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PEN PICTURES

Of Eventful Scenes and Struggles of Life

By B. F. Craig

Kansas City, Missouri

1880

[Ill cover]

[Ill 0020]




SCENE FIRST--INTRODUCTION.


|It is fashionable to preface what we have to say.

Some men build a large portico in front of the edifice they erect.

This may attract the eye of a stranger, but no real comfort can be
realized until we enter the house.

And then no display of fine furniture or studied form of manners can
equal a whole-soul, hearty welcome.

Besides, no long proclamation of the entertainment can equal in interest
the entertainment itself.

Without further preliminary ceremony, I will introduce you to the sad
experience of a living man:--

Born in the house of respectable parents, on the southern bank of the
beautiful Ohio, in the dawn of the nineteenth century, and educated in a
log school house, the first scenes of my manhood were upon the waters
of the great Mississippi river and its tributaries. Leaving home at an
early age, no hopeful boy was ever turned loose in the wide world more
ignorant of the traps and pit-falls set to catch and degrade the youth
of this broad and beautiful land.

At Vicksburg, Natchez, Under-the-Hill, and the Crescent City, with
armies of dissipation--like the Roman Cæsar--I came, I saw, I conquered.

I had been taught from my earliest infancy that a _thief_ was a
scape-goat--on the left-hand side of the left gate, where all the goats
are to be crowded on the last day. _And that saved me_.

For I soon discovered that the _gambler_ and the _thief_ acted upon the
same theory.

Having no desire to live through the scenes of my life again--I am not
writing my own history, but the history of some of the events in the
lives of others that I have witnessed or learned by tradition--in
the execution of the task I shall enter the palace like the log
cabin--without stopping to ring the bell.

Although I have been a diligent reader for more than forty years, my
greatest knowledge of human character has been drawn from observation.
For prudential reasons some fancy names are used in this story, but the
characters drawn are true to the letter. Local, it is true, but may
they not represent character throughout this broad continent? In 1492
Columbus discovered America--a Rough Diamond--a New World.

Our fathers passed through the struggle of life in the _rough_, and
the log cabin ought to be as dear to the American heart as the modern
palace. Emancipated from ideas of locality, I hope, and honestly trust
that the sentiments in the Rough Diamond will be treasured in the hearts
of the millions of my countrymen, and that no American character will
ever become so brilliant that it cannot allude with a nat've pride to
the Rough Diamond--our country a hundred years ago.

And with a thousand other ideas brought to the mind, and blended with
the Rough Diamond, may the good Angel of observation rest with the
reader as you peruse these pages.

Near the seat of the present town of Helena, Arkansas, old Billy Horner
and Henry Mooney made a race on two little ponies, called respectively
Silver Heels and the Spotted Buck.

The distance was one quarter of a mile, and the stake one hundred
dollars.

Wishing to obtain the signature of the Governor of Arkansas to a land
grant and title to a certain tract of land on the Mississippi river, I
determined to attend the races.

The ponies were to start at twelve o'clock, on the 15th day of May.
I forget the year, but it was soon after the inauguration of steam
navigation on the Mississippi.

On the 14th day of May I left Bush Bayou, twenty miles below Helena and
fifteen miles back from the river, where I was on a tour of surveying,
in company of two negro boys, from fifteen to twenty years of age, to
assist me. Our route was down the Bayou, which was evidently an old bed
of the great river. How long since the muddy and turbulent waters had
left this location and sought the present channel no human calculation
could tell. Trees had grown up as large as any in other localities in
the Mississippi bottoms, in some places extending entirely across the
Bayou; in other places there was an open space one hundred yards wide
and sometimes a mile long, but there were many places where the timber
extended from shore to shore for miles. In such places our only guide
was a blaze upon the trees, made by the first navigators of the Bayou.
We started in a canoe, eight feet long and eighteen inches wide, with
a large trunk, a number of tools, and three men. When all were on board
the top of our boat was only three-quarters of an inch above the water.
In this critical condition the negroes had to go as freight, for they
are proverbially too awkward to manage a nice thing. Near the close of
our journey we were attacked by an alligator. He was sixteen feet long,
and larger than our boat. His attack frightened the negroes so badly
that it was impossible to keep them still, and we came very near being
upset. I fired several times at the alligator, with a double-barreled
shot-gun, charged with twenty-four buckshot, but the shot only glanced
from his scales and fell into the water. At last, frightened by the loud
cries of the negroes, the animal left us.

