Cynthiana, Kentucky - History (part 4 of 4)

There was a young man named Hamilton who had been employed to teach the children of Isaac Bledsoe and others. lie and two daughters of Katherine Bledsoe, Peggy and Polly, and Polly Desha, were in Hugh Rogan's room. The chimney of this room was built on the hallway; in the back wall of the fireplace was a hole half a foot square, through which ])ersons standing in the hall could plainly discern what went on in the room. Usually, after the fire was made, this hole was stopped by placing the garden hoe against it; but on this night it had been forgotten. Mr. Hamilton sat before the fire in bashful attitude, with his hand before his face, either to protect it from the heat or to hide his blushes, for he was very young, and the girls had insisted upon his singing them a song. Hugh Pogan was reading some distance from the fire, and a little negro boy was dancing about the room.

song, an Indian shot him through the hand from the hole in the back wall of the lire-place. Hugh Rogan had laid some powder on the mantel, and thought it had been thrown in the fire by the negro boy; he seized him, and was about to administer chastisement when he was undeceived. The Indians, bv hundreds, had scaled the stockade and entered the grounds, and gave one loud blood-curdling warwhoop, and began all the din of savage warfare. The young girls tried to make their escape to their father's side of the fort; but Hugh Rogan barred the door, and yelled to the wounded man Hamilton to drag them under the bed. He did so. Rugh Rogan then perceived that the Indians were forcing entrance through the small window. He took his Queen Ann, a long, unwieldly musket, and took his stand by the fire-place, which was near the window. He banged away, and the Queen Ann made such a terrific noise, and did such good service in killing and wounding the Indians that they left the stockade.

All the time this deadly conflict raged, Isaac Bledsoe stood, holding his door ajar, fearing that the young girls might seek his room and protection. He knew if they did they would meet with certain death, if he could not rush out at once and succor them.

In the year 1780, Hugh Rogan cultivated corn in Clover Bottom, Tennessee. He was verv successful. After harvest, he went to French Lick, which was situated where Nashville now stands, to get a pirogue to convey his corn down the river. He took his corn to the boat, but found others had been there before hinri and filled the boat, and there was no room for his corn. He sat down on the river bank, and looked with a sad heart at the receding boat. Another boat approached it full of Indians, and every soul on board the pirogue but a negro boy was massacred.

He had traversed many hundred miles ; had slept alone by his solitary camp-fire, with his gun as his only defense against the many dangers that encompassed him. He had encountered and overthrown many wild beasts ; had played the dangerous game of hide and seek with straggling Indians, and still felt supremely happy. Love, the master passion of the human soul, gave him strength to overcome all diificulties, and to brave all dangers. He was going home; he -would see Nancy and his child. One evening, he halted at the cabin of one Carlin, a man he had known in Ireland, and accepted an invitation to remain for the night. Carlin had left a wife and child in Ireland, and had not heard from them for years, and had concluded that his wife, if alive, must have married again ; so he took unto himself a young wife, and had two or three little children around him. When Carlin learned that Hus^h Ro^an was on his way to Philadelphia, and expected soon to sail for Ireland, his heart grew sick within him. Pogan would tell that he was married again, on his arrival in Ireland, and if Mrs. Carlin the first should happen to be living, what untold misery and disgrace he might be made to suffer. He used every argument he could devise to dissuade Hugh Rogan from continuing his journey, but in vain; he left the next morning, and pursued his way to Philadelphia.

After Hugh Rogan left, Carlin forged a letter which he knew would prevent his return to Ireland, if he could place it in the hands of some one who would deliver it to Rogan in a way that might not excite his suspicions. He forged the post-mark of Omah, Ireland, on the outside of the letter, and hired a man to follow Rogan to Philadelphia, and give it to him. Just before Hugh Rogan reached Philadelphia, the fatal letter was placed in his hands. He never for a moment suspected that the letter was a forgery. He opened it, and read that IN^ancy, his l^ancy, was married. This blow almost broke the brave heart that had faced death a thousand times. He turned back, and slowly retraced his steps to Bledsoe's fort. Hope was dead within him. God, whom he had served, and in whom he had trusted, had forsaken him. He was a changed man from that time ; and, if he did not actually court death, he seemed to care nothing for his life.

Away in Omah, in the pleasant fields of Donegal, Nancy Rogan, never doubting her husband's love, prayed each day, as the sun rose and set, for his return.

Hugh Rogan did not sink into inactivity, as many men would have done in trouble, neither did he commit suicide, but he was always ready to go on a dan-

On returning from the survey of the line between !N'orth Carolina and Tennessee, Hugh Rogan was seriously wounded at the mouth of Duck river. He and his party were surprised by Indians, and Rogan was wounded by a ball passing in below the right collar bone and coming out below the left shoulder blade. Some members of his party were killed, others wounded. Those who remained unhurt made for their boat with all speed. Mortally wounded as Rogan believed himself to be, he stood between his men and the boat with his gun ready to fire on them, and commanded them to rescue their wounded companions, and Tam Murry among them, and bring them to the boat. They did so, and were soon on their way down the river. Contrary to his own expectations, Hugh Rogan recovered.

Some time after this Richard Hall built a cabin two miles from Fort Bledsoe, and he and his family removed to it. He had a daughter who had married a Mr. Hanna, and lived many miles distant from her father's house. She and her escort came one day to visit Richard Hall and his family. She remained some weeks. When the time came for her departure, her two little brothers, James and Richard, went to a distant pasture to fetch the horses. This pasture was fenced in by huge trees felled and having their limbs on one side cut off smoothly in order that the trimmed sides might lie close to the ground. The remaining limbs were so interlaced that nothing but a child could pass through them. There was a gate, rude and strong, through which the children passed.

The Indians were in hiding, and as soon as Richard and James Hall entered the pasture and began to call the horses, Richard was shot dead on the spot ; James fled. There was a small opening under one of the trees that formed the fence; through this James made his escape. The Indians were compelled to go around the pasture in pursuit of him. James was fleet as a deer, and reached Bledsoe's Fort, and gave the alarm. Hugh Rogan and a number of men from Fort Bledsoe armed themselves, mounted horses, and were soon at Richard Hall's house. They told the family of Richard's (Jr.) death, but there was no time to mourn for him ; the Indians were yelling in the woods and would soon be upon them. A horse was fastened to a sled, and such things as were necessary to be taken to the fort were hastily thrown into it. Mrs. Hall and Mrs. Hanna were placed on horseback. Mr. Hall rode the horse attached to the sled. Prudence and William Hall, two little children^ walked behind it. Hugh Rogan 's party walked in the rear, and the cabin was deserted. They had not proceeded far on their way when Richard Hall's little dog ran to a fallen tree and returned with his hair rufiled and marks of fear and displeasure on his countenance. Mr. Hall, fearing an attack from some wild beast, dismounted and approached the tree cautiously, gun in hand. He leaned over the tree and was shot by an Indian in the head and was dead a moment after. The horses ridden by the women took fright at the report of the gun and ran away. They were able to guide them to Fort Bledsoe. The horse in the sled ran away also. Little Prudence and William Hall fled when the firing began to the de- serted cabin, and hid themselves as well as they were able. Hugh Rogan and his party fired in the direction of the crackling timbers, but conld not see the Indians on account of the thick undergrowth. They soon missed Prudence and William Hall, and went to the cabin and found them and returned with them to Fort Bledsoe.

Anthony Bledsoe was the last man killed by Indians in Bledsoe's Fort. One night the Indians drove a number of horses rapidly past the fort, and Anthony Bledsoe, thinking that the horses belonging to the inmates of the fort had escaped and would be lost in the wilderness, rushed out to stop them, and was shot in the bowels at close range. Katherine Montgomery Bledsoe, knowing that he must die, said : '' Brother Anthony (he was her brother-in-law), you must make your will and provide for your daughters. Let some one write it at once while you are able to sign it." But how was the will to be written I There was no light in the fort. Flints were struck in vain. In the meantime Anthony Bledsoe was dying fast. Said Hugh Rogan : '' By the help of God the dying man shall make his will."

Outside the fort lived Katty Shaffer, who the Indians said bore a charmed life. She kept a fire burning day and night. To her cabin Hugh Rogan ran, and snatching a burning brand from the fire, returned with it to the fort, thus making himself a target for the Indians.

little friends in Fort Bledsoe, in whose company lie spent the only pleasant hours of his unhappy life. One was Prudy Hall, daughter of Richard Hall, who was murdered, and the other was little Polly Bledsoe, niece of Anthony Bledsoe and daughter of Katherine Bledsoe.

