Cynthiana, Kentucky - History (part 3 of 4)

So the saids, the aforesaids, the willfullys, the feloniouslys, the malices aforethought, were all wrong, and David Sheely suffered death an innocent man ! It should be recommended that transcript of record in the case of David Sheely take off its mourning, unless the court wants to keep it on ; to mourn for the fatal mistake it made in that never-to-beforgotten case, decided September 14, 1847.

A lack-a-day, the temple of justice is somewhat like the " Whited Sepulcher," fair to look upon without, but witliin, among its moldering records, are to be found things worse than dead men's bones.

But David Sheely could not rest in his grave; the young physicians would not suffer him to do it. They took his body out of its grave before it had lain there twenty-four hours, and dissected the flesh from its bones. The physician who owned the skeleton loaned a thigh bone to one young doctor and the skull to another. But in time the bones were all collected in a box, and placed in a dark cellar, the doctor who owned them having crossed the same dark river that David Sheely had crossed over, but not at the same ferry.

Still David Sheely walked the earth an injured, restless, unhappy shade, with a rope around his neck that trailed far behind him on the ground. Many persons in and around Cynthiana 'protest that they have seen him.

Tradition hath it, that the first time he appeared was on a festive occasion. He left the neighborhood of the hill on which he had suflered death, and haunted a dark ravine above the house now owned by Mrs. Calhoun. In that lonely spot, dense with undergrowth, years and years ago, a murdered man lay dead, and his blood stained the fallen leaves, and crept into the ground, and cried to God for vengeance. But the murderer was never found. This ravine is on the Leesburg pike. I^ot many miles from Leesburg, in December, 1847, was an old farm-house that had been untenanted for months. The young ladies and gentlemen determined to have a dance in it on Ohristmas eve. Invitations were issued, and all preparations were made by the young people of the neighborhood for the ball.

About dark, a little negro boy was sent to build a wood fire on the wide hearth of the deserted house. He built the fire, and, when it was blazing brightly, he started for home. On his way, he was compelled to pass a grave on the roadside that had been there so long that the oldest inhabitant had no idea who slept beneath the sunken sod. When he came near this lonely grave, David Sheely's ghost arose out of it, white and tall, with the rope thrown over his arm, and his eyes starting out of his head. He looked at the negro boy, and said: "There's nobody here but you and me to-night." The negro took to his heels, and ran for his life, and fell into his mother's cabin door in a breathless state of excitement. "What's de mattah ? you done tuck leab of youah sensible, you fool?" said the boy's mother. "Time I done shuck de life outin you ; you gwine talk ? " The boy found his breath, and told what he had seen, and was a hero among the negroes ever afterward.

Bill, the fiddler, was the first to arrive at the deserted house after the fire was built. He drew a chair near the blazing logs, and said to himself: " Glad dee done gut a fier heah dis coll night, kese it am powfal frosty."

When he was comfortable, he took his beloved fiddle from its case, and warmed and tuned it, and began to play a " dance tune." He had not been thus engaged long, when he heard, in a room above him, a man walking, dragging something on the floor that made a sound like a trailing rope. He heard footsteps descend the stairway. When they came to the door, there were three loud raps. Bill said: " Come in; you not gwine scure me wid youah foolishness." In it came, with the trailing rope behind it, and said: "Nobody here but you and me to-night." Bill sprang to his feet, put his fiddle hurriedly in its case, and cleared the front door at a bound, and took his way home as the crow flies. But David Sheely's ghost pursued him, and he never stopped to scale a fence or jump a ditch that he did not hear, away ofi', " IN'obody here but you and me to-night."

There was a young man (who shall be nameless) returning from a visit to his sweetheart. He rode slowly ; dreaming, perhaps, of his lady's eyebrow.

When he came to the ravine before mentioned, Sheely's ghost jumped on behind hira, and began lashing the horse with a rope until it ran away. The young man declared that the arms of the ghost, that sometimes " hugged him tight," w^ere as cold as ice, and that he never could have sat his horse if he had not been held on. The horse ran at breakneck speed until it came to the bridge just above Captain Desha's house ; there it jumped over the abutment, a distance of ten feet, and broke its neck. The young man was knocked senseless(?); when he recovered the ghost was gone.

David Sheely's ghost grew tired of Harrison county and of wearing grave clothes, and made its way to Bourbon ; and appeared in broad daylight dressed in the garb of a Spanish cavalier, but still with the rope about its neck; and began to pay attention to a very beautiful 3^oung lady named Betsy. It was the custom in those days to ride horseback to church, and Betsy had a palfrey as black as night that w^ould suffer no one to mount him but his mistress. She and other members of her family w^ere riding to church one beautiful Sabbath morning when they were surprised to see a man dressed in foreign attire, mounted on a jet black horse gayly caparisoned, save for one thing: the horse had a rope bridle, and the cavalier a piece of rope around his neck, and trailing far behind him. He showed his preference for Betsj^ by riding directly in front of her whenever it was possible. The cavalier disappeared at the " cross roads." He seemed to sink out of sight in a moment, and in a very mysterious way no one could account for. He appeared and disappeared every Sunday, un- til Betsy's family began to call him "Betsy's beau." One Sunday morning in early spring, in the year 1848, Betsy was riding to church with a young man who was much smitten with her charms. The ghost came in sight at the usual time and place, but he seemed out of humor, and vented his spleen by lashing his horse with the end of the rope that hung from his neck. When he came to the '' cross roads " he went into the earth ; horse and rider sank out of sight. A moment before he had been in full view of Betsy and her attendant. A gold spur worn by the cavalier gleamed in the sunlight for a moment, and then the ground closed over it. Betsy could never be induced to talk about the ghostly cavalier, but she did not break her heart because he never returned. Young girls generally prefer cavaliers of flesh and blood to ghosts, no matter how handsome ghosts may be.

Mrs. L., the wife of the gentleman w^ho owned the farm, invited an old lady and two young girls to go with her and spend a few days in this solitary old house.

When evening came on, Mrs, L. and her visitors took their seats on the crumbling front porch and began to look about them. There must have been ten thousand frogs holding high carnival along the confines of the creek, to judge from the terrific noise they made. A thin mist unrolled its filmy length and followed the line of the creek. Millions of fireflies flashed in their silent beauty through the night air.

The scene w^as new and pleasing to the young girls, but the older ladies felt fearful of being alone in such a solitary place with no man for a protector.

When the negro woman, Polly, by name, had finished her work, she came and sat on the porch with the ladies. The young girls begged her to tell them a ghost story, but she said: "Not heah in dis hanted house, whar Sheely walks continally. Why, he stans study right undah dat blarsted locust tree, an' divers has seed him. Dat's de raison ob no white pusson stayin' in dis house." " Have you ever seen him?" asked the old lady. "I ain't jist zactly seed mysef, but I done hearn him many bees de times."

Polly and the ladies adjourned to a large room, in which were three beds, a large one for the young girls and two small ones for their elders.

It was a summer night, but a wood fire was built on the hearth to make the old room look cheerful. Beds were looked under, and windows fastened down securely by nails being driven in above the lower sashes.

house?" "Yes, ma'am, I is; but hit's a ole fusee dat not gwine kill a flea." She brought in the gun^ a large, unlikely weapon, and Mrs. L. placed it beside her bed. She and her guests talked many hours before they were willing to retire. The next morning, as the day broke and threw barely suflieient light in the room to make a moving object visible, Mrs. L., the old lady, and one of the young girls saw an object rise, dressed in a long white robe, and pass slowly from the fire-place to the door, and disappear. !N^one of them saw or heard the door open, but all three saw the object walk across the floor and disappear. Mrs. L. thought that the old lady had risen and was walking in her sleep ; but she answered assoon as called, and said : " I saw that, whatever it was." The doors and windows were looked to, but remained as they had been left the night before. Polly was called and told of the strange incident, and said : " Umph ! dat's no new thing. Divers people seed dat in dis room."

That was the last time Sheely's ghost was seen^ but his bones began to clamor for decent sepulture. When the physician died who owned them, they fell to his daughter, and she put them in her cellar, near to a large furnace that heated her whole house and conservatory.

One cold night in winter, she invited a young girl to spend the night with her, her husband having gone away on business. It was a bright moonlight night. About midnight, she and the young lady heard the front doorbell ring three times. The lady of the house arose at once and looked out of a win- dow that commanded a full view of the front door; but she saw nobody. She discovered that the house was getting cold, and knew that if the fire in the furnace died out she would lose her flowers. She descended the cellar stairs, replenished the fire, and was just opposite Sheely's bones when she heard in her room above the loud report of a pistol. She hurried to her room, expecting to find her dresser on fire; but when she opened the drawer where the pistol lay, there was not a cartridge amiss. It was just as her husband had left it.