When we arrived on the bank of the Mississippi the Western hemisphere
had blindfolded the eye of day; the river was bank full, the turbulent
waters bearing a large quantity of drift wood down the stream. Upon the
Arkansas shore there was no sign of civilization. On the Mississippi
shore, two miles below, there was a cabin, and the faint light of the
inmates was the only sign of civilization that met our view. To cross
the great river, in the dark, with its turbulent waters and drift wood,
with a barque so heavily laden, was worse than the encounter with the
alligator. I was young, brave and enthusiastic. Directing the negroes to
place themselves in the bottom of the boat, and not to stir hand or foot
at the risk of being knocked overboard with the paddle, I headed
our little barque for the light in the cabin, which gave us a course
quartering down stream. To have held her square across the stream, she
would have undoubtedly filled with water. The night was dark, but the
air was still as the inaudible breath of time.

Knowing that the perils of the sea, without wind, are abated one hundred
fold, I made the venture, and landed safely at the Mississippi cabin.

Eighteen miles below Helena, and on the opposite side of the river, I
passed the night, with a determination to be on the race ground the next
day at twelve o'clock. I was up early in the morning. As I passed out
the cot of my friend, in front of me the great father of waters rolled
on in his majesty to the bosom of the ocean.

On the background the foliage of the forest cast a green shade upon
the gray light of the morning. Every animal on the premises had sought
refuge in the cane brakes from the ravages of the green-head fly and
the gallinipper. Like Richard the Third--I was ready to cry, a horse--a
horse--my kingdom for a horse.

Through the dim distance, half concealed by the cane, I discovered a
mule, and was fortunate enough to bridle him. He was an old mule; some
said the first Chickasaw Frenchman that ever settled in St. Louis rode
him from the north of Mexico to the Mississippi river.

Others said that he was in the army of the First Napoleon, and had been
imported across the water. Be this as it may, he was a good saddle mule,
for I arrived upon the race ground fifteen minutes ahead of time.

I obtained the desired signature and saw the Spotted Buck win the
race. But many said it was a jockey race, and that Silver Heels was the
fleetest horse. The races continued through the evening. I had no desire
to bet, but if I had, I should have bet on the fast man and not the fast
horse.

After this event, and nearly half a century ago, I was standing on the
street in Vicksburg. It was early in the morning, and the city unusually
quiet. My attention was attracted in the direction of the jail by women
running indoors and men rushing along the street; I saw sticks, stones,
and bricks flying, and men running as in pursuit of some wild animal,
and as I caught a glimpse of the figure of the retreating man, the sharp
sound of a rifle gun rang out upon the morning air.

Following on to a spot on the street where a large crowd of men had
collected, I saw the face of a dead man as the body was being turned
over by one of the bystanders. The lineaments of the cold, marble face,
spoke in a language not to be mistaken--that the dead was, in life, a
_brave man_.

I soon learned that the name of the dead man was “Alonzo Phelps,” and
that he had been tried for the crime of murder and sentenced by the
court to be hanged by the neck until he was dead, and this was the day
for his execution; that he had broken, or found an opportunity to leave
the jail, and nothing would stop him but the rifle-gun in the hands of
an officer of the law.

I also learned that he had written a confession of his crimes, the
manuscript of which was then in the jail, for he had knocked the keeper
down with a stone ink-stand, with which he had been furnished to write
his confession.

By the politeness of the jailor I was permitted to examine the
confession, which closed with these remarkable words,

“_To-morrow is the day appointed for my execution, but I will not
hang._”

The confession was afterward published. I read it many times, but have
forgotten most of it. I remember he said the first man he ever murdered
was in Europe, and that he was compelled, for safety, to flee the
country and come to America. There was nothing so unusual in this, but
the manner in which he disposed of his victim was singular, and more
particularly the revelation he gave of his thoughts at the time.

He said he carried the body to a graveyard, and, with a spade that had
been left there, he shoveled all of the dirt out of a newly-made grave
until he came to the coffin. He then laid the body of the murdered
man on the coffin and refilled the grave. “I then,” says he, “left
the graveyard, and spent the balance of the night in reflections. How
strange, I thought, it would be for two spirits, on the last day, to
find themselves in the same grave.”

“I thought,” says he, “if the relatives of the rightful owner of the
grave should, in after years, conclude to move the bones of their
kinsman, when they dug them up there would be two skulls, four arms, and
so on, and how it would puzzle them to get the bones of their kinsman.”