Hugh Rogan was anxious to adopt Polly Bledsoe, ^nd dower her with his lands at his death. But her mother said to him, " Take Polly into your heart, Mr. Rogan, if it will comfort you, but you should not forget that you have a son at Omah, to whom it is your duty to leave your property. You should write to him and let him know that you still live. He might come to you and be a comfort to you." " No, no,'' said Hugh Rogan; ''I shall not disturb ^N^ancy after she has thought me dead for so many years. I shall die and make no sign."

Almost twenty-three years went by, and in that time Plugh Ro^an had not heard from Nancy, nor she from him. But one day as he walked about the fort with his two little friends, a yearning to see Nancy ^nd his son came upon him with such force that " it drove him into solitude." He took the children inside the fort and wandered far into the wood. He sat down and thought of his past life, of his childhood, of his home in Ireland. He could see Nancy, young and beautiful as he left her at parting, and a kind of prescience urged him to write to her. He wrote that night.

Weeks went by, and although letters came slowly to that part of the country in those days, they could <jome. It was not as it had been when he first took refuge in Port Bledsoe.

Hugh Rogan. 20S

One evening the inmates of the fort were seated at their evening meal, w^hen a stranger entered, and w^as kindly invited to take his seat at table and refresh himself. He was a yoang man and extremely handsome. He had not cared to tell his name, and no one asked what it was. Hugh Rogan gazed at him as if spell-bound, so great was his resemblance to his sister w^hom he had left in Ireland. When the young man had finished his repast, Hugh Rogan touched him on the shoulder and said, " Come with me." When they were alone he asked the young man if he w^ere not his sister's son. '' Yes," said he, " and here is a letter for you from your wife. She bade me never to part with it until I placed it in your hands." Hugh Rogan opened the letter and read that ^ancy had been true to him always, and that she had never believed him dead, and had always prayed and hoped for his return. If joy could kill, Hugh Rogan would have died that niorht.

In consideration of services rendered to his country (so the deed reads), 640 acres of land had been granted Hugh Rogan on the site where I^ashville now stands. He made haste to sell this large tract of land, and invested the greater part of the money thus obtained in flax-seed, his nephew having informed him of the great demand for it in Ireland. He sailed from Philadelphia in a ship laden w^ith his flax-seed, and, after years of sorrow, was happy. He looked across the shining water and counted the days until he should be with l^ancy and their child. He

-did not then know that Bernard was a soldier, and had fought under the banner of the gifted, unfortunate, and murdered Robert Emmet. All went well until the vessel reached mid-ocean, and then she "sprung a leak." Sailors and passengers were forced each to pump an hour in turn. Hugh Rogan pumped with a w^ill as he stood waist deep in water. He thought he must soon sleep at the bottom of the sea, and his hope must find death and not fruition. The captain shouted that the ship must be relieved of her lading, and Hugh Rogan saw his fortune in fiax-seed sink beneath the dark waters without a groan. The ship then came far enough out of the water for the carpenters to mend her, and she slowly went on her way and landed her passengers at Londonderry one " shining sundown."

Hugh Rogan, I^ancy, and Bernard sailed for America, and landed in New Castle, Delaware, August 15, 1797. They went into Pennsylvania, and remained at Fort Duquesne, the scene of Braddock's defeat in 1775. When the rivers that form the Ohio had risen sufficiently, they continued their journey to Bledsoe's Fort.

Hugh Rogan and Nancy had but two sons born to them and no daughters. Francis Rogan was born September 14, 1798, and was twenty-four years younger than his brother, Bernard.

Hugh Rogan and Nancy accumulated great wealth in land and slaves, and were famous far and near for their kindness to their slaves, their abundant charity.

and their uncompromising integrity. Near Gallatin, Tennessee, they sleep side by side. Their son Bernard joined them in the silent valley at the extreme old age of ninety-nine and a half years. Francis Rogan died at the age of eighty-seven. He had no illness; he passed from earth to heaven in a few moments. His death was like a translation : "And Enoch walked with God and was not, for God took him." So with Francis Rogan. Peace be with these servants of God and of their country. Amen

Chapter Xv

About the year 1847, a man named Doyle, from Ohio, came to Kentucky, and passed through the counties of Bourbon, Scott and Harrison, and pursuaded slaves to leave their masters and to follow him, and promised that he would set them free. Hundreds followed him as far as Claysville, Kentucky, but they were there met by a large force of armed white men, from the counties before named, and a battle ensued. How many were killed and wounded is not now known. Doyle and many of the negroes were captured and brought to this town. Doyle was sent, after due course of trial, to the penitentiary at Frankfort; the negroes were returned to their homes. Doyle was pardoned after some years had elapsed. Many of the slaves reached the promised land of the *' 'hio " state and were never heard of more

Some time in the year 185-, a man by the name of Graham came here from Ohio, and stopped at the house of an old minister who had once preached in Ohio where Mr. Graham had made his acquaintance. The minister was a pro-slavery man, but he bore a conscience, and did not wish Mr. Graham to come to grief. He therefore advised him to keep himself in close quarters that night and to return to his home the next day as soon as possible. Graham said nothing except " he had wished to see the poor (206) slaves at worship." After the family of the minister had retired, Graham stole out of the house and proceeded to gratify his desire to see the negroes at their devotions. He went to an out-house, where they were lifting up their voices very loudly in song and prayer and took his seat. The negroes were not slow to perceive that they were honored by a white auditor, and the preacher wrestled " powful wid the spirit;" then they all sang, and the sisters groaned and wept, and some shouted. The negroes have the most melodious voices ever heard ; no amount of training will give a white man's voice the silver ring that nature has vouchsafed to the voice of the black man. Mr. Graham was moved to the inmost depths of his soul. After church was over he talked to a few negroes who went home and told their masters every word he said.

The next morning, contrary to the minister's advice, Graham walked around town, and talked to any negro who was willing to exchange a word with him. About 10 o'clock in the morning the minister and his family were startled by a fearful noise of many angry voices yelling in concert. Stepping to the door the minister saw his guest, Graham, making for his house with all speed, attended by a mob that had pelted the poor man with eggs, and had despitefully used him. The minister and other good citizens rescued Graham, but not before the mob had blacked his face with nitrate of silver. He was placed on the cars, and was glad to escape with his life

The late unpleasantness was beginning then. " Uncle Tom's Cabin " was the first blast from the [N'orth that aroused the dormant demon of sectional hate, that could only be lulled to sleep again by the awful moan of a sea of blood, and men went to war. So long as men go to war to settle political difficulties, so long are they barbarians. But barbarians are sometimes charming!

Chapter Xvi Behavior Of Negroes When Freed

It is to be learned from history that the civil war was brought about by the Missouri Compromise, the Kansas question, Dred Scott decision, Fugitive Slave Law, and John Brown's raid, to say nothing of Uncle Tom's Cabin, that shook this continent from ocean to ocean, and the Democratic party that burst in two just where it should have been past division.

But the iS^orth whipped the South, not half as easily as she expected to have done, and the South met defeat as she thought she never would have done. The negroes were freed, and have acted far better as citizens of this Republic than any one ^North or South believed that they would do. The negroes, however, were greatly disappointed when the war was over. They were misled by whom it is not known ; they expected to receive habitations and lauds for their services in the army.

Just before the Proclamation, January, 1863, two old negro men met, and this conversation took place: " Good mawnin, Brer Bodkins, how is you dis mawnin ?" '' !N"ot well, not well, Brer Brown, pears to to me dat sumpen's de mattah wid my insect. I suttenly does hope dat I not gwinter die fore Mistue Lincoln does whut he gwinter do." " Lawd, Brer Bobkins, whut he gwine do?" " Brown, you powfal ing-

When the Proclamation came Bodkins was boiling corn to feed the cows in his mistress' back yard, and she went out and said to him : " You are a free man this morning. All the slaves are free." Bodkins ceased to stir the corn for the space of a minute ; then he fell to stirring so vigorously that he almost overturned the kettle. He looked at his former mistress, and said, with a tone of triumph in his voice : '^ Wondah why white folks makes kittles wid three legs stid ob fur? Ef dis heah durned pot done hab four legs hit mout be wuth sumpen. Mistus, I not gwine leab you jist yet. De wnntah am powful cole, an I gwinter wait tell hit git warm, an I's gwine to de 'hio state an leab my ole oman heah. She suttinly is gut de wust temper in dis roun worle. Last night I went to see her an Suh ! I bleged for to take myself off an sleep in the wood-house. Bein a free man I gwinter be free shore 'nough."