She took them in a box and carried them to the hill and near the place where Sheely had sufiered death, and gave them decent burial. A few toe bones were lost through a hole in the box while crossing a stream, but Sheely's ghost has never come back in search of them.

Many people believe that the soul of man is immortal, a few believe that it revisits the earth, and a very small number aver that they have seen the ghosts of the departed wandering about familiar scenes, dressed in the very clothes they wore in life. " If a man's clothes turn to dust, shall they live again?" In what strange country does the shuttle fly that fashions from the ashes of the past these ghostly garments ?

Chapter Ix The Unfortunate Dutchman

Cynthiana, until somewhere between 1830 and '40, had an English-speaking population only. One day there arrived in Cynthiana a Dutchman from the fens of Holland, who could neither speak nor understand one word of English, and not a soul in this place could understand Dutch. What he came here for was never known ; but w^hat happened to him will never be forgotten while tradition lives.

He made a man who kept a small hotel understand that he wanted a room in his house. He got it, deposited his luggage within it, then put his hands in his pockets and strolled out in the village prospecting. Any stranger would have attracted attention in Cynthiana at that early date, but the Dutchman, so strangely clad and bearing the physique of another nationality, raised a gale of curiosity among children and the very ignorant class of citizens. They began to hoot and yell at him, and the children followed him until the Dutchman, w^ho was choleric withal, grew tired of such treatment, and began to menace the crowd, and vociferated threats, in his own tongue, which were all the more terrible, in that they could not be understood by the mob. Finally, an officer, who took him for a lunatic, stepped forward to arrest him, but he fled to his room, at the hotel, and locked and barred the door, and hoisted the front window of his room, before which the mob had gathered, and began to pelt them with all the missiles he could find loose in his place of retreat. When the last piece of his chamber set had been smashed on the ground below, a man, more daring than the rest, forced his door open, and took him prisoner, after a desperate struggle had taken place between them. He was taken to jail and locked up. Then a jury was summoned, and he was adjudged a lunatic, and ordered to be taken to the asylum at Lexington, Kentucky. The proper authorities went to the jail to take him out and place him in a conveyance they had ready before the jail door, but they encountered another difficulty. The jail was a two-story building, and the Dutchman had been confined in an upstairs room, and had fastened down the trap-door that opened on the stair-way. An officer got a ladder, and put it under one of the grated windows of the cell, and was about to force it open with some sharp instrument, when he was baptized by a bucket of cold water thrown on him by the besieged Dutchman. The fight raged fiercely. The Dutchman broke the glass in the inside of the grating, and beat a tattoo, with an iron poker, on the head of every man who ascended the ladder. At last some strong men lifted the trap-door while the Dutchman was defending the window, and he was secured, then tied hand and foot, and placed in the conveyance, and driven toward Lexington, Kentucky. About half way there, the horse hitched to the wagon, or whatever it was, cast a shoe, and the driver stopped at a blacksmith's shop to have it replaced. The Dutchman had never ceased to rave and talk since he left Cynthiana. The blacksmith was a

The Unfortunate Dutchman

Dutchman himself, but could speak English. He understood what the supposed lunatic said, and made those who were taking him to the asylum understand him also. They turned him loose, and sneaked back to Cynthiana, no better, but a little wiser men, than when they left. The Dutchman did not prospect any more about this place.

The Barbecue Of 1844

The first barbecue ever held by Cynthianians was held at what was then called New Union, situated about four miles from this town. Polk and Clay were candidates for the presidential chair, and, having no amusements of any kind here at that time, the people, men, women, and children, turned partisans, on one side of the fence or the other, for their own amusement. The men sometimes vindicated their rights to be Democrats or Whigs by going at it fist and skull, and fighting in the open streets, there being then no marshal to prevent them or make them afraid. The women quarreled across streets and fences, and the little boys were whipped for singing the wrong party songs, until finally Polk's election put a stop to open hostilities for a space. When the news of his election reached here, great bon-fires blazed on the public squares, and arrangements were made that very evening to have a grand barbecue at I^ew Union. There were then twenty-six (?) states m the Union. Twenty-six young girls were chosen on account of their good looks to represent these states, and were requested by the managers of the afiair to dress in white and to ride white horses to the barbecue, all save one out of the number. She was a beautiful brunette, and was asked to dress in black and ride a black horse in the procession to (138) represent "Little Rhoda," which had done something during the presidential campaign to displease Democrats. The day of the barbecue was bright and clear. The twenty-six young girls, rejoicing in hope and beauty, drew up in front of the court-house to wait for the procession to form. The Whig boys, were not invited to the festivities; they stood afar off like a pack of prodigals, and felt worse than they would have done had thev been filled with husks, as they watched their Democratic rivals escort their (the Whigs) sweethearts out of town.

When the thing was over, there were more bleeding noses and blackened eyes on the faces of Whig and Democratic boys than have ever been seen in Cynthiana before or since, and each side cried, no doubt, " Dvicit amor jp air i(zr

When John Morgan come into Kentucky, we did n't look for such good luck as his comin to Cynthiana, but he come, all the same. John Rogers came through Leesburg, and on here to marry a couple, an he seen John Morgan a comin, an rushed here to tell the secesh. It got norated around among 'em, and the feds got holt of it, too, fur thar wus a turrible stir among 'em. I was takin care of Bro. R.'s house; he had been drove off for speakin his mind, and his wife wouldn't stay nuther, when he could n't. I sot in the door a readin the Gospel !N^ews, when I saw a pasel o' pickets splittin past the house like mad. Now, I was a rebel to the back bone, and hated a nigger like pizen, fur, eff you'd scrape 'em, and bile 'em, an pound thar bones, they 'd be niggers still. Well, sir, I was determined to know what was the matter or bust. So I walks out an says, Anthin the

Says the Dutchman a rollin up his sleeves: I know vot 1 vould to ef any potty vipped my boy dat avay, I know. Tlie bully stepped up and put his fist under his nose and said vot vould you to? Says the Dutchmen, I tout know.

Collins

Says Collins: On July 17, 1862, the Confederate General John H. Morgan, with a force 816 strong when he started, nine days before, upon this first Kentucky raid, attacked the Federal forces at Cynthiana, nearly five hundred strong (mainly home guards), under Colonel John J. Landrum, who, after a brave resistance, were overpowered and defeated and the town captured. The Federal pickets were surprised, captured, or driven in, and before the commander had time to dispose his force, the Confederates commenced shelling the town, producing a wild consternation among the inhabitants. Captain William H. Glass, of the Federal artillery, occupied the public square, from which point he could command most of the roads. Another force took possession of the Magee Kill road south of town, along which the Confederates were approaching. A third detachment was instructed to hold the bridge on the west side of town, toward which Morgan's main force was pouring. Captain Glass opened on Morgan's battery, which was planted on an eminence a quarter of a mile distant between the Leesburg and Fair Grounds turnpikes. The Confederates were now appaoaching by every road and street, and deployed as skirmishers through every field completely encircling the Federals. The battery on the hill having ceased its fire, Captain Glass, with grape and caniiister, swept Pike street from one end to the other. By this time the contestants were engaged at every point. The fighting was terrific. The Federals commenced giving w*ay. The force at the bridge, after a sharp fight, were driven back, and a Confederate cavalry charge made through the streets. A portion of the Federals made a stand at the railroad depot. A charge upon the Confederate battery at the Licking bridge was repulsed, and the Confederates in turn charged upon the forces at the depot, while another detachment was pouring deadly fire from the rear about one hundred and twenty-five yards distant. It was here that Colonel Landrum was w^ounded, and Thomas Ware, one of the oldest citizens, Jesse Currant, Thomas Rankin, Captain Lafe Wilson, and others were killed, besides a number wounded. Unable to stand the concentrated fire, the handful of Federals that were left commenced a precipitate retreat. The Seventh Kentucky Cavalry, posted north of town to hold the Oddville road, w^ere soon overpowered and compelled to surrender. Three-fourths of the Federal forces had now been killed, wounded, or captured, and the Confederates held undisputed possession. The prisoners w^ere marched into town and lodged in the court-house, and their paroles made out and signed that night.