After reading this confession I regretted very much that I had
never seen Alonzo Phelps while living, for there was blended in his
composition many strange elements. But that part of his confession
that gives interest to our story was the papers taken from the man he
murdered in Europe, of which we have spoken. He concealed the papers,
in a certain place, on the night he buried the man, and, as he was
compelled to flee the country, said papers were, a long time afterward,
discovered by reading his confession made in America.

With the settlement of the West, the navigation of the western waters
was one of the principal industries. Keel and flat bottom boats were
the first used. Keel boats were propelled against the stream with long
poles, placed with one end on the bottom of the stream and a man's
shoulder at the other end, pushing the boat from under him, and
consequently against the stream. Flat bottom boats only drifted with the
current, sometimes bearing large cargoes.

Louisville, Kentucky, was one of the principal points between Pittsburg
and New Orleans. Here the placid waters of the beautiful river rushed
madly over some ledges of rocks, called the falls of Ohio. Many
reshipments in an early day were performed at this point, and if the
boat was taken over the falls her pilot for the trip to New Orleans
was not considered competent to navigate the falls. Resident pilots, in
Louisville, were always employed to perform this task.

And few of the early boatmen were ever long upon the river without
having acquaintances in Louisville.

Beargrass creek emptied its lazy waters into the Ohio at a point called,
at the time of which we write, the suburbs of Louisville.

In a long row of cottages on the margin of Beargrass creek, that has
long since given place to magnificent buildings, was the home of a
friend with whom I was stopping.

Rising early one morning, I found the neighborhood in great excitement;
a woman was missing. It was Daymon's wife. She had no relatives known to
the people of Louisville. She was young, intelligent, and as pure from
any stain of character as the beautiful snow.

Daymon was also young. He was a laborer, or boat hand, frequently
assisting in conducting boats across the falls. But he was _dissipated_,
and in fits of intoxication frequently abused his wife.

All who knew Daymon's wife were ready to take the dark fiend by the
throat who had consigned her beautiful form to the dark waters of
Beamrass creek.

Everyone was busy to find some sign or memento of the missing woman.

A large crowd had gathered around a shop, where a large woden boot hung
out for a sign--a shoe shop. When I arrived on the spot a workman
was examining a shoe, and testified that it was one of a pair he had
previously made for Daymon's wife. The shoe had been picked up, early
that morning, on the margin of Beargrass creek. Suspicion pointed her
finger at Daymon, and he was arrested and charged with drowning his wife
in Beargrass creek.

Daymon was not a bad-looking man, and, as the evidence was all
circumstantial, I felt an uncommon interest in the trial, and made
arrangements to attend the court, which was to sit in two weeks.

On the morning of the trial the court room was crowded. The counsel for
the state had everything ready, and the prisoner brought to the bar. The
indictment was then read, charging the prisoner with murder in the
first degree. And to the question, are you guilty or not guilty? Daymon
answered _not guilty_, and resumed his seat. Silence now prevailed for
a few minutes, when the judge inquired, “is the state ready?” The
attorney answered, “yes.” The judge inquired, “has the prisoner any one
to defend him?” Daymon shook his head.

“It is then the duty of the court to appoint your defense,” said the
judge, naming the attorneys, and the trial proceeded. The witnesses for
the state being sworn, testified to the shoe as already described. In
the mean time Beargrass creek had been dragged, and the body of a woman
found. The fish had eaten the face beyond recognition, but a chintz
calico dress was sworn to by two sewing women as identical to one they
had previously made for Daymon's wife.

The state's attorney pictured all of this circumstantial evidence to the
jury in an eloquence seldom equaled.

But, who ever heard a lawyer plead the cause of a moneyless man? The
attorneys appointed to defend Daymon preserved only their respectability
in the profession.

And the jury returned their verdict _guilty_. Nothing now remained but
to pronounce the sentence, and then the execution.

The judge was a crippled man, and slowly assumed an erect position. Then
casting his eyes around the court room, they rested upon the prisoner,
_and he paused a moment_. That moment was silent, profound, awful!
for every ear was open to catch the first sound of that sentence. The
silence was broken by a wild scream at the door. The anxious crowd
opened a passage, and a woman entered the court room, her hair floating
upon her shoulders, and her voice wild and mellow as the horn of
resurrection. That woman was Daymon's wife.




SCENE SECOND.--THE HERO OF SHIRT-TAIL BEND.


```Two boys in one house grew up side by side,

```By the mother loved, and the father's pride

```With raven locks and rosy cheeks they stood,

```As living types of the family blood.

```Don, from the mother did his mettle take,

```Dan, the Prodigal--born to be a rake.=

|In the month of May, 1816, the Enterprise landed at Louisville, having
made the trip from New Orleans in twenty-five days. She was the first
steamboat that ever ascended the Mississippi river. The event was
celebrated with a public dinner, given by the citizens of Louisville to
Captain Henry M. Shreve, her commander.