Behavior Of Negroes When Freed

marry another woman, when you have been witli your old wife so long," said his mistress. " Preparatin to marry agin ! me ! Lawd Gawd Amighty ! Ef uver I git red ob dis 'oman, I nuvah gwinter git anudder."

Time went on, and after Bodkins had been gone about a year, his former mistress asked him how he w^as prospering. He answered: " I haint done nuthin but wuck an wuek, an I haint gut 'nough money fur to look down on de po' white trash yit. De govment hit haint giv us nuthin, do we niggers wus put in front ob the w^hite soldiers, an shot all to pieces, an hacked all to minchmeat, and we wus promised great things. Freedom haint whut hit wus cracked up to be, bless youah soul, lessen you gut money long wid it. I nuvah gut to go to de 'hio state yit. My ole 'oman jis sticks to me like a leach, an quarrelin long ob me all de time, too.^^

There has been but one attempt at insurrection since the war. When Cleveland was elected President the iirst time, some of the very ignorant negroes thought that they were to be put back into slavery. About forty negro men armed themselves and gathered together near the old bridge. Some man passing by, at midnight, heard one negro say : '' Now les paint the tow^n red." The night watchmen were informed of the threat, and gathered around them six or eight fearless men, soon disarmed the mob, and put the leaders in jail. They were tried and dismissed, after being assured that President Cleveland w^ould not make them slaves again.

J^ight and darkness hovered over the little city of Cvnthiana. The rebels sat in darkened rooms with bowed heads and heavy hearts. They were a conquered people, and they felt it. The Republicans illuminated their houses, and bands of negroes walked the streets and talked in loud and angry voices before the houses where no lights were visible. The negroes did not seem to realize that they were free until the war was over. The refined and educated liepublicans did not act as if they wished to parade the mourning rebels at their chariot wheels. 8ome of them were brothers and kinsfolk to the Republicans, and might have been dangerous, if aroused.

By and by, the disbanded and weary rebel soldiers came straggling home - those that were left. The mothers and sisters of those who would never come back, took the broken remnant that returned, and set them by their firesides, and wept over them as they listened to the story of their defeat. They were somewhat surprised afterward, when they saw rebel and Union soldiers walking side by side, and on a perfectly friendly footing. One lady asked a rebel soldier to explain yv^hy and how he could be friendly to a soldier whom he had been trying to kill for four years, and who had been trying to kill him for the same length of time. "Oh," said he, "we fought it out, and we learned on the battle-field to respect one another. Women try to talk out their ill-feeling, and can not do it. Mere talk never settles a difficulty between men, nor women either for that matter. I went into the army, and was gone four years. I left one woman talking when I went away ; I came back, and she still had not exhausted a certain subject of conversation."

Then the prophets opened their mouths and began to prophesy. Said they : " Now we have an internal enemy in the negro. Look out for poisoned wells and houses burned to the ground."

But no houses were burnt and no wells were poisoned. The negroes worked for their former masters for very slender wages, and many negroes did not leave their homes at all, and lived and died to all intents and purposes as slaves. One negro, Jim Gray by name, who had been born free, in Kentucky, left for Ohio. He was gone six months, and returned on a visit. In talking to one of his white friends, he said : "De people ob de 'Hio state don't know nuthin bout niggers. One white 'oman over thar lowed to me dat she wur feared my wife Mary's black bans mought rub off in de brade. An annuder thing, sich a thing as offerin a man a toddy, Lawd amighty ! I went one day to git me a little drap ob whisky, an, fore Gawd, hit would'n burn. Hit wa n't nuthin but watah and logwood. For good geenuine whisky, gimme ole Kaintuck furebber ! "

Few revolutions escape the baptism of blood. The extirpation of slavery from our system of government was bathed in that precious fluid, that ran a crimson river all through the beloved South.

I have been the mistress of slaves. I understand perfectly the faithful attachment that obtained between a good master and his slaves. What is to be the future fate of the negro, a prophet could not say ; but I for one wish the poor souls well, and pray that they may work oat their salvation here and for the great hereafter.

Chapter Xvit Po Rachel

Jis den long come a mean ole white man an say, ^' De worle am a comin to a eend ; pray fur me, somebody, pray fur me." I say, go long wid you, an hunt up de preachah. We all hab nough fur to do to pray fur ourself, 'dout botherin long wid you. Den he say, I done ben to de preachah, an he tole me he got fur to pray for dis one an dat one, an Dicus all fore be kin pray fur me. Moss he know de ole man done ben powful wicket, an be tuck bole ob 'im an sbuck bim an saj, " Husb youab noise ; es you done bb so sbill you die. You done sow youab crap, an ef de time bab come fur you to reap, you jis go at it." De ole man went on a bowlin an a bollerin. Moss say to me, de stars am not a fallin. Look at de El-enyards an all de stars up dab, dee not fallin. I look up an see 'em a sbinin jes es brigbt es day ; an I sot down an look an look.

Tow^'ds dayligbt dee began to git pale, an when de sun come up dee quit; leastways we nuvah seed no mo' ob 'em. Dat happen in November. What I gwine tell you happen bout dat time, or 'gun to bappen den.

One cole evenin dab come into Woodstock in a ole kivered wagon - you see in dem days dab want no kyars, nur steamboats, nur notbin, an you could'n jis jump up an go to de eend ob de worle in a week, nur come fum Faginny in a day or two es you kin now. Dab wan't no tilegrapht a carrin de news like lightnin fum hither to yan, an ef a man ups an kills anuddah ebery chile in de county didn't git wind ob it. Well, es I wur gwine on to say, dat cole evenin dah come into Woodstock, in a ole kivered wagon, a young Irishman an bis young wife an baby. Dee stop at Ole Moss' do', an ax ef we know any place dee could git a night's quarter. Ole Moss he look at 'era, be did, an seed de young 'oman an de baby both a cryin, an de young man wur mighty nigh it hissef. So he say to me, Ann, you tek dese young people to dat cabin dats empty, an mek em comfutable. Ole Moss wur rich den, an sense be mek good use ob his money

Po' Rachel

I doan see whut it war tuck away fani 'im fur. I tuck de young people to de cabin, an mek up a bigfire, an git a passel of my things, an fix de bed, an warmed de po' things up, kase dee wur chilled to de bone. Moss he saunt 'em meal an meat, an dee mout done well. But stid ob livin dah es you mought thought dee gwine do, dee up an die dah in a week ob one anuddah, befo dee done ben dah six weeks, an de little gal baby wur left a orfling. Moss he done loss his wife, an not gwine git anuddah to kick and cufi' his sarvants an chill un bout, so he could' n take de little Rachel, es de orfling chile wur name. Miss Gray, a rich white 'oman, live close by Ole Moss, an she wur a red-hot Campbellite; an she say she gwine take Rachel an fotch her up a Christian, kase no tellin whar her ma an pa wur gone, kase dee wur Catlicks. Mine you, I wur wid dem po' young critters es dee died. Dee hab a passel ob wooden beads, an de way dee han'le dem beads an call on God fur mercy wur a sin to Davy Crockett^an God hearn 'em I'll be bound, kase I'd a hearn 'em, an I's nuffin but a po' nigger. Course He hearn 'em.

Well, things went wrong wid ole Moss an wrong wid de Grays, and des busted up an bleeged to sell Ian an niggers and leave de country. Moss say he not gwine sell me, kase he wan me fur to close his ole eyes when he die. I d^»ne it, I kin tell you, when de time come, do I could harly see fur cryin my own eyes outen my head. Ole Moss and de Grays come to Kaintuck. De journey wur long an not safe. De wile beastes an varmints wur mighty plentiful in dem days, an de people live so fur apart dat we bleeged to camp out ob nights an cook our vittels de bes way we could. We hab a heap to contain wid, but we git heah an settle on " Gray's Run^" an de Grays settle in the knobs tot her side ob Cynthianu. I alius did wondah at de Grays, rich white folk like dee used to be, a settlein mongst de Knobites. De Knobites am de poest po white trash in dis worle dat dee is. Dee doan know how fur to dress nor yit how to be mannardly.