Second Battle Oe Cynthiana

On Saturday, June 11, 1864, General John H. Morgan marclied a second time on Cyntbiana, defeated and captured the forces under the command of E. H. Hobson. The first of these series of engagements took place early in the morning, between the One Hundred and Sixty-eight Ohio Infantry, commanded by Colonel Conrad Gavis, and Morgan's whole command, about 1,200 strong. The Federals were soon overpowered and fell back to the old depot buildings (where Colonel Berry fell mortally wounded), thence to Rankin's unfinished hotel; others retreated to the court-house. The Confederates, following closely, charged into these several places, causing the utmost consternation among the inhabitants. While the battle was raging, a stable opposite the Rankin Hotel caught on fire, or was set on fire, and the terror of the flames added greatly to the alarm. Across the river, west of the town, another battle began between General Hobson, commanding the One Hundred and Seventy-first Ohio, and a detachment of Confederates. This is known as the Battle of " Keller's Bridge," one mile north of Cyntbiana, which had been destroyed by the Confederates on Thursday previous, to prevent the sending of troops along the railroad. The trains which had conveyed the One Hundred Seventy-first Ohio to this point were backed down the road two miles for safety, but were there thrown off" the track by the Confederates and burned. Upon being disembarked, the men were supplied with ammunition, and proceeded to eat their breakfast. Sud- denly their quiet was disturbed by the rattle of musketry at Cynthiana, telling that hot work was going on there between the One Hundred and Sixty-eighth Ohio and the Confederates, and in a few minutes the fields around them were alive with Confederates. A volley of musketry was poured in upon them by a squad of Confederates massed behind the fence of a clover-field. General Ilobson was now completely surrounded. The Confederates displayed great activity in firing, and considerable skill in keeping under cover from the firing of the Federal troops. The fight continued about five hours, the loss on both sides unusually heavy. General Morgan, who was in Cynthiana when the fight at the bridge commenced, arrived on the field at 9 a. m., with reinforcements, and with these the line was drawn still closer, and General Hobson was compelled to accept the flag of truce and Mors^an's conditions of surrender - that private property should be respected, and the ofiicers retain their side arms.

The Federal forces were drawn up along the pike, their arms stacked and burned, and they were marched through Cynthiana, a mile east, to a grove, where they found other Federal forces, who were prisoners like themselves. After resting an hour the prisoners were marched three miles north, on the Oddville pike, where they passed the night. .Early on Sunday morning, with the first announcement of the arrival of Burbridge, came an order from Morgan to the guard over the Federal prisoners to start them north, which was done, and that, too, on the double-quick. Morgan's main forces were pursued by Burbridge, following at a distance of a few miles. This forced them to

Polly S Account Of Moegan S Raid

Claysville, twelve miles north of Cynthiana, where they were halted, drawn up in lines and paroled and allowed to depart. On Sunday morning, the 12th of June, the day after the two battles above described. General Barbridge, with a strong force, fell upon Morgan's men at Cynthiana, while they were at breakfast. Fatigued as they were by the previous day's operations, which resulted in the defeat and capture of two distinct Federal forces, the Confederates were in no condition to withstand the shock of a fresh body of troops. Burbridge with his cavalry was enabled to flank them, and thus turn their lines, while his infantry in the center advanced steadily, forcing them back on the town. The fighting commenced on the Millersburg pike, about one mile east of Cynthiana. But the Confederates, unable to hold out against the rapid and determined advance of superior numbers of fresh troops, supported by artillery, soon gave way, and by the time they reached Cynthiana they were in full retreat, and the retreat a rout. One by one they fell back through the town, crossed the river, and followed the Raven creek pike. This ended the last battle of Cynthiana in the war for Southern independence.

Chapter Xil Frances And Faithful

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Frances, who was so unfortunate as to lose her father before she was live years old. She left home one sunny Sabbath morning to stay some time with a kind friend, and when she returned her father was dead and buried. It was at his request that she was spared the sad scenes of death and burial.

The first thing she did on her return was to run to the room her father had occupied in his last illness, and when she found his bed removed and his easy chair put out of sight, she cried aloud, " My father is dead !" and clasped her little hands in agony. That was the wail of an orphan, and Frances' mother never forgot it. She vowed to give this baby orphan a double share of a mother's love and indulgence.

One day a little girl gave Frances a dog, of the terrier and pug species combined; He was possessed of the beauty and appealing helplessness of all young animals, and as Frances's mother found it hard to say her nay, the dog was made an humble member of the family, and was christened Faithful.

Wanton cruelty is the beginning of crime. A little child who will abuse and maltreat as faithful a friend as a dog always proves himself to be, will do the (150) same to a man when he has attained man's estate. A dog is invariably faithful to his master. Change of face and fortune can not affect him; long absence can not efface his love. Can we say as much of men as a class ? A dog can be educated. It can be proved that a dog can reason. He possesses the ^ve senses; he has the presentative, the representative, the reflective, and, perhaps, the intuitive power of mind. He can not manifest the workings of the subjective, except by signs ; hence we know not, when he sees a beautiful sunset, that he admires it. He is capable of development in an upward direction, and often shows a high sense of honor. Do many men prove that they have more exalted attributes of mind and heart? But metaphysics aside. Little Frances having no brothers and sisters of her own age, lavished her affections on Faithful, and he returned the compliment by licking her hands and face, tearing her dresses in sport, and carrying off' her Sunday shoes, and by sleeping in her play-house when she was absent at school. When she would come home from school of an afternoon, the expression of his tail was a sight to see, and his joyous bark had in it the very essence of gladness and love. When he was too familiar, Frances would hit him a reproving tap on the head; down would go his curly tail as straight as an arrow. Did she caress him, his tail would be in full feather over his back, as round as a ring, and wagging away at an astonishing rate. All animals are unattractive at feeding time. Faithful showed the brute then by snarling and growling at the cat, who would mount the fence and gaze afar off at him as he partook of his repast. It seems to me that I have seen and heard some men snarl and snap at the table, and some little boys, who all wanted the breast of a chicken and no other part, and who howled mournfully because they all could not get it, there being but one chicken, and that having, as is usual, but one breast.

It became necessary for Frances's mother to sell the home where she (Frances) was born, and to go to a distant city to seek her fortune. Let us pass over the breaking-up scenes - the folding of garments once worn by those who would use them no more forever ; the farewell to rooms where had rested the shadow of the unburied dead; the last look at the tall trees around the old home and the meadows beyond the river, and the river itself; and last, and hardest of all farewells, was that said to dear friends loved, and loving long and well.

Then came the question, what was to be done with Faithful? Faithful hadn't a selfish thought; he would have died for his friends as bravely as any soldier of any time. Frances's mother knew all this, and yet she hardly agreed to make him the companion of her wanderings. But Frances's heart, fresh from the hand of God, and undisciplined by contact with this cruel world, begged that Faithful should accompany her and her mother on their journey. So Faithful was wrapped in a shawl and smuggled on

They were made welcome by the lady of the house at I^., but Faithful looked at her askance and kept his tail very straight, and stood in a corner and licked his chops at her by way of conciliation. The lady was perfectly just to him and fed him well, but she could not make him feel at ease foi^ all that. Her little daughter, Lucy, who was the age of Frances, was his good friend, and Faithful perceived it. He curled and wagged his tail at her approach, and kissed her hand in knightly fashion; but after doing so, he would lower his tail at the lady of the house, and lick his chops humbly and crawl snake-fashion before her. He never attempted to kiss her hand, although she often spoke kindly to him.

At last the day came for continuing the journey^ and Frances took Faithful by the leash, and she and her mother went to the depot to take the cars for the capital of the United States. Faithful was very much frightened at the noise and bustle of the great city of Cincinnati, and he and his friends were relieved when they entered the parlor of the Grand Central. But their joy was of short duration, for the janitress said that a dog was not allowed in the upstairs' ladies' waiting-room, and that he should go below to the emigrants' apartments. He was taken below. Soon an old colored porter passed Frances's mother, and she crossed his palm with silver, and he promised to take Faithful on the cars and not let the conductor see him.

Directly after this, a solemn -looking man came through the waiting-room, crying in an unearthly voice: "Persons bound for all points east, etc., etc., and Washington, D. C, train waits." There were a few moments of breathless anxiety for Frances, and then she was in a sleeper with Faithful at her feet^ perfectly mute, scared by the rattle and motion of the train. Their route was the C. & 0. Tickets were taken, the berth made down, and Faithful and his little mistress soon slept. But Frances's mother's mind was too full of sorrowful thoughts to sleep. All night long, moonlight and shadow alternately chased each other across the face of the orphan child and her humble friend, and all night long, by the light of the full October moon, Frances's mother saw pass swiftly in review before her hill and valley and winding stream and lonely farm-house, and anon the distant mountains towering to the sky.

Next morning at daybreak, the porter put the berth in order, and said: "The superintendent gets on this train at the next station, and you will be compelled to remove your dog to the baggage-car." Frances wrung her hands and wept, and her mother said : " Dear child, I will take Faithful to the baggage car and tie him to our trunks, and w^e will soon see him again, for we reach Washington at 4:30 o'clock in the afternoon." Faithful was carried through coach after coach of the swift-running train, and tied to Frances's trunk, and Frances's mother begged the baggageman to take care of him. She then patted Faithful, who looked in her face and said as plainly to her as Cgesar said to Brutus, " et tu - "

All day long trunks were hurled in and out of the baggage-car at every station, and Frances was miserable, and feared that Faithful had been forgotten and had perished. When the afternoon was far spent, the dome of the capitol and Washington's monument came in sight, and soon after the cars steamed into the station.

