hoped for mercy himself, to let him have a drink. Upon inquiry as to whether he had procured the required certificate, he said, "No, the doctor wouldn't give me any."

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

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

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

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

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

"With a look so piteous in purport,

As if he had been loosed out of hell
To speak of horrors,"

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

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

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

XXXI

REMINISCENCES

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

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

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

Hon. Gustavus A. Henry, well known as the "Eagle Orator of Tennessee," was the Whig candidate for Governor of the State in opposition to Andrew Johnson, at a later day

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

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

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

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

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

In this old church the time-honored custom was for some

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

"'T was on that dark, that doleful night,

When powers of earth and hell arose.'

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

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

"Sleep undisturbed within this sacred shrine,

Till angels wake thee with notes like thine."

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

the pastor of the First Presbyterian Church of Bloomington, Illinois, and his elder brother was the Mayor of that city.

At that early day, and later when I attended the same school, there were no salaries provided for the teachers. The schoolmaster visited the families within reasonable distance of the schoolhouse with his subscription paper, and the school was duly opened when a sufficient number of pupils had subscribed.

The ways of the old field school and the methods of the old-time teachers belong now to the past. Once experienced, however, they have an abiding place in the memory. The master, upon his accustomed perch near the spacious fireplace, with his ever-present symbol of authority, the rodwhich even Solomon would have considered fully up to the orthodox standard — in alarming proximity; the boys "making their manners" by scraping the right foot upon the floor and bowing low as they entered the school-room; the girls upon like occasions equally faithful in the practice of a bewitching little "curtsey" which only added to their charms; the "studying aloud," the hum of the school-room being thereby easily heard a mile or two away; the timid approach to the dreaded master with the humble request that he would "mend a pen," "parse a verb," or "do a sum.”

An hour, called recess, was given for the dinner from the baskets brought from home, and then the glorious old games, marbles, town-ball, and "bull pen," to the heart's content! At the sound of the ominous command, "Books!" each scholar promptly resumed his seat, the merry shout of the playground at once giving way to the serious business of "saying lessons." In those good old days, the slightest act of omission or commission upon the part of the pupil was confronted with a terrible condition instead of a harmless theory. In very truth the uncomfortable effect of the punishment unfailingly administered-"doing his duty to your parents," as the petty school-room tyrant was wont to observe - was in small degree lessened by the comforting assurance that the victim "would thank him for it the longest day he lived!"

Then, to crown all, came the debating society, with the