Dee Gra^'S fotch Rachel long wid em fum Faginny, an Miss Gray an her husband hab but one chile, name Allen, jis four year older den Rachel, an fur a dark chile he wur purty es a pictur. Dee Grays hab mo money lef after dee bust den ole Moss, so dee buy some race bosses and mek money powful fass. Atter we move heah, I nevah see Rachel tell she am ten year ole. But mine you, when I do see her, she am de purtiest chile I ebber sot lookin livin eyes on. She wur far es a lilly, and wid har like yallow cornsilk when it fust bust outen de shuck, an eyes gray es a mouse, an teeth jes white an even es a cat's, an she look ebery inch a lady. Allen Gray wur in love wid her den, do Miss Gray nevah thunk so, do I did soon es eber I slapt eyes on em. Allen Gray wur saunt to school to Cynthiann, an fas as he got larnin he put it into Rachel's head, an she wur mighty peart an larnt like five hundred. When Miss Gray fotch Rachel to church, de people dee turn roun fur to git a good look at her, she wur so beautiful. Pears to me she mought ob ben vain, but she nevah wur; she wur alius sad an still, like orfling chilluns alius is.

Well, sub, when Allen wur eighteen, Rachel wur fourteen, and Miss Gray tuck notice dat Allen paid a heap ob tention to her, an she proved him fur it. He flew all to pieces in a miiinet, an declare he gwine marry Rachel whuther dee willin or no. Miss Gray kick up a big dust an got mad as a hornet. kShe pick up po' Rachel, po' little chile, an git her a home furder in de knobs, long wid a ole Miss Cleaver, a Campbellite, too. Miss Cleaver wur a ole widder omon, an hab nuther chick niir chile ob her own, an hab right smart money. Den she mek Allen's pa pack Allen up an sen him oft to Faginny to school at Charlottsville. But Allen wur six to his ma's half-dozen do, an de night befo he start away he steal outen de house after dee wur all good asleep an tuck a race boss an mounted hissef on him an tar like mad to ole Miss Cleaver's house. Rachel wur specting ob him, an she creep outen de house, she do, an meets Allen. Den dee both dim up on de uppen block. De moon she shine jis es bright es day. Dese po' young things talk a long time, an Allen tell Rachel he gwine marry her jis es soon es he am twenty-one, an Rachel she promise to wait fur him.

By an by, Allen pull out a ninepence he done cut in tw^o, an mek holes in de two pieces, and draw ribbons through. He put a piece roun Rachel's neck an a piece roun hisen, an den dee git oflfen de uppen block an vow de troff plight on dee knees. Dee ris up an cry a spell, an den dee parted.

moil gilt ob tuck kyare ob her. But she wur a knobite, an not fittin to rar no gal-^leastways a purty one like Kachel. Ebery Saturday, reglar es de day would come, Hachel, she would mount a hoss called " Flyin Oloud," an away she'd go to see ef Allen Gray had writ to her. She nuvah got but one lettah a month, kase the mails come slow fum Faginny den - an ebery whurs else.

Rachel wur so harnsome dat de great gawks of knobites got to starin at 'er, tell she wur most afeared to go to town. But she whip up Flyin Cloud, an farly fly, she did, an went whur or no. One evenin, she meets Miss Gray at de post-offict, and she look at her wid a face dat mought stop a clock, an Rachel jis scringe befo 'er. She did 'n git no lettah dat evenin, nur no udder evenin while she wur in dis worle, do she writ an writ. Miss Gray must ob intersected de lettahs.

Miss Cleaver seed it, an wur right peart at guessin ef she wur a knobite. One evenin, when Rachel done ben to town, she come home looking pale un downhearted like. Dat night, es dee bof sot at dee knittin by de candle. Miss Cleaver say: "Rachel, you jis gib up dat Allen Gray; he doan kyar nufl:en fur you. Doan break youah heart bouten im ; you mought hab mo spirrit." Dat struck fire, fur Rachel hab spunk nough, ef she do look soft an tender like. She say nufl^en, but she mek 'er knittin needles farly fly. She g^o to bed airly dat night, an cry erself to sleep. Nex Saturday, she put the bridle an saddle on Flyin Cloud, an, jis es she gwine mount 'm, ole Miss Cleaver stand in the do' wid 'er cap strings a flyin an 'er eyes warterin, and say: " Off agin, Rachel, chasin a shadder." Rachel look 'er in de face, she do, an rid away. When she git to de post-offict, she nuvah got no lettah, an she git on Flyin Cloud, she do, and she kin harly set erlone on 'im, her heart am so heavy. She let Flyin Cloud creep outen town, an she doan kyar whur he walk er fall, she am so misubbul. When she gits bout two mile er mo' from Cynthiann, she heah a boss' feet clatterin on de rocks, an treckly hit cotch up wid 'er. She nuvah look roun ; she hab nobody to look fur. But, by an by, dab rid up long side ob her a young, harnsome man, dressed es fine es a fiddle, an his boss wur a thoroughbred, an his bridle wur silver-munted, an his saddle, what you could see, wur a beauty. He wur dark like Allen Grray, an bettah lookin, ef dat could be. He tuck off' his hat, an bow an smile at Rachel, an she see how curly his black bar am, an how white his teeth when lie smile. Jis den, Rachel's horse git skeered, an mek off' like de wind, but Rachel know how to hole him, an she know his tricks, an she stick onto him like a Philamadelpha major. i3ut Rachel's hair got unfastened, an amost kivered de boss' back wid long wavy curls.

Mr. Archer, fur dat wur de young man's name, soon kotch up wid de runnin boss, an tuck him by de bridle, an nuvah let go till dee bof git in ole Miss Cleaver's yard. Den Mr. Archer holp Rachel offen ob him like she done ben a queen. All dis heah time, de young man done ben tryin fur to strike up a chat wid Rachel, but she hab nuffen to say. When dee walk in de house, Miss Cleaver say: " Hi, Hachel, whar you pick up dis fine felJer ? " Fore Rachel says a word, Archer say: "Why, aunt, doan you know youah own nevy Ned Archer?" Miss Cleaver say, bless my life, Ned, I nuvah would ob knowed you agin, you is growin so. Den dee all sot down, an Archer could'n keep his eyes olFen Rachel. Miss Cleaver tuck notice ob 'im treckly, an atter a spell she say, Rachel, you go in de kitchen, an mek de fire, and git suppah. You can kill de top-knot pullet for suppah.

When Rachel git out ob hearin, Miss Cleaver say : " She not gwine kill dat topknot ; she woan kill a spider nor yit a fly." Atter de fire wur made, Rachel stand in de do' ; she do wid de topknot in 'er bans an say I not gwine kill dis heah chicken, Miss Cleaver, I done feed de po' thing all sumraah ; I not got de heart. Up jumps ole Miss Cleaver an takes de chicken outen Rachel's bans an snatches hit baleheaded in a minuet an says, whish T mought git a dollah fur all de chickens I've killed. Rachel looks at de po' chicken jumpin ebery which wa}^ fur Sunday, an takes de wahtah bucket and starts to de spring. Up jumps Ned Archer an tuck de buc^ket outen Rachel's ban, and goes to de spring an toats up a bucket of wahtah jis like he ben usen to sich, but Rachel know bettali den dat. When she look at de diamond shinin on his ban, Rachel thank him, but she doan smile nur nuffen, and pears like all Archer do he karnt mek no headway wid Rachel. All de boys do likes fur to wait on purty gals ; de ugly ones kin git along de bes way dee kin. When suppah wur ready, Miss Cleaver try to keep Rachel outen sight while he pull a little book outen his pocket an gun to read. Rachel listen anforgitde churn an ole Miss Cleaver an all. Treckly de ole omon rid up and kotch 'em. Rachel jump like she am shot, but Archer jis tuck ole Miss Cleaver in his arms an hug an kiss her an mek out like he love her. So de ole omon jis say to Rachel de churn am done an de buttah tuck up, I recons. But Archer, de sly dog, he rush in de kitchen an snatch one of Miss Cleaver's aprons offen a chur and gun to churn for dear life. He spanged de cream roun scanlus, but his aunt bleeged to laugh at him. Boys kin alius git roun ole omen. But Archer look so hansome and good natered dat no omon twixt dah an de Rockey Mountings could holp likin him.

He stay wid his aunt bout a week mo' an read fur 'em ob nights an mek hissef pleasant, an den say he gwine tother side Indianopolus he got busenest fur to settle, and he go away.