Frances And Faithful

Frances's mother took her by the hand and went to look for Faithful. She called, politely, to the baggageman, but the thunder of falling trunks and the cries of porters drowned her voice. The young sleeping-car conductor, who had been very polite to Frances and her mother while they were in his cars, divined their trouble, and made his strong young voice audible above the din, and Faithful was slung out and suspended between the heavens and the earth, by his string, like a malefactor. His tongue was out of his mouth, and in a few moments more his fate would have been sealed, but the baggageman jerked the string from the fastening, and Faithful ran under the cars. Frances screamed and called him; he heard her voice, and bounded to her arms and kissed her face all over. She carried him out of the depot, and then took him by his string, and he ran beside her and her mother as glad as they to be at the end of the journey.

Frances's mother had forgotten to ask any of her friends about the best hotels for travelers to lodge in ; and being a perfect stranger in Washington she accosted a young man, and he directed her to one called inquired the price of a night's lodging and dinner and breakfast. "Four dollars," said a coarse looking man. The place was not neat, and the odor of gas was stifling. She went to another house and entered the door; to the right was a long bar, at which men were standing drinking and talking in loud voices. She left at once, and stood looking about her. By this time evening was advancing, and along the memory-haunted Potomac the mists were gatherings and the chill autumn wind swept down the asphalt avenues, and whispered unpleasant things in the ears of FaithfuL He whined and shivered, and looked appealingly in the face of his Httle mistress, who said to her mother: "Oh shall we have to sleep in the street?" Just at this time a policeman came hy, and directed Frances's mother to the "National," where she found a clean, quiet room, with an open fire hurning in an old-fashioned grate, and a nice bed and comfortable chairs.

After being refreshed by a good dinner, Frances and her mother took Faithful, and went out for a walk. The streets were brilliantly lighted by electric lights, and every thing looked gay and cheerful. In their promenade they passed a statue of Benjamin Franklin, and his benign face seemed to shed a blessing on all who passed him.

The next morning, after a late breakfast, Frances's mother said to her: "You and Faithful must stay here a few hours alone. I must seek a boarding house." "Oh," cried Frances, looking at the street 60 many feet below the window, "there might be lire, mother ; and then Faithful and I might be burned alive." After assuring Frances that there was no danger, her mother took the street cars and went to the Catholic University, and gave some letters of introduction to the footman, to be handed to the president of that grand educational center; and then began to look about her. The university building is constructed of stone ; its massive walls look as if they might defy the storms of centuries. A semicircle of forest trees inclose part of the large grounds, which are kept in perfect order. The trees, that bright October morning, were clothed in their most brilliant garniture of brown and yellow, crimson and gold; and Frances's mother thought how much kinder mother nature is to her children of the vegetable kingdom than she is to those of the animal. A tree is never repulsive in old age, and a flower in its decline, and often after death, gives out its sweetest odors. Just as she came to this part of her soliloquy, Bishop K entered, and greeted her kindly, and asked how he could serve her. The face of this young bishop is singularly handsome, and his manner as unaffected as that of a little child. He gave Frances's mother, at her request, a letter to the lady superior of the Convent of the Holy Cross. Armed with this document, she returned to Frances with a lighter heart. In the afternoon, Frances, her mother and Faithful, drew up in a carriage before the gates of the Holy Cross. The lady superior of that convent would attract attention among a thousand distinguished women. After reading the bishop's letter she welcomed the strangers, and was about to speak a word to Faithful, but he slipped the leash, and made for the convent cat, who was dozing on a distant stairway.

The cat, disturbed in her dreams, bounded up the long flight of steps with bowed back and tail erect and out on an arbor that met a high gallery. Frances's mother, who had pursued Faithful, took him in her arms and went behind the door to administer to him a severe and deserved chastisement. .But Faithful, never having felt a heavier hand than Frances's raised in anger against him, howled in aftright, iind she was compelled to desist. She was appalled. She approached the lady superior expecting to be turned out of the convent, dog and baggage, but that Christian lady smiled and said, " ^ever mind, madame, he is only a dog; we excuse him entirely." So Faithful was tied in a back court, where he howled so that he could be heard for squares. This must have been the case, for dog after dog began to bark and make the air hideous with noise. Frances was in deep distress when a young nun said to her: ''Get your little dog, darling, and you and he may do just as you did at home." Frances looked her gratitude, and Faithful was soon asleep in a clean, quiet room that was destined to be his home for many months.

The next morning, Frances and her mother took a boat for Mt. Vernon at ten o'clock. The clay was divine. On one side of the beautiful Potomac lay Virginia, and on the other "Maryland, sweet Maryland." How shall one describe the brilliant trees that lined the shores and bowed their thanks to the warm sunlight that was willing to kiss them in their autumn decline! A lady at the convent had said to Frances's mother when she was about to start to Mt. Vernon: "You are going to a place where you will renew your patriotism." Frances's mother thought not so. " Madame, I have some politics, but no patriotism since the civil war." There were about sixty pilgrims to Mt. Vernon on the boat, the usual number of brides and bridegrooms on their wedding tours. There was one very beautiful young bride who was so much in love with her young husband that she sat very near to him and pretended to read from the book he held in his hand. The bridegroom looked around at her every now an<l then to be sure that she had eves for none but him, but it was noticed that he had eyes for every pretty girl that passed him. Frances and her mother took seats on the lower deck, just outside the dining-room where the spray could now^ and then baptize them with its refreshing dew. All the way to Mt. Vernon Washington's monument and the dome of the capitol followed them, now hidden by a bend in the river for a few moments, now gleaming white and tall in the morning sunshine.

When the boat landed at Fort Washington^ Frances's mother's patriotisms began to rise from the dead, but it was still wrapped in its cerements and was uncertain whether to live or die.

An Englishman said : "I nevah thought Washington such a hero; if he had have been commander of the forces of Napoleon or Wellington, he would not have known what to do with them." Just then Frances's mother's patriotism shook off its cerements and arose from the dead and stood alive and vigorous, and longed to say to the Englishman : " If Washington could conquer the 'Mistress of the Seas' with raw recruits, what might he not have done as commander of the forces of Napoleon and Wellington?"

The boat slowly steamed away toward Mt. Yernon. When it came in sight of that sacred edifice the old bell that had hung in the belfrey for a hundred years began to toll slowly and solemnly, and the pilgrims to the home of one of the greatest heroes the earth ever knew were as silent as if the Revolutionary fathers were passing in review before them, visible in their spiritual bodies. The passengers landed and Frances and her mother wound up the steep ascent^ hand in hand, to the tomb. An old white-haired negro, with hat in hand, received them and their fellow-travelers with a courtly bow. The tomb is built like an ordinary vault, except the whole front is open and guarded by heavy iron bars, set upright, and about six inches apart. One after another of the party took his position at the grating and looked long and in silence at the two marble coffins that contain the remains of all that is mortal of Washington and his lovely wife, and then they "were conducted to the great dining-room. There is the table at which Washington once sat and entertained his guests. It is to be imagined that when he entertained Jefferson that he (Jefferson) was a far better conversationalist than his host. Every one knows that Washington was not a scholar, as Jefferson was. His greatness consisted in the power that he w^as able to wield over men. The inspiration he could infuse into the commonest man, even causing him to follow him with bleeding feet to disaster and death. There was a mirror over the mantel that was there in Washington's time, and on a table by itself was a stone model of the Bastile and the keys that once belonged to that terrible prison. Frances took the huge iron key in her hand, and her mother thought how often it had turned in the doors that had shut out forever the light of liberty from many of the fairest and wisest sons and daughters of sunny France. She looked and touched the model of that once vast structure of tyranny and unwritten cruelty, and wondered from which door had been led out to meet the embraces of La Guillotine tlie long train of aristocrats that perished in the Keign of Terror. The

Frances wandered to the music-room of Washington's adopted daughter, and her mother followed and gazed long at the quaint and old-fashioned musical instruments that were arranged in the order in which that lady had left them. The notes that had been printed for spinet and harp could be read easily across the room. At a door opposite her stood a young lady of the party alone, having in her hand a large bunch of pink roses. She seemed unconscious of those about her and lost in meditation. As she turned from the door, with a low sigh, she threw the roses in the room. Those who saw her looked their gratitude. ^N^ext they w^ere guided upstairs aud shown the room in which Washington died. The bed, being six feet by six feet, had the appearance of being very short, and one could fancy the Fathc^r of his Country sleeping with his feet out of bed. ISTear the bed was a small table containing the holsters that had seen service in the Revolutionary War. In a small room beyond the large bed-room was a narrow lounge, on which the form of that great hero was arrayed and composed for the last journey. In that room, thought Frances's mother, looking at the death chamber, Washington met the unseen and uncon- querable enemy of mankind bravely as befits a Christian soldier ; no martial music heralded his approach ; silent and invisible he evercame that victor in many battles, who covered his face as he received the summons of the foe, and so passed from earth to heaven. After looking at the parlors furnished in the style of a by-gone time the party was led by the guide into the garden. Walks and parterres were bordered by box trees more than a hundred years old and of immense size. One palm remains in the green -house, a relic from the time of the owner of Mt. Vernon.

