending at the outbreak of the Civil War, issues which were to find their final determination on the field of battle. Possibly, with the exception of the historic debates two years earlier, between Lincoln and Douglas, the country has known no abler discussion of great questions. It was then for the first time that Ingersoll displayed the marvellous forensic powers that at a later day—and upon a different arena—gave him world-wide renown.

It was at a period subsequent to that just mentioned that he became an agnostic. I recall no expression of his during the early years of our acquaintance that indicated a departure from the faith in which he had been reared. That his extreme views upon religious subjects, and his manner, exceedingly offensive at times, of expressing them, formed an insuperable barrier to his political advancement, cannot be doubted. But for his unbelief, what political honors might have awaited him cannot certainly be known. But recalling the questions then under discussion, the intensity of party feeling, and the enthusiasm that his marvellous eloquence never failed to arouse in the thousands who hung upon his words, it is probable that the most exalted station might have been attained. To those familiar with the political events of that day, it is known that the antagonism aroused by his assaults upon the citadel of the faith sacred to the many, compassed his defeat in his candidature in 1868 for the Governorship of Illinois. His explanation was, that his defeat was caused by a slight difference of opinion between himself and some of the brethren upon the highly exciting question of total depravity.

Some years later, the nominee of his party for the Presidency was exceedingly obnoxious to him. Meeting the Colonel the morning after the adjournment of the convention I inquired, "Are you happy?" To this he replied, that he was somewhat in the condition of a very profane youth who had just got religion at a backwoods camp-meeting. Soon after his conversion, the preacher, taking him affectionately by the hand, inquired: "My young friend, are you very happy?" "Well, parson," replied the only half-converted youth, "I am not damn happy, just happy, that's all."

His only brother was for many years a Representative in Congress from Illinois. Clark Ingersoll was himself able and eloquent, but overshadowed by the superior gifts of his younger brother, the subject of this sketch. The death of the former was to Colonel Ingersoll a sorrow which remained with him to the last. The funeral occurred in Washington in the summer of 1879, and of the pall-bearers selected by Colonel Ingersoll for the last sad service to his brother, were men well known in public life, one of whom but two years later, while President of the United States, fell by the hand of an assassin.

From a Washington paper of the day succeeding the funeral of Clark Ingersoll, the following is taken: "When Colonel Ingersoll ceased speaking the pall-bearers, Senator Allison, Senator David Davis, Senator Blaine, Senator Voorhees, Representatives Garfield of Ohio, Morrison, Boyd, and Stevenson of Illinois, bore the casket to the hearse and the lengthy cortege proceeded to the Oak Hill Cemetery where the remains were interred."

The occasion was one that will not easily pass from my memory. There was no service whatever save the funeral oration which has found its way into all languages. I stood by the side of Colonel Ingersoll near the casket during its delivery, and vividly recall his deep emotion, and the faltering tones in which the wondrous sentences were uttered. It is probable that this oration has no counterpart in literature. It seemed in very truth the knell of hope, the expression of a grief that could know no surcease, the agony of a parting that could know no morrow.

In such an hour how cheerless and comfortless these words:

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

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

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

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



XVII A CAMP-MEETING ORATOR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer,"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



XVIII CLEVELAND AS I KNEW HIM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



XIX A UNANIMOUS CHOICE FOR SPEAKER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But sure enough—

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

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

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



XX A LAWYER OF THE OLD SCHOOL

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

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

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

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

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

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

The venerable Judge Drummond said:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A gentleman who had heard Arrington writes:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



XXI HIGH DEBATE IN THE MOUNTAINS

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

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

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

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

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

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