De night atter he went away Rachel sot at de windah. De moon wur full. Right befo de windali growed a great big peach tree. She sot a long time thinking ob Allen Gray an Archer, and how mean Allen done treated her an how kind Archer alius had ben, when all at oncet a squinch owel in de tree befo de windah sot up sich a schreech dat it mek her blood run cole. She know right well when shehearn it dat trouble gwine come, kase a squinch owel crying at youah windah when de moon am full am a shore sign ob a token, Dat night she seed her dead mother in her dreams. She peared befo her in her windin sheet. She nuvah seed her mother fur to remember, but she say atter dat she know who she hersef look like, an

^ext Saturday she git on Flyin Cloud and mek her way to town, do she doan spect to git a lettah. But lo an behole, she git one shore nough ! She mek de hoss farly fly outen town, an when she wur outen sight ob de houses she gun to read, she do. It wur frum Allen Gray ; leastways his name wur signed to it. It gun mighty purty, an atter while he say, " I done find a young oman in Fagenny mo titten to my station den you is, an you mought es well quit thinkin bouten me. Fum all I kin heah, you done fine a young man whut pleases you. May you be happy, is de prar of Allen Gray, youah one-time lover." She most nigh fall often de hoss. When she got home she turn in and read de lettah agin, an she say to hersef, "Dis doan soun like Allen Gray, and de writin doan look like hisen, nuther. He doan say nuffin bout de trofplight. But he done changed his mine, an his writen too, mebby. Late dat night, when Miss Cleaver wur asleep, she tuck de trofplight often her neck an put it away mongts her dead mother's clothes, an cried hersef to sleep.

E^ext mornin she look so white and holler-eyed dat ole Miss Cleaver wur mighty distressed bout her, but Kachel smile an say she wur well, an Miss Cleaver wondah ef she wur pinin fur l^ed Archer.

One evenin not long atter dis, w^ho should come ridin up to de house, lookin es harnsome es a king, but ^ed Archer. He hug his ole aunt, an he shook Kachel's ban, and bow like he wur bowin to a shonufiP lady; an she could'n holp bein glad to see him, she wur so lonesome way oft' dab in de knobs, an den yon see Rachel war jis fifteen year ole. Time went on an on, and Archer wur so kind to Rachel, dat one evenin atter dark es dee wur walkin in de starlight Rachel up an tole Archer all her troubles. He listen, he do, an when she got through and dee went in an sot on de settee on de poach. Archer say : " Rachel, I is a very rich man. Marry me. I kin mek a lady ob you." Mek a lady ob you. Dem bery words done ben de ruin ob many a gal in dis worle. But at fust Rachel woan heah to it, but atter w^iile she gun to think how hard she bleeged to work all her life an how po' she wur, and nex time Archer ax her she cornsent. One night atter dat Archer druv up to ole Miss Cleaver's house at de dead hour ob midnight, an Rachel met him, she did, way down by de gate an got in de kerridge, and de bof went away. Jis es de kerridge druv outen de las gate on de farm, a squinch owl sot up a mournful screech, an de moon w^ur full. Rachel shiver an shake like she hab de ager, an Archer ax whut wur the mattah wid er. An she say: " Sumpen awful gwine to happen. Lemme go back ; oh, please leemme go back." But Archer not gwine heah to sich es dat, so he say: " I^o, no, Rachel; when you is my wife I gwine bring you back. I gwine marry you at de fust big town we comes to." So Rachel says no mo'. Dee got to Maysville airly nex day, or dat day, you mought say,kase dee started at 12 o'clock. Rachel look out an see de town, an say: "Now heah am de place we gwine git out." "STo," say Archer, "dis heah am not de place. I gwine tek you clean outen Kaintuck fore I kin marry you." So he put Rachel off an oiF tell dee come to Indeanopolns, an den he tuck her to a big, fine tavern an introduce her to all de people es his wife. Dee call her Miss Archer. Atter a week he tuck her in de country bout ten miles fum de city an sot her down in a big house, all fixed up es fine es fine could be. But Rachel wur miserable. She know dat ruin done overtuck her, an she did'n hab de courage a older gal mought ob had to up an say, I am not dis heah man's wife ; save me fum disgrace. Archer tole de people dee mus come an see his wife, an a few whut bed kerridges come, but Rachel nuvah went to .see dem atter de call, an dee all drop her like a hot tater. All dis debelment went on bout a year, an Archer sware to Rachel dat soon es de year wur out he gwine marry her; dat he done hab a good reason fur waitin so long dat she know nufiin bout. He tell Rachel dat he love her so well dat he bleeged to tek her way fum Miss Cleaver fear some udder man mou2:ht come alono; an tek her wav fum him. Jis fore de year wur out Rachel's baby wur bawn. Archer tole her when it wur four weeks ole he gwine marry her. She did'n say nufiin, ony she prayed an prayed to die, kase her baby wur a child ob shame. But she did'n die - de time wa'nt come yit.

When de baby wur a month ole, dat bery mawnin Archer gun to mek ready to marry Rachel. She wur too weak to go to town, so he writ for a preacher to come to de house, an he bed de kerridge at de door, an jis gwine git in and go fur him, when de ofiicers ob de law bust into de room, an say befo him an Rachel: "We done come to rest you for marryin two wives." He turn pale es death, he do, an say, es he staggahs back agin de wall : " I not got two wives. Ride wid me to Indianapolus, an I gwine show you

De man holp Rachel to fix a bed fur de baby an hersef; den he go on drivin his bosses, an shuck his head an say to hissef : " Po' chile, her purty face done ben her ruin." Towds night Rachel fell asleep, an de man tuck off his coat oifen his own back an put it on her an de little baby, an still shuck his head an say to liissef : " I wish I mought hab de handlin ob de vilyan wliut beu de kaison ob all dis heah trouble and diso:race." Bout dark dee come to de town whut de man gwine stop wid de grain at, an he wake Rachel an tell her she mus go wid him to the miller's house an stay dat night. Rachel thank him kindly, but she nevah look up nur smile nur nuthin. De ole miller's wife tuck Rachel to a nice little room, an ax her to come out an eat suppah wid her an her ole man ; but Rachel say : '' No thank you ; I doan want nuthin in de worle. De miller's wife say : " But you mus eat sumpen fur de baby's sake. Ef you doan eat, de chile not gwine thrive." De ole omon need'n mine telliu Rachel dat tale, kase dem kind ob chillun nevah does die, lessen dee git killed.

When Rachel go to bed dat night, de miller's wife kiss her an cry an tell 'er she done loss a granchile bouten Rachel's age, an she wish Rachel mought stay wid her. Rachel choke up an say it am a good thing to die young, wid a good name, an be cried atter when you is gone. Den do ole omon look at Rachel's young face an at de baby, but she nevah ax no questions, an Rachel doan say a wourd, her heart am too nigh broke. Nex mornin, she tuck her baby in her arms an say good-bye an tuck de road to Kaintuck. But she have to ax her way now an den when de roads crossed.

Rachel say it wur queer to her when she wur amost wild wid trouble, dat she tuck notice to ebery thing about her - to de streams ob watah, how clur dee wur, dat you mought see plump to de bottom ob em es you gwine crost in de ferry. De pebbles wur white an de fish look like silver. She tuck notice ob de Ian - how level, an de trees - how tall dee j^rowed. It done ben pictur'd on Rachel's mine dat ef she walk all de way fum de Indian n to Kaintuck it gwine kill her. When she git in dis heah state she war nurdly gone shore nough. She done ben bleeged to stop at ebery house to res an ax fur watah, all one day. An do de baby wur little, it wur heavy to toat, an Rachel wur wore out by sundown. Treckly she come to a little house settin back fum de road, an she wur sorry to see people roun de door, kase she bleeged to stop, she wur perished fur watah, an de baby wur powful fretful. She went up to a man an ax, please mought she git a drink ob watah, an mought she res. De man look at her an tuck notice ob de baby, an say, sartin, my chile, go in by an set down. Treckly a young 'oman come to her an cried, an tole her dat she hab a po' baby not two year ole, dat she gwine lose wid de fevah. Rachel go in an look at it an cry ober it jes es hard es its own mother. When de night come on cool like de sick chile lay still, an Rachel an its mother think it wur bettah. De people go home, an Rachel an de sick baby's mother sot up. Bout daylight de sick baby ax its mother to take it up. She tuck it in her arms, an it feel fur her face, an den she know it am bline. Its bans am cole - it am gwine fas. Atter while it wur outen its misry. She put it in Rachel's arms, an fall on de flo' an tar her bar. Her husban wur otF on businest, an nobody to say nuffin to her but Rachel. Rachel, atter she done wash an dress de dead baby, say to its mother. Sense youali heart am tender fum sorrow, I gwine tell you my troubles ; an she tell her all, fum fust to las, an say, now you sees dah am wus troubles in de wurle den death. I ben runnin fum shame, but it foller me like a blood houn. I^obody kin outrun disgrace, try it who will. When E^achel war tellin her troubles it wur hard to say who cry de mos, her or Rachel. Atter while de mother of de ded baby say, Rachel, let me hab youah little boy, ef you will, I gwine rar him jis like my own, an nobody eber gwine know whose chile he am. You go to ole Miss Cleaver's, an you mought do well yit. Allen Gray nuvah, nuvah writ you dat lettah say in he doan kyar fur you no longer. I is older dan you is. Dat wur Archer. Oh, say Rachel, I kin nuvah see Allen no mo'. I done los my good name an my fust love along wid it. I not gwine be in dis worle long.