The party, after looking at the park where a few deer were feeding, and at the old tomb where Washington first reposed, wound their way to the river, as the boat was in sight. The handsome bridegroom and beautiful young bride took their seats on the tide wall, and Frances and her mother sat some distance from them on a decaying log. The young husband did not observe that any one was near enough to see his maneuvers, so he stole his arm about the waist of his wife, and was in the act of giving her a sly kiss, but, as he bowed his head, he glanced around, to be certain that it was a stolen one, and so doubly sweet, and observed Frances and her mother. He desisted at once, and looked as if he had been about to commit a crime. Frances's mother longed to say, ''Do nH let me interrupt you, sir ; your act is lawful ; proceed." She arose, took her child by the hand, and went to the boat-house, and watched the boat come in, and saw the married lovers no more.

on either side of the entrance, having the grain of the wood and patches of bark plainly visible in petrifaction. The first thing that greeted their eyes on entering the building was the Statue of Liberty or Freedom, nineteen and a half feet high, and executed in marble, standing on a pedestal rising from a marble fountain. To the right is " The Daguerre Memorial," by Hartley, in bronze and granite, " erected by the Photographers' Association of America, at a cost of $10,000." One seldom places Daguerre among the great men of the earth, and yet, when one thinks that by and through his great endeavors the faces of the dead, great and small, are preserved from oblivion perfectly, they should fall down in adoration before him. He caught and made the rays of the great center of the solar systems, his pencils with which to trace the lineaments of well-beloved faces far more clearly and accurately than the brush of the artist has ever done. The pictures thus made do not flatter. Long after the face of an aged parent has turned to dust, the dim and tender eyes look out from a sun-drawn picture, and live again. All honor and glory to Daguerre. To the left, in the rotunda of the " museum," is a large glass case containing the continental dress suit in which Washington resigned his commission at Annapolis. It is of dark blue and j^ellow, and is slightly moth eaten. Then come the dishes of Martha Washington. Conspicuous among them are those presented to her by Marquis de La Fayette, and sent to her by him on his return to France. They appeared to be made of fine white porcelain. Around the edges were oblong circles outlined in gilt, containing the names of the states at the time they were presented, ^ear this case is one containing the tent Washington used through the devolution, and folded for the last time at Yorktown. The old saddle-bags he used at Dorchester heights are on exhibition, and the steel knives and forks used in that campaign are still bright as ever, while the hands that used them are nothing but ashes and dust. In the months that Frances's mother visited the " museum," she noticed that tourists lingered longest at the cases that contained the Washington relics, which might be called the iron age of our country, and, as such, the beginning of the history of this great republic. IN^ext are the relics of Jefferson - meager and few for so great a man. But a relic remains of him that will perish only when men cease to love liberty; namely, the Declaration of Independence, composed and written by him who is too little remembered by his countrymen. Near is a case containing a few cans of vegetables and boxes, and some splinters of that ill-fated bark that bore Sir John Franklin to the northern seas ; but nothing will ever tell how miserably he perished, nor how long the northern lights played on the dead face of that martyr to science.

Next came the relics of the late ex-President Grant. Frances's mother was from the South, and had been a rebel in time of the civil war ; but she gazed with reverence at the costly blades with hilts of solid gold and diamond mounted. Grant was merciful. He did not make war on old men, women, and children. Wherever he could release a prisoner from death, he did it. He did not leave a fire-blasted country behind him, nor hand down a name to posterity made infamous by cruelty. May God rest his soul in heaven, and may men honor his name on earth ! Benjamin Franklin has a prominent place in the museum, and his memory is kept green in the hearts of the people of Washington. In the skeleton hall are the skeletons of many animals of an extinct species, and the skeletons of all the animals and reptiles of the present time. In a case to the left as you enter the hall is, first, the refined skeleton of a white man; next, that of a hideous and grinning gorilla; next to him, an ourangoutang; then a monkey, and so on to the smallest animal having any semblance to the form of a human being. Frances's mother said to a man who was assorting the bones of a mastodon : *' Sir, I beg your pardon; but in this case you have not the missing link between the brute and the human species. -You should place the skeleton of an African between the white man's and the gorilla's skeleton, and the chain would be complete." He smiled and said : "- If you will send me one, I will articulate it and place it where you designate."

After visiting the mineral room and learning how many beautiful things are hidden beneath the crust of the earth, and gazing at all the jewels that send out their dazzling rays to bewitch the young and fair, she came to the meteorites. One which fell in Arizona weighs 1,400 pounds. It seemed to have been projected into the air at white heat and in a molten state, and to have become an irregular ring while falling to the earth. It was of pure and solid iron. ]N"o iron refined and purged of foreign substances that has been seen was purer than it. From what burning iron mountain, in what far planet, it was hurled to earth, none may ever know.

The sandstone concretions are curious beyond description. They take all conceivable shapes, and one is inclined to believe while looking at them that Edison is right when he says : " Every atom of matter is instinct with animal life." There are fruitshaped concretions, with stones apparent when broken open ; acorns, with cup and stem perfect ; snakes and animals, well enough shaped for their similitude to be recognized. Half-past four o'clock came all too soon for visitors to the museum, and Frances and her mother betook themselves to the convent. Faithful was overjoyed to see them. After dinner, at six o'clock, Frances, her mother, and Faithful went out for a walk, the evening being line and the streets as light as day. They walked down Massachusetts avenue, and passed Thomas's circle, with Thomas's equestrian statue in the center, Scott's circle and equestrian statue, and came to Dupont's circle, which is much larger than the two before mentioned. Dupont's statue is placed on a tall pedestal and is of bronze. To the north of this circle is the house of the Chinese legation. As Frances and her mother stood looking at the somber house of these followers of Confucius, they missed Faithful. Frances called aloud, but no answering bark told that she had been heard. Tears came to her eyes and her voice failed her. ^ear by stood an old man, who said: " Had your dog a tag on him, my dear?" " What is that?" said Frances's mother. "The law of the city requires the owner of a dog to pay tax on him, and the dog must wear a steel tag in token that the tax has been paid," said he politely ; and added : " Perhaps the dog catcher has him, as he has no tag."

Frances's mother began to call and whistle as well as she could, and to wander up and down the walks and look under the shrubbery, and finally, in despair, she and Frances sat down on one of the seats to await developments. Directly across from the house of the Chinese legation came Faithful's voice as if at play, and Frances ran across the avenue and returned with the recreant Faithful in her arms. When she and her mother arrived at the convent. Faithful was so much refreshed by his walk that he was able, as soon as the door was opened, to take the cat by the tail and be drawn across the long corridor and into unknown regions beyond the refectory. When the nuns were done running from right to left out of the way of the snarling cat and growling dog, and the hideous noise had ceased. Faithful returned, properly ashamed of himself, with tail and ears down hung, and all and every expression of humility plainly visible ; but Frances pounced upon him nevertheless, and administered sundry cufls of anger and displeasure to her favorite. He was perfectly dumb under the punishment, and seemed to know that it was

The next morning Frances's mother 'rose early and passed down the dim corridors, and looked at the saints in their starry niches, and heard the subdued voices of the nuns at prayer in the chapel, and felt how sweet and holy was such a place - how far removed from sin and its contamination, although it was situated in the heart of the great capital of this our republic. At the rear of the convent there is a large paved court, shut in by a spiked w^all. There Fran- ces's mother could only see the flush of morning, but could not see the sun rise. She thought of her country home, the hills surrounding the town she loved so well. In imagination she saw the sun come up beyond the tall white shafts of the necropolis, where slept her buried loved ones, and she wept for the changes made by time and death. Her meditations were interrupted by some of the young nuns passing through the court to go to mass. When they were out of sight, Frances's mother took her pencil and wrote

The Nun'S Soliloquy Frances And Faithful. 169'

At nine o'clock, Frances and her mother were at the Smithsonian Institute. The first thing that meets the eye is a steel plate, once used by Audubon ; dimly seen on its face is a narrow strip of marsh land, and standing among the tall reeds and sedge are two lifesized American flamingoes. Walking from case to case of the great hall, one is impressed by the endless variety of birds of every color and from every part of the world. In close proximity are placed the huge condor of the desert and the eagle that reared its young on some tall peak of the Rocky mountains. Above the great adjutant bird is the smallest humming bird ever seen. It quivers on an invisible wire over a nest not much larger than a thimble, and, with its bright wings outspread, seems to protect its egg - no larger than the smallest pea.