A new era was inaugurated on the western waters, yet the clouds
of monopoly had to be blown away, and the free navigation of the
Mississippi heralded across the land.

The startling events of the times are necessarily connected with our
story.

For the truth of history was never surpassed by fiction, only in the
imagination of weak minds.

Sixty miles above Louisville, on the southern bank of the Ohio, stood
a round-log cabin, surrounded by heavy timber. In the background a
towering clift reared its green-covered brow to overlook the valley--the
woodland scenery seemed to say: “here is the home of the wolf and the
wild cat,” and it gave the place a lonesome look.

A passing neighbor had informed the inmates of the cabin that a
_saw-mill_ was coming up the river. Two barefooted boys stood in the
front yard, and looked with hopeful eyes upon the wonder of the passing
steamer. The gentle breeze that waved their infant locks, whispered the
coming storms of the future.

It was the Washington, built by Captain Shreve, and was subsequently
seized for navigating the western waters. The case was carried to the
Supreme Court of the United States, where the exclusive pretensions of
the monopolist to navigate the western waters by steam were denied.

Some of the old heroes who battled for the free navigation of the
western waters, left a request to be buried on the bank of the beautiful
Ohio, where the merry song of the boatman would break the stillness
of their resting place, and the music of the steam engine soothe their
departed spirits. Well have their desires been fulfilled.

Some long and tedious summers had passed away--notwithstanding a
congressman had declared in Washington City, “that the Ohio river was
frozen over six months in the year, and the balance of the season would
not float a tad-pole.”

The music of the steam engine or the Ohio and Mississippi rivers, had
given rise to unforseen industries. Don and Dan Carlo, standing in the
half-way house between boyhood and manhood, without inheriting a red
cent in the wide world with which to commence the battle of life, grown
up in poverty, surrounded by family pride, with willing hearts and
strong arms, were ready t-o undertake any enterprise that glimmering
fortune might point out.

A relative on the mother's side held the title papers, signed by the
Governor of Arkansas, to a tract ol land on the Mississippi river, who
gave the privilege to Don and Dan Carlo, to establish a wood yard on
said premises.

For steam navigation was not only a fixed fact, but the boats were much
improved--many of them taking on board twenty-four cords of wood at one
landing.

“Competition is the life of trade,” and several enterprising woodmen
were established in this locality; and when a passing steamboat would
ring for wood after night, all anxious to show the first light,
the woodmen, torch in hand, would run out of their cabins in their
shirt-tails. From this circumstance, that locality was known by the
boatmen from Pittsburgh to New Orleans, by the homely appellation of the
_Shirt-Tail Bend._

That, like many other localities on the Mississippi, was first settled
by wood-choppers. The infantile state of society in those neighborhoods
can be better imagined than described. The nearest seat of justice
was forty miles, and the highest standard of jurisprudence was a
_third-rate_ county court lawyer. Little Rock was, perhaps, the
only point in the State that could boast of being the residence of a
printers' devil, or the author of a dime novel.

The wood-cutters were the representative men of the neighborhood. The
Gospel of peace and good will to men was, perhaps, slightly preserved
in the memories of some who had been raised in a more advanced state
of civilization. The passing days were numbered by making a mark on the
_day-board_ every morning, and a long mark every seventh day, for the
Sabbath.

Quarrels concerning property seldom, if ever, occurred. The criminal
code or personal difficulties were generally settled according to the
law of the early boatmen, which was: if two men had a personal quarrel,
they were required to choose seconds, go ashore and fight it out. The
seconds were chosen to see that no weapons were used and no foul holds
were taken. It was a trial of physical strength, and when the vanquished
party cried “_enough!_” the difficulty was considered settled.

I am speaking of times prior to the inauguration of the Arkansas Bowie
knife and pistol Many of the early woodcutters on the Mississippi were
men of sterling integrity. Don Carlo never wrote a line for the future
antiquarian to ponder over, or dreamed that he was transmitting anything
to posterity; yet, by his bold and noble conduct, he stamped the impress
of his character upon the memories of all who witnessed the blossom of
society in the woods on the Mississippi river.

Brindle Bill was a wood-chopper, but he never worked much at his
profession. He was one of the class of woodcutters that were generally
termed the floating