She git to Miss Cleaner's house atter dat, in about a week, an it wur night, and she stand at de do' mos feard to knock. She knock, do' timid like, an Miss Cleaver ris up an tuck her in, an cry ober her an de baby, an say, Rachel, I not forgot what de Lawd say to de sinful oman, go in peace, an sin no mo'. I got no stone to fling at you ; you am a chile, an wur led astray. Miss Cleaver wur a Knobite an a Campbell - ite. She nuvah bleeved nobody could git to heaven tell de done made a tunnel undah watah, went in at one eend an come out at tother. But she served God, an He tuck her to Hissef at las, I'll be boun dat He (lid, fur de way she sarved Rachel.

Rachel tuck her bed, and lay for weeks an weeks, an try to die, but she did'n do, and when she got up an about, she wur purtier'n evah. The people what come to Miss Cleaver's seed Rachel, an seed de baby, and dee put dis and dat togeder, an mek up what dee kayn find out, an Rachel wur all de talk. All de ugly gals swar she ought to be hung, and de meanah an de uglier dee is, de mo dee turns up dee noses at her.

Rachel nuvah push herself nowhar. She creep round de yard atter dark, an she cry herself to sleep ebery night. Often she look amongst her dead mother's close, tek out her trof-plight, an kiss it, and cry over it, an say, I done hab a good name onct; why did'n I die befo' I los it?

One evenin, Rachel sot on de uppen block, an she hearn a boss a comin at a gallop up the rocky hill dat lead to de house. When de boss conies in sight, Rachel saw a man on him, an know in a minnit dat it wur Ned Archer. She ris up an run in de house, and Archer he walk after her, slow and timid like ; he doan know whut Miss Cleaver gwine say. But he go in, he do, an kneel down befo Rachel, an ax Rachel to forgive him, an beg to see his chile. Ole Miss Cleaver tuck him up one side an down tother with her tongue. She tuck him fore an aft by, an flue gwine an comin, and sarpent and scorapean wur de bes words she got fur him. But he beg his aunt to suade Rachel to marry him. He pull out his invocement papahs, an show dem to her, an tell her de

'oman he wur married to onctdouemarried agiu. De ole 'oman gun to think, an she whispered to Rachel, but Rachel mek out she nuvah hearn her, an tell Archer to go away; she nuvah wan fur to lay livinlookin eyes on him agin. Go way ; lemme die in peace. You foarged lettahs to me fum Allen Gray. You brung disgrace on me. I gwine die hatin you. You ben my ruin. Den Miss Cleaver gun to tonguelash him, an he flung hissef outen de house, an rid away.

De nex mornin, Rachel ris up airly, an ax Miss Cleaver, won she keep de baby ? she gwine walk. Miss Cleaver say, sartin she gwine keep him ; she wur glad Rachel coming to her senses. It wur in de spring, an all de worle look lek it done had its face washed, an hab a clean dress on. De robbins wur a hoppin an singin, an de lambs wur playin, an de trees jis bustin out an de corn comin up. Rachel say, I gwine die to-day ; I gwine eend all dis ; I is wore out; I wan fur to sleep. She went to de rivab, an sot on a rock whut overhung de deep watah. She sot, she did, an study bout her whole life. She wur not yit but seventeen years ole. She say agin, de grave hides all; I gwine die to-day. She ris up, an look at de sun shinin on de happy lambs an birds, an tears till her eyes. She turn to de dark watah, and mek ready to jump in. She tuck off her bonnet, an pin a note to it, an tie it to a tree fur Miss Cleaver to fine. Jis es she gwine jump, across de rivah uncle Danal struck up a ole hymn - he wur plowin in de Airly corn - " De Lawd am promise good to me. His words my hope secore." His Moss done larn uncle Danal to read, and he sing powful sweet - white and black say clat. He sing de song from eend to eend. Rachel listen, an when de song stop, she fall on her knees an prays, an her tears run like a rivah. Dat night she say to ole Miss Cleaver, as dee sat knittin, I gwine jine meetin. Is you? say Miss Cleaver; whose meetin you gwine jine ? she say, sharp like. Rachel say, youali meetin ; will you go with me ? Dat I will, say Miss Cleaver, an she hug Rachel, an say, she hope she gwine fine dat peace widout onderstandin. By un by, dee hab a great big meetin in Cynthiann, an ole Mr. John T. Johnson, a soldier ob the war of '12, wur carryin it on. He jis up an charged at de sinners lek he wur on de battle field, an a power come forad an jine.

One Sunday ole Miss Cleaver fotch Rachel an come to heah Mr. Johnson. He want tarin roun dat day. He tuck his tex bout de son ob man habin no whars to lay his head, and talk bout his mother Mary at de cross ; den tole how de crusificted him an he ris agin dat w^e mout live. All de ole omen wur farly snubin an cryin, and de men look like a pacel ob sheep killin dogs, so shamed ob de sins dee done. Trectly dee struck up a song; I sot in de back ob de church ; an de bruthren an sisters gun to sing an shake bans.

Den Mistah Johnson say come one come all, do youah sins am as scarlet de Lawd kin mek dem white as snow. Den Rachel ris, she do, an her an ole Miss Oleaver walk down de aisle. Miss Cleaver wur a cryin an a shuhbin lek her heart gwine break ; a passel cried wid her. De preacher, Mr. Johnson, took Rachel by de ban an say : " Does you bleeve dat Jesus am de Christ de son ob de livin Gawd?" Rachel say, " I does." "Thank Gawd fur dat good confession," say

Po Rachel

Mistah Johnson. Den de people gnn to sing an shake hans agin an all shook wid Rachel. Atter all de white folks got done I goes np, an de po chile look so pitiful an pale dat I bust right out an cry so I couldn say nufiin.

But when uvah de time in de year come dat Allen Gray give her de trofplight, she sot on de uppen block and cry mo'n half de night away. All dis time she nuvah heah nuffen fum Allen Gray, kase his people done move back to Faginny w^hen she wur in the Indiann state.

One night she sot on the uppen block an de moon wur full. De win sigh and moan mongst de trees an de stars look solemn and still. Atter while she hearn a hosse's huffs a clangin on de rocks an a coniin up de hill towds de house. She say dat am Archer. " Lawd have mercy." But when he git near to her, he doari fling hissef often his hoss like Archer an he am a bigger man, an she set still an wait. When he git close to her, her blood freeze in her veins. It am Allen Gray. He say, Rachel, I done hearn you am married. Is you ? No, says Rachel. Den he pull out his piece ob de trof-plight an show it to her, an den he tuck her in his arms. She pull way fum him an stan starin at him lek she nuvah seed him betb. Her long curly har fall way below her waist, and Allen say, Oh, Rachel how beautiful you is. Does you love another man? I^o, says Rachel. Jis den Rachel's little boy crawl outen de do' an creep up to Rachel and stan twixt her an Allen Gray. Whut child am dat, Rachel? She say mine. Allen dropped his piece ob de trof plight an it rung on de rocks like a silver bell. He say you done ruin youahsef an ruin me, and he munted his hoss an rid away,

Rachel nuvah look up agin. She jis pined away an died. De good Lowd mus ob furgot her, an when He thunk about her He tuck her home to Hissef whur I gwine see her soon. Amen, even so, come Lawd Jesus.

Chapter Xyiil Old Families

The first Kimbrongh of whom we have any account from the Pamunky river, Virginia, and settled on Paddy's Run, in Harrison county, Kentucky, about the year 1780. While living in Virginia, he followed the trade of brickmaker, and built a chimney for Patrick Henry.

John M. Kimbrough, son of the Kimbrough above mentioned, married Susan Jones, and lived on a farm in sight of Cynthiana. Their children are John J., Alexander, Samuel, Henry, Moses, William W., now judge of the Circuit Court, and Mrs. Elizabeth Clay, Mrs. Nancy Lebus.

The sons were and are brave men, and have the courage of their convictions. More than one Kimbrough was in the late civil war on the Federal side.