The nests and eggs of all the birds on exhibition are to be found in a small room full of shelves, and are as curious to a stranger as the birds themselves. The birds from Africa are the most beautiful of the vast collection. Frances's mother thought, as she gazed at a beautiful bird of Paradise, that perhaps it had once screamed along the Nile, and rested its tired feet on the top of the tallest pyramid, or gazed curiously in the eyes of the Sphinx, or had sat on the ruins of Karnack to trim its gay plumage.

The capitol is one of the finest buildings in the world. The dome is modeled after St. Peters, at Rome, which was designed by Michael Angelo.

When one stands in the rotunda, and looks up one hundred and eighty feet, he beholds a scene of enchantment. In the clouds Washington is seated, with freedom on his right and victory on his left. Thirteen angelic female figures represent the thirteen original colonies. They encircle the dome, and hold, fluttering across its beautifully-colored expanse, a white streamer, on which is written, " E pluribus Ilnum."

took their seats in '' Statuary Hall," which is situated between the senate chamber and the house of representatives, and a great distance from each. There could be seen, passing back and forth from the senate to the house, people from every state in the Union, and from every country under the sun. After watching this moving throng for hours, and not seeing a familiar face, Frances's mother took her by the hand, and walked from one statue to another of the heroes of a by-gone heroic age, and felt more reverence while she gazed at the pallid marble images of the authors of our independence than she did when among living celebrities who fell so far below them.

There is Washington, with his strong face made tender by its benign expression. Beside him is Jefferson, the greatest statesman America ever knew.. Jonathan Trumbull, from whom came the term " Brother Jonathan," is there, and further on is Ethan Allen ; so natural is the expression of his marble face, that one almost expects him to open his lips, and say r " In the name of the Great Jehovah and the Continental Congress." Fulton is to be seen with his steamboat in his hands, ^o one who ever benefitted his whole country has been forgotten. The handsomest statue in Statuary Hall is that of Alexander Hamilton. He might represent a god, so perfect are his form and features.

Frances's mother hoped to obtain a position, when congress opened, that would enable her to support herself and child. She had called on a senator who was once a friend of her late hushand, and he had promised to do his best for her. She, knowing this man's great power in the land, believed that her po-

They climbed many times to the dome of the capitol, and, standing under the statue of Liberty, gazed at the distant Potomac with its shining water dotted by sail-vessels, steamboats, and swiftly flying canoes. Then looked at the asphalt avenues srretching their Tvhite lengths from the capitol like spokes from some great wheel. Then with a sigh turned her eyes in the direction of Arlington, which she had visited once and never wished to see again in its present condition. Washington's monument ascended, and the grand scene around it viewed at the elevation of 555 feet, can never be foro:otten.

All these scenes were new and beautiful to Frances's mother and pleasing to Frances, but "hope deferred maketh the heart sick," and Frances's mother began about this time to experience this fearful malady.

Christmas came and went, ^ew Year's morning dawned bright and clear. Frances and her mother walked hand in hand many miles looking at the gay scene. Civilian and soldier, stranger and citizen, each had on his grandest attire, and were going two and two in carriages from house to house making calls. The most beautiful sight that gala day presented was the young girls dressed in light evening costumes with heads uncovered going in carriages, the sides of which w^ere glass, to make their calls. The most beautiful thing in this world is a beautiful

After long waiting, Frances's mother called on Kentucky's favorite congressman at the capitol, and he told her in so many words that there was no hope of her getting a position. She believed him, and, with many tears shed in secret, she prepared to leave Washington, but not to return to Kentucky if she could avoid it. One February evening, after sa^nng farewell to the dear nuns, who had been so kind to them, Frances, her mother, and Faithful made their way to the B. & 0. depot, and were soon en route for K A., Ohio.

The lights of Washington, " that city of magnificent distances," faded away from sight, and the cars rattled on till ten o'clock. Then came the cry ^' Harper's Ferry." Through the open window was to be seen the quaint little village perched upon the crags, far above the dark, still waters of the ^' Ferry." There, thought Frances's mother, is the scene of John Brown's raid, and where the first act of the civil war began.

From Washington to W. the ground was white with snow, and when the cars steamed into the depot of the last named place and Frances, her mother and Faithful stood on the platform, they learned that the air that blew over the flats was keen and piercing. They had yet three good miles to go before they reached their destination, and night was coming on. The moon was full and twilight took on a silver tint as the travelers seated themselves in a sledge and were driven out of W. to N. A., a quaint little village with an old-fashioned church, with its church-yard full of memorials of man's mortality. Situated side by side with the village green, near which is the school-house, and the busy mill. A boy playing bandy has often to hunt for his ball among the resting-places of his relatives. He does n't mind that; the allotted time of man is so far away from him that he feels that to live seventy years is to be immortal. 'N. A. has one wide street, on either side of which the homely houses are ranged. At one of these houses the sledge drew up, and the three travelers were soon in a warm, well-lighted room, and had received a kind welcome from the friends they had come to visit. Faithful was placed in a large rocking chair before the fire, and occupied it with much dignity, he having just departed from the halls of congress.

After a week's rest, Frances and her mother returned to W., but Frances left with a full heart - Faithful was not to accompany her. As the carriage rolled away, Faithful stood with his forepaws on the low window-ledge, and whined and yelped in a sorrowful manner. Frances wept aloud. Her mother hoped to make up a class in elocution, and spend the winter in W., but, alas ! for the hopes of this life. She visited the city school, and was treated very politely. After trying in vain to make up a class she returned to ]^. A. When she and Frances arrived at the house at which they had left Faithful they heard a joyous bark, and the three friends embraced. But how changed was Faithful's appearance; his chops were thin, his eyes had a woe-begone expression and his plump form was wasted as if he had mourned himself almost to death for his friends. The lady of the house said that he had refused food,

All attempts to secure employment had failed, and Frances, her mother and Faithful went to Cincinnati. They stood at the back of the John street depot in the bright afternoon light, on the day of their arrival, and Frances's mother thought sadly of her hard fate and many disappointments. As she did so, she raised her eyes and looked at the chalk-hills that rose white and tall on the Kentucky side of the Ohio river. Nothing but the yearning that Joshua felt when he saw the promised land will describe her feelings. " Ah," thought she, " beyond that river are the friends of my youth, who love me and whom I fondly love ; and there sleep my beloved dead, beside whose ashes I hope to repose when life's journey is ended. How can I stay away."

She dreamed that she was at the Convent of the Holy Cross, and that she was dead. She went down one of the corridors where her little playmates were,, and began to watch them play. A nun saw her,, and said: "Go, sweet Frances, and get into your coffin ; you will frighten the children dressed in your shroud as you are."

She begged the good nun, who had been her kind teacher for months, to send to Kentucky for a physician, whom she had known from infancy, and let him say whether she were alive or dead. She promised that if this kind physician said that she was dead she would let them bury her.

cry, and begged to be taken home. Alas ! alas ! her mother had no home, but that night she determined to return to Kentucky. The next evening at sundown Frances was in her native town, and she and Faithful were happy. Frances's mother had another failure to record among the many she had made in her life, but she wds nearer to her beloved dead, and she was -

Chaptee Xiii Margaret Goudy

Lichens have darkened but have not obscured this sorrowful inscription; time seems to have been kind to the stone that holds it, and to have preserved it there as a warning to the uncharitable. Tall marble shafts have fallen around it, and huge granite slabs have been broken above the graves of those who, in life, would not have deigned to so much as look at Margaret Goudy, but who, }>erhaps, persecuted her.

Her story was told to a young girl, in 1852, by an old woman wavering along the boundary of this world and the next. The old woman's name was Casey, and all the children of the town called her Granny Casey, and believed her a witch. She lived in a cabin opposite the red brick house now occupied by Mr. Talbutt. She was a Scotch woman, and came here when where Cynthiana now is was an unbroken wilderness. Her people, in Scotland, must have been of the higher class, judging by a few relics she had in her possession. One was a small chest of dark, hard wood, having beautifully-carved armorial bearings upon it. In this chest she had a packet of old letters, yellowed

INIargaret Goudy was brought to Cynthiana, from Scotland, by her father, when she w^as seven years old. Her mother had died a year before she was removed from her native land. At the time her troubles began she was living with her father in the house w4iere Thomas Hoffman and his sisters now reside. She bad the fair complexion and yellow^ hair that belong to Scotch women, and w^hen she was twenty-one, the few^ people who lived in Cynthiana pronounced lier beautiful. Her manner was simple and modest, and her dress was always appropriate. She wore about her long luxuriant hair the snood, which, in Scotland, signities " purity of maiden fame." A countryman of her own came to Cyntbiana, and fell in love with her, but her father was not willing that she should marry him. He said to her: "You must wait until I write to Edinburgh, and learn this young man's character from those who have known him long and well, and if I find that he is what he looks to be, he shall have you."

Mr. Goudy was a strict Presbyterian, and Margaret had been reared in that faith also. She believed that the command in holy writ, '' Children, obey your parents," was as binding as any other, and she told her lover tbat she would marry him, but he must wait a year. He received her father's fiat with a bad grace, and was a little vexed with Margaret on account of her puritanism, but at last agreed to wait. Margaret was twenty-one years old in May, 1818. As the autumn of that year approached, her health began to decline. Her lover was absent, and her father thought that it was on that account that she moped and pined, and had lost her brilliant color. He reasoned with his beloved child; he told her how Jacob had served for Rachel, and had been blessed at last; but all was of no avail, Margaret grew" thinner and paler day by day. The gossips had been busy with her good name, but she did not know it, although she was aware that many persons did not treat her as had been their wont, but she was not suspicious, and knew nothing of slander and gossip. It w^as now October, and one bright Sabbath morning Margaret arrayed herself in her best gown and put a new snood around her fair hair and walked to church. This church was west of Cynthiana and near the residence of the late A. Renaker. J^othing is to be seen there now but a crumbling stone wall, a few tall trees, and here and there a sunken grave. Margaret walked slowly, in order to enjoy the beautiful scene around her. October had on her gayest raiment. She was soon to wed bleak IN^ovember, but yet she smiled brightly, as if she did not know that her wedding garment must be her w^inding-sheet and her wedding journey a long wandering in a past eternity, among all the lost Octobers that have come and gone since " the making of the world." And Margaret smiled along with her, although a worse fate awaited her than would befall the bright October when her race was run. When Margaret reached the church, she found that she was too early and waited among the graves until the congregation should assemble. Presently there approached her an old crone, a famous gossip, who was feared far and near. She eyed poor Margaret until her wan cheek took on the bloom it had lost for many a day. " How are you, Margaret," said she. " I have not seen you this many a day. But I am astonished that you should come to church." Then, as she sat there among the graves of the peaceful dead, unchastened by the stillness of the Sabbath morning and the nearness of the house of God, she told her all that the gossips had said about her and all that she herself had suspected; then entered the church. Margaret sat as still and pale as the dead who slept beneath, l^ear her was the grave of a little child she had known and loved through its brief life. She placed her thin hand tenderly on the long grass that covered it, and her tears began to flow. Soon on the bright air floated the solemn notes of a hymn that gave her strength to rise and begin her homeward journey. She had not lost her faith in God. He was her Father, and would prove her innocence to the world. Her earthly father sat in the door-way as she approached her home, and noticed her faltering steps, her sunken eyes, and for the first time he noticed her disfigured form. As she entered the house, her father's face was no less pale and haggard than her own. He felt that he must rise and slay her where she stood for disgracing an honest name. She went upstairs to her room and threw herself on her bed in a paroxysm of tears, and wept for some time before she knew that her father had followed her. She arose from the bed and stood before him with a look of appeal in her young eyes, but hope died when she saw how stern and dangerous he looked.

Margaret Goudy

wicked girl. You have ruined yourself and broken your father's heart. The name of your betrayer? Tell it quickly, \:hat I may pursue and slay him." All this time Margaret had knelt at his feet, with her long hair covering her face ; but she looked up and said : " Father ! father ! believe me. I am not a wicked girl. I am innocent, and God knows it. I have not been betrayed. I swear it, as I hope for pardon hereafter."

Her father ran from the room, brought a ladder, placed it against a trap-door that gave entrance to the attic, and bade Margaret, ascend. She did so. Her father said : " Here is your prison. Repent you in that lonely place, if you can. God may forgive you, but I never, never shall." The afternoon wore away and the day burned out in the west with a lurid light. Twilight gathered and deepened into night, but Margaret lay on the floor as still as if she were dead. Some time after dark, her father took bed-clothes to the attic and made a pallet bed, and forced Margaret to lie upon it. He also brought such coarse food as he himself could prepare and oflfered it to her, but she could not touch it. By the dim light of the candle her father held, Margaret scanned his stern face, and saw no relenting there. She said not a word and made no moan against this cruel fate that was forced upon her.

The Scotch are a fierce, proud people, and as brave as the bravest. Mr. Goudy could have seen Margaret die, and could have better borne to. see her burnt at the stake than to see her disgraced. Her disgrace would blight his life. The virtue of their women is the special boast of the Scottish men. One man of

All w^as darkness, desolation, and silence to Margaret. The October moon rose far in the night, and threw a ray of light upon the lowly bed where she had wept herself to sleep.

Before she had fallen asleep, she had prayed to her mother, whom she remembered well. God seemed so vague to her, and far away, that she called to her mother to help her. Who shall say that she w^as not near the forsaken girl in her night of agony, and that she did not follow her until she w^as gathered to her embrace in that better country, along the confines of which the young ever wander 1

The one window in the attic looked to the north. A bird sat on the sill at dawn and chirped its morning song. Margaret rose from her bed and sat by the window. She could see the river and Flat- run. She could look far off at the wooded hills and see by the rising sun how the leaves were ripening and taking on the gorgeous colors that make autumn so beautiful. She thought of the last spring when she and her lover had gathered dog-tooth violets and delicate wind-ilowers on a bank the sunbeams were just then coming low enough to kiss, but she did not weep; her tears had all been shed.

Her father never neglected to bring her food, and often sighed when he found that it had never been tasted. At noon, when he returned from his work, he placed the ladder at the trap-door and forced Margaret to descend and take exercise in the yard, hidden from view by a brushwood fence.

Once when she was down stairs, she procured pen and ink. What she wrote on the rafters of her prison, none will ever know. All are dead who could tell, and all that is left of the miserable girl's writing are a few illegible lines. The autumn wore away. The first pitiless winds of winter began to wail and cry about the house-tops, and bear the withered leaves in eddying swirls to the window where Margaret kept her lonely vigil. The lirst snow fell and covered all unsightly places with its white mantle, and that night the moon was full. Margaret w^as asleep and it was near midnight. She dreamed she heard her lover call Margaret, Margaret ! She started up, broad awake, and listened ; when to her intense delight she heard to her the sweetest sound on earth, her lover's voice beneath the window, Margaret, Margaret. It thrilled her through and through. Her wasted frame could hardly bear the shock of so much joy. He ivould believe her innocent and take her from, her prison and love and protect her. This she thought as she tore the small window from its fastenings. When she looked down, the moon shone full on the handsome face of her lover. Some moments elapsed before he could master his voice to speak, and Margaret's heart beat so rapidly that it choked her utterance. Her lover spoke at last, '' Margaret, dear Margaret, I know all. Why did you deceive me when I loved you so well." " I am innocent," she cried. " The good God knows it and will prove it to the world. I am ill, very ill, dying, I think. Do not leave me." " I shall go to the war and throw my worthless life away in the very front of battle," said her lover. She severed a long curl of hair from her head and dropped it at his feet. " Keep it," she said. " You will be glad when I am dead that you have done so. Farew^ell, and God bless you." When her lover had passed out of sight, Margaret restored the window to its fastenings, and fell upon her knees before it and cried aloud to God in her agony : "- Father, forgive them. ; they know not what they do." Her last hope was gone. She turned her thoughts to eternity and prayed to die.

When September, 1814, came 'round, Margaret had been in prison almost a j'ear. In all this time no Sister of Mercy, no famous Christian woman, had been to see her. No minister had forced his way into the house, as a brave soldier of the Cross should have done, and climbed the rude ladder and offered consolation to dyiijg, suffering Margaret. Who that remembers the words of Christ to Magdalen can be a Christian and revile and shun a fallen sister. All w^omankind should pray to be delivered from temptation. It is one thing to point out a long and dangerous road to a traveler, and it is another thing to journey that way one's self.

Margaret was not a fallen sister, and God w^as about to prove it. A physician had been called when she was first imprisoned in the attic, but he had only confirmed her father's suspicions. It has never been stated by those who have told the story of Margaret Goudy that her father brought her down stairs in the bitter winter weather, but he must have done so. There was no place for a fire in the attic, and the fact of her having lived through the wnnter proves that she was cared for; and then it must be remembered that her father was a Christian. Before the summer of 1814 began to wane Mr. Goiidy believed that he had wronged his child. The [)hysician was again summoned, and pronounced her disease a tumor. Her father's state of mind must be imagined ; no words could describe it. And the physician, what of him? Did he exclaim when alone, "Here's the smell of blood still ! All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh ! oh ! oh !"