James Lafferty came from Pennsylvania to Kentucky about the year 1795; married Susan Smith, of Bourbon county, Kentucky, in 1815. He was a soldier of the War of 1812 under Greneral Shelby, and was at the battle of the Thames. James Lafferty moved to this county about the year 1825. Three ^ons and two daughters were born to him. The father of Judgo John A. Lafferty, of Cynthiaiia, Kentucky, married Fannie E. Henry, whose father, John Henry, came from Virginia. John A. Laflerty and Fanny, his wife, had born to them twelve children, seven, sons and five daughters. John A. Lafferty and two of his brothers served through the late war on the Confederate side. John A. Lafterty was a soldier from his earliest childhood. Before the cars came through this part of the country, grain and other produce was taken in wagons to Cincinnati to be shipped. John A. Lafferty, who was only fifteen years old, was with his father in a wagon on his way to Cincinnati. They were both attacked by robbers, and John A. Lafierty killed one robber, who had knocked his father senseless, and defended himself and his father from the remaining robber with a butcher knife. This occurred at night, while they were in camp. The elder Lafierty did not recover from his dangerous wounds for six months. W. T. Lafterty, son of John A. Lafferty, was educated at Kentucky University, Lexington, Kentucky, studied law with A. H. & J. Q. Ward, began the practice of law in 1879, has held the office of county judge for two terms, and is a remarkable man in that he is a lawyer^ a truthful man, and a Christian gentleman.

William Redmon came from Scotland to Pennsylvania; married a Miss Castleman, also from Scotland. William Redmon had four sons, George, William, John, and Charles. Charles Redmon, son of G-eorge, married Miss Mary Ribolt after he came to Kentucky,

Old Families

Their children are William, George, John, and Hope ; the daughters are Minerva, Margaret, Elizabeth, and Sarah Ann. Hope Redmon, son of Charles, married Margaret Bruce, at one time a very beautiful woman. They have one son, Hope, who is an artist and a genius. He makes a beautiful picture from a homely face and preserves the likeness as well. He is totally without ambition. Some day, long hence it is to be hoped, there will rest in the grave a "mute, inglorious " Rembrandt.

Christopher Musselman came to Pennsylvania, from what country is not now known. He was a soldier of the Revolution, and when that war was over, he came and settled near Bryant's Station, Kentucky. He was a farmer and stock raiser. His farm contained several hundred acres of blue grass meadows and wooded fields. His stock did well, and he was in a fair way to amass a fortune. He, however, became dissatisfied, and removed to Rutland, where there was little blue grass, but a wealth of wild pea vines covering the ground for miles around Rutland. Mr. Musselman moved his family and stock in the autumn to Rutland, and a severe winter followed the fall that year, and his stock all died, and he regretted his change of place. He turned his attention to other business, and accumulated a large fortune. Christopher Musselman married Patsy White, who was born in Greenbrier county, Virginia.

owned a large number of slaves. Franklin Musselman married a Miss Burgess. Their children are Myra, Nancy, and Joseph. John Musselman married Alary Eoland. Their children are Etta and Maud. Etta married Gano Ammerman ; Maud married Walter Lee Northcutt.

Chapter Xix

James Lindley, born here, once a lawyer in Lewis county, Missouri, and represented his district in congress for several terms, and stood high with that body of select men as a man of the highest attainments. After the civil war he removed to St. Louis, engaged in the practice of law, and in 1872 uas elected judge of the Circuit Court, served until 1888, and then retired from active life and sought quiet in his old age at Nevada, Vernon county, Missouri, where he died in 1892. Says a Missouri man, who knew him well : "Judge Lindley had a grand character, and his name is a household word in the state in which he lived."

The grandfather of James C. Barkley was a soldier of the Revolution, and his father was a soldier in the war of 1812. Mr. Barkley's mother w^as a Miss Hart, and her uncle John Hart, of New Jersey j was one of signers of the Declaration of Independence. James C. Barkley,, once of this town, is one of the editors of the " Chillicothe Constitution," and lives now at Chillicothe, Missouri. . His son, R. W. Barkley, was educated for the United States navy, at Annapolis, Maryland, served in the navy six years after he graduated. He then traveled for a time, and visited many parts of the world. When he left the navy, he made his home in Washington, District of Columbia, and was appointed, under Cleveland, examiner of patents. He studied law three years, and makes his hom.e in ISTew York,. where he practices his profession. E.. W. Barkley married a great-granddaughter of the distinguished scholar and Christian, Alexander Campbell, long time president of Bethany College, Virginia.

Judge Ireland left Cynthiana in his youth ; was judge of the Circuit Court in Missouri for one term. He has been elected more than once to represent his Democratic constituents in the house of representatives in Missouri.

Judge Peck was born in Cynthiana, educated at Harvard, married Miss Weld, of Boston, and has made his home in Cincinnati, Ohio, for years. He has served more than one term as judge of the Superior Court of Ohio. He is now a practicing lawyer of Cincinnati, and lectures to the law students in the Ohio University.

Judge Peck, when a boy, did not think it necessary to sow any wild oats in Cynthiana, believing that if he did his parents would follow him into the sultry field, and suffer while he gathered* in his useless crop.

Caleb W. West was born here and made law his ])rofession; w^as judge of the County Court for one term, then appointed governor of Utah by President

Men Born Here, Distinguished Elsewhere

Cleveland, Avheii Cleveland was president the first time. Cleveland being president now, has again appointed Judge West governor of Utah. Governor West is loved and honored in his native town, and is no less appreciated abroad.

The ancestors of Judge Henry were Scotch-Irish, and came to Virginia after the War of the Revolution. Jesse Henry, father of Judge Henry came to Gynthiana just at what date is not known. Jesse Henry married Nancy Porter. Five children were born to them : A daughter who died young. Porter, John W., Joseph, and Nancy. Jesse Henry removed with his family, in 1846, to Independence, Missouri, at which place he died in 1852. His wife died there in 1870, and his son, Joseph, in 1883. Nancy Henry, only daughter of Jesse and Nancy Henry, married a Mr. Mcintosh, brother of Wallace Mcintosh. He died and she married J. B. Harvey, an eminent lawyer, who died in 1878. Mrs. Harvey still lives in Kansas City. Dr. Porter Henry has been a practicing physician at Independence, Missouri, for more than forty years, and has become distinguished in his profession.

In 1847, Judge John W. Henry was elected attorney for the branch of the bank of the State of Missouri, located at Fayette, Missouri. In 1849, he married Miss Maria R. Williams, a native of Lynchburg, Virginia, but reared and educated in Missouri. They have four living children - Frank W., an Episcopal minister in charge of a church at Ouray, Colorada ; Jesse W., grocery merchant, Jefferson City,

In 1854, Governor Sterling Price appointed Judge Henry state, superintendent of public schools. When his term of office expired, he returned to the bar. In 1871, he was appointed by Governor Hardin judge of anew circuit established embracing Macon county. In 1877, he was elected judge of the Supreme Court of Missouri, which office he held one term, ten years. In 1888, he removed to Kansas City, and was appointed by Governor Frances one of the judges of the county, and was elected by the people to fill the office, which he holds at the present time.

In all the high and responsible positions held by Judge Henry, he has so discharged his duties as to cover himself with honor, and to reflect it on Cynthiana, his birthplace, and the grand old commonwealth of Kentucky that is proud to claim her son.

Among the names of the men born here, but distinguished in other states, none is mentioned with more pride than the name of Richard Musser, the " gifted son of a gifted race," who resides at Brunswick, Missouri, and makes law his profession.

Chapter Xx The Cynthiana Cemeteries

" Can storied urn or animated bust back to its mansion call the fleeting breath . Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?"

The nations of the earth have disposed of their dead in various ways and have shown grief at their departure in a manner as varied as their modes of sepulture. The ancient Jews prepared their tombs in sohd rock, and considered it a calamity to the living to refuse burial to the dead. They showed grief for the dead by rending their garments and w^earing sackcloth for their inner covering, and by putting ashes and dust upon their heads. No one was refused sepulture, except a suicide, and to him it was only refused until after sunset. The Greeks buried their dead with great pomp and ceremony, and the Romans did the same until some time before the Christian era, when the custom of burning the dead became universal - as if there was not mystery enough concerning the whereabouts of the soul withscattering the ashes of the body to the four winds of heaven. The Egyptians embalmed their dead by an art that is now lost to the world.

When America was first settled the people buried their dead in private burying grounds, or in their gardens. In the mountains of Kentucky nothing is more desolate looking than the resting places of the dead. Few old farms in this state are without crumbling stone walls and tall trees that mark the places where the dead have reposed, so long, that their names, have been fora^otteu.