After Margaret was proved innocent her father removed her to the house where Mr. R. M. Collier now resides. Since the brand of shame had been removed from her name, Margaret thought of her lover and longed for him to know of her innocence. She asked the physician if her life might be prolonged. She was anxious to live yet a little while. He answered, "IS^o," and added, " You can not survive a week." She covered her face until she could master her sorrowful emotions, and then asked that pen and ink be brought. When it was done she wrote the epitaph that appears on her tombstone. She requested the physician (the same who had so carelessly orignorantly diagnosed her case when she was first taken ill) to hold an autopsy on her as soon after her death as possible, in order that the town might know of her innocence before her burial. The physician promised her solemnly that he would do so. And Margaret said : " I forgive those who have persecuted me, and I am not afraid to die."

about there came to CyDthiana a man yet in his prime, but bearing on his face the impress of a great sorrow. He searched and found the grave of Margaret Goud}^ and sat by it day after day for many a week and then disappeared, and his fate w^as never known.

Hugh Rogan

The Irish are marked as a distinct people among the races of men by their ready wit, their reckless courage, their unconquerable love of liberty, their devotion to any religion they may profess, and by their undoubting faith in God.

In the north of Ireland is Loch Derg, " a romantic sheet of water covering 2,100 acres. It is completely encircled by mountains." In this loch Saint's Island is situated. On the island is a deep, dark cavern, that holds within it a shrine erected to St. Patrick. Monks inhabited a monastery near this cavern, and guarded this holy shrine in years gone by.

At the present day, only a few old pilgrims make their way to this lonely place of prayer, and but a small body of monks guard the relics. The descent into the cavern is attended with great danger, but in other days hundreds of weary and footsore pilgrims have made that cavern their place to kneel to God and beseech him to free their country.

Many a midnight moon has shone on Saint's Island and kissed the beautiful face of some young girl as she knelt in prayer and vigil on the convent floor.

Many a fair maiden has descended into that cavern, dark as a dungeon, save for the lights that struggled to burn on the altar of St. Patrick, and knelt on the djimp earth and wept and prayed for an absent lover, while the rustle of wings above her head and the low moan of the waters of Loch Derg would have appalled another with less faith in God than she. Pilgrims are not always sinful; ofttimes only sorrowing. But the devotion of the Irish to their country and to God is unique and well known the world over, as Loch Derg and other shrines can witness.

Hugh Rogan was born in County Donegal, Ireland, September 15, 1747, and grew up to manhood among his oppressed countrymen with the love of freedom inherent in his nature. He was a fair complexioned man, with blue eyes and yellow hair, but the fair exterior, with its pale and delicate tints, clothed a heroic soul, as the sad and romantic events of his life have clearly proved.

At Omah lived I^ancy DufFey, a perfect type of Irish beauty. She had milk-white skin, jet-black hair, and violet eyes. Hugh Rogan wood and won this fair girl of Omah, and when he was twenty-six and she sixteen years of age, they were married.

In 1774, their son, Bernard, was born, and was just six months old when his father announced to his wife and relatives that he intended to leave Ireland and go to America. He had read and discussed at his fireside the first Continental Congress that had been held at Philadelphia, September 15, 1774, and was glad to learn that the struggling colonies had agreed to hold no intercourse with Great Britain, the country he despised.

Spring was approaching. How beautiful looked his own beloved land, w^here the rivers wandered through pastures of emerald green and the May sunshine kissed modest flowers of every hue! ''How can I leave my native land?" said he, in agony of soul. Then he thought of her harbors, closed and opened by her mistress, England, and of the tyranny that perhaps for ages might brood over Ireland, " the fairest country under the sun ;" and since neither his arm nor the arms of all her downtrodden children could avail to free her, he determined to leave her.

On a bright afternoon in May, 1775, Nancy Rogan, with her babe in her arms, stood apart from her family to say farewell to her young husband, who was to sail on the morrow for America. Said Hugh Rogan: '' Nancy dear, I go to that land of promise to prepare a home for you and our child. We shall then be free to worship God according to the dictates of our own consciences, and our son shall be reared among freemen." He took her and their babe in his embrace, and then was gone. As Nancy looked at his retreating form, she knew, with that strange intuition that makes all women prophets, that years would elapse before she would see him again. She seated herself on a green bank, and watched the sun sink behind the distant hills of Donegal ; his parting light fell like a benediction on Omah, and hope whispered to Nancy that she would see Hugh Rogan again. She wept the night away.

Hugh Rogan had reached mid-ocean on his way to America. Far away on the horizon he and the sailors saw an approaching ship. It was hailed when it came near enough, and the news was shouted from man to man on the ship in which Hugh Rogan had taken passage that the battles of Lexington and Bunker Hill had been fought, and that the Patriots

When he landed in Philadelphia, after his stormy and perilous voyage, his first care was to write to his young wife of his safe arrival, and to assure her of his undying love.

After remaining in Philadelphia some weeks, or until he could hear from his wife and write to her to announce his departure from Philadelphia, he made his way through the wilderness to what is now' Tennessee and entered Bledsoe's Fort. Then not only the sea rolled between him and all he held dear on earth, but avast wilderness, infested by wild beasts and savasres, divided him from his love.

He could neither write to Nancy nor hear from her. I^ancy waited patiently to hear from her husband, but weeks, months and a whole year went by, and still no tidings from the wanderer.

Her mother said : " My child, Hugh Rogan is dead; his last letter told you that he was going farther into the wilderness. He has fallen the prey of some wild beast or Indian. You may mourn him as dead." But in her soul ]^ancy knew that he was alive. One morning early she stole off to the fortune-teller's. There she heard from the lips of the old soothsayer words to confirm her hopes. " Your husband lives, my child, but he is going farther and farther from you, and almost a lifetime will elapse before you see him again. He will be true to you, and some day, long hence, when he is old and gray, he will come home for you." Thus spoke the fortuneteller. Such words always beguile the young. Nancy returned home, but that night at prayers her con- science smote her. She had disobeyed the rubrics of her church, and she could not rest until she had expiated her sin by a pilgrimage to some shrine.

At the time Hugh Rogan sought shelter in Fort Bledsoe nearly all the progenitors of the distinguished people of the South-west were gathered there for mutual defense and safety. Andrew Jackson, afterw^ard President of the United States, the Bledsoes, Halls and the daughters of John Montgomery, cousin of General Richard Montgomery, who fell at Quebec, were all living as one family. There were many, many more, whose names it is not necessary to mention. John Montgomery married Marguerite Brielee, only daughter of a Huguenot physician. John Montgomery had one son and live daughters - Katherine, who married Isaac Bledsoe ; Nancy, married McFerran ; Rachel, married ]S[eely ; Sarah, married John Boyd, descended from the Clan Boyd, in Scotland, that had the feud with the Hamiltons. Both clans were banished to the north of Ireland, where the Boyds assisted at the siege of Londonderry behind the walls with the Protestants. Another sister, name unknown, married the ancestor of the Montgomery Bells, of Tennessee.

John Montgomery, only son of Marguerite and John Montgomery, was a colonel in the war of the Revolution, but was made brigadier-general just before its close. The war being continued by France and England after the independence of the colonies had been acknowledged, General Montgomery offered his services to the king of France, and was ordered to Natchez, and was killed by the Lowertown Cherokee Indians.

He met his death in this way : A friend of his, named Grant, was wounded some distance from the fort, and General Montgomery took him on his back and ran with him, Grant holding himself on Montgomery's back; and Montgomery carrying bullets in his mouth and loading and firing his gun at the Indians as he ran. Just as he reached the fort, and Grant had entered, Montgomery was shot and killed. The Indians took his body and cut the head off; then bent down two saplings, and placed Montgomery's head on one, and a deer's head on the other, to signify how strong and fleet was Johnny Conaheat, as they called General John Montgomery. Conaheat means fleet-foot(?)

Richard Hall and his family were also in Fort Bledsoe at that time. James, the son of Richard Hall, afterward became governor of Tennessee. It would be impossible, at this late date, to tell the names of half the people who lived in that fort for safety in those perilous times.

Shortly after Hugh Rogan arrived at Fort Bledsoe the fort was attacked. The fort had two immense rooms, with a hall between them. The doorways of this hall had never been made, the inmates of the fort believing that the high stockade around the grounds of the fort would protect them from marauding Indians. Peggy Bledsoe, daughter of Katherine Bledsoe, had a young girl to visit her named Polly Desha. Peggy and Polly were very young girls, but they went out of the fort one evening to visit Katy Shaffer. The Indians thought Katy bore a charmed life, all her people having been killed by them, and no bullet aimed at her ever having taken eiFect, so they had ceased to trouble her. The young girls were pleased to hear this old woman talk broken English, and they lingered longer than was safe, it was afterward learned. Peggy saw the cows, as evening approached, tossing their heads and lowing as if in fear of danger; and her sense of smell was so acute that she detected by that the presence of Indians, at no great distance away. She said to Polly Desha: ''We must return at once to the fort; the Indians are coming." Polly inquired how she knew it. Peggy answered, that cattle always showed signs of fear at the advance of Indians. The little girls made what speed they were able, and soon entered the stockade, and were safe in the fort.