The old cemetery at Cynthiana was given to the town and county by Robert Harrison ; but citizens of this place buried in the grounds long before 1793, when the deed was made to the town and county by the donor. It has been used as a graveyard for nearly a hundred years. A distinguished gentleman writes from Kansas City, Missouri, that his little sister has slept there for fifty years. He and others will be glad to know that the grounds are well cared for, and that it is still a beautiful resting place for those who have fallen asleep.

There the old trees wave their branches to meet the bright blue sky, and in them, in the sweet spring and summer weather the birds rear their young and lead them, undisturbed, among the lowly graves. It is not a lonely place ; at twilight, when the day is line, the children gather there, and merry laughter is heard where, long ago, the air was full of the wails for the dead. Few bury their dead there now, and few^ visit the spot. But the dead who repose there are not forgotten.

Said little l^ell to the good schoolmaster : " I rather grieve, I do rather grieve to think," said the child, bursting into tears, " that those who die about us are so soon forgotten."

And do you think, said the schoolmaster, marking the glance she had thrown around, that an unvisited grave, a withered tree, a faded flower or two, are tokens of forgetfalness or cold neglect ? Do you think there are no deeds far away from here, in which these dead may be best remembered? ^ell, !N^ell, there may be people busy in the world at this instant, in whose actions and good thoughts these very graves - neglected as they look to us - are the chief instruments.

Aged 16

When John Morgan made his last raid on Cynthiana, the battle was fought on a beaatiful hill east of the town. More than thirty-eight acres of that ground has become a cemetery. It looks like a Necropolis indeed. It is said to be the most beautiful burial place in the state. White columns raise their gleaming length up among old trees that have been there for centuries. Slender shafts appear here and there among magnolias and choice shrubs planted by friends of the dead. Many statues, sculptured in Italy, adorn the graves of the young. When one wanders among these splendid monuments, he is reminded of the lines of Alice Cary :

** I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls The burial-ground God's acre ! It is just ; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

The Cynthiana Ckmetekiks Chapter Xxi

If all be true that poets say, a ghastly procession moves to and fro on All Souls' ^N^ight on Pike street. On that street alone, since C3mthiana has been a town, >K * >K nien have been murdered. There young men of promise have turned their faces to the midnight sky and yielded up the ghost, with time only to say, " God have mercy on my soul." And there the gray heads of the aged have fallen on the cruel stones and been dabbled with blood. And what of the murderers? Do they go unpunished? Yes ; often. The laws of Kentucky are very lenient to murderers ; they are hrave men, you see ; they neither fear God nor man. But if the law of man does not reach them the vengeance of God lays hold of them, and the murdered man, with his wounds agape and weeping blood, sits side by side at the feast with his murderer, and stands with uplifted linger between him and his wife and children, and watches all night by his bedside, and often leads him to stand on the very spot where the awful deed was done. What is the cause of this bloodshed? Any and ^very man is allowed to carry deadly, concealed weapons. Boys of fifteen and sixteen years old carry pistols, and their elders, sometimes, consider it a hopeful sign. The reckless use of firearms is a blot on the escutcheon of Kentucky - the dear old state (250) we love so well. Why does not the legislature interfere ? Umph ! The legislators are often elected because they are " game as rattlesnakes," and then many of them have such a good time in Frankfort that they will not legislate on unpleasant subjects.

The county court days foster crime. At that time the clans gather from every direction and the w^hisky runs not quite to the bridle bits. When certain horsejockies are sufficient!}^ warmed up with " bust head " the swapping begins, and scraps of conversation may be heard by one in a convenient position : " I say,. Bill, he's dead, did he make a will ?" " Wall, the prescription run thusly : ' I bequete to all my children whut are of a materior age - ' " and stopped short.

walks; a fellow better not fool with him.'' Then the speakers stand and look with admiration at the swaggering murderer who perhaps that night staggers into the bosom of his family with a broken arm or an eye knocked out. Another cause: Santa Claus brings little boys toy pistols at Christmas tide, and in place of being reminded by them that Christ was born to bring peace on earth and good will to men, they think of the brave man they have heard talked about, who would not take a word otf of any body and killed his friend.

Men of Kentucky, think of the words of Madame Roland : " Oh, Liberty ! Liberty ! how many crimes are committed in thy name!" It may not be unpar- donable to say that to put men to death by hanging, etc., for their crimes is as unciviHzed as to murder. It is a pity that this unpleasant truth must l)e told. Kentucky has not graduated in civilization, and while it is considered an honor to take life on slight provocation her diploma will rest in the shade. We have thousands and thousands of brave, truly brave, citizens, who weep over this one fault Kentucky has as Christ wept over Jerusalem, but

Chapter Xxii Old Ballads

Jimmy. The boys in our town, they 're jovial and cheery, The girls in our town, they 're jolly and merry ; There 's Susan and Polly, and also Miss Sally, But I fell in love by courting Miss Polly.

Miss Polly sat down, and I sat.by her, And with these few words I began to try her : Saying, it 's all but a folly to look melancholy, And we 'II get married, what says you. Miss Polly?

Polly.. Miss Polly, she blushed, and looked like Venus - Oh ! Jimmy, says she, there 's but one thing between us ; Oh ! where is your canister, teapot, and kittle ? And where 's your stand of Ghana mettle ?

Jimmy. Oh ! I have pots and I have kittles. And a plenty of money to support our wishes ; I 've a three-legged pot and a ten-gallon kittle, So say no more about Ghana mettle.

Polly. I '11 not rise in the morning to wash your lining, Neither will I set at your wheel a spinning ; But I '11 sleep in my bed till the clock strikes seven, And if that won't do, I '11 sleep till eleven.

Fair Eleanor Nancy Wilson S Lamentation

Ye guardian powers that rule above, Thou knowest how fondly I do love ; Oh, grant to ease this torturing pain, Nor suffer me to love in vain.

But by his father's strict command He banished him from his native land, Where I no more shall see his face, Nor more his lovely lips embrace.

Oh, how my soul oppressed with grief. And not one friend to give relief ; No hand to wipe the falling tear. No soothing friend to ease mv care.

When I reflent on what he swore, I sometimes think I'd doubt no more ; . But cruel fear returns again, And fills my mind with grief and pain.

"If I forsake you, dear," said he, *' I wish that Heaven may forsake me - And may God's vengeance on me dwell, And burn my soul in flames of Hell."

"Cheer up, my girl," he often said, " My foes shall ne'er your peace invade ; Though they should all again me join If life is spared, you shall be mine."

" Though I am bound for a foreign port, You are the mistress of my heart - No other mind, though e'er so fine. Shall ever shake my constant mind."

I once was happy, once was blessed ; No care of mind disturbed my rest, I was beloved by rich and poor, And must these pleasures be no more ?

If Satan destines us to part. No more can pleasure reach my heart; Why should I wish on earth to live, Since earth can not one pleasure give ?

Each day my mind is full of care ; Each night my pillow's wet with tears; Oh, that ray God who rules above, Would prosper those who truly love.

But, like the lonesome, wedded dove, I'll mourn the absence of my love. And in some lone, sequestered place I'll spend my few remnining days.

Chaptee Xxiii

Sir Unknown: - Good morning; or perhaps it is evening, and you sit, as I do now, looking at the west and at the sundown of a spring evening. The shadows are dim in the valleys and are creeping upward. The cattle follow the line of light that yet remains along the hill-tops, where tall trees are etched against the fading sky.

The robins sing on the budding trees, and the lilacs are in bloom, and the scent of springing grass floats in at my window. This scene of beauty was here long before I was born, and will be here long after I am done with time. But if memory abides in the spiritual body, I shall see it again by the waters of the River of Life, and often as I wander through space, an immortal pilgrim, but still a stranger in a strange land.

I have put no man's coat-of-arms beneath his name in this book, but I might have brightened many a page with crests long unused and as strange to American eyes as would be the faces of those who won them in ages past. Xeither have I spoken evil of any man, and yet we have and have had mean people in Cynthiana. We have now Ananiases and Sapphiras by the scores, and Judases that no man can number. But who wants to write or read their histories. It may he that you do not know to whom I refer when (258)

To The Historian Of 1993

1 say Ananias, etc. Do you read the Bible? If you do not, read it now, and you will learn all about them; and you will learn to believe, by reading the stoning of Stephen and the Story of the Cross, that there is a power in the universe greater than yourself, and that It can and will help you, if you trust ill It.

I shall come for my letter December 10th, twelve o'clock at night, 1993. I shall find the post-office, move it where you will. And now, fare, fare you well. When you read this "sad word," the hand that has written it will be with the body to which it belongs, and both will be dust. The spirit that ruled and dictated to the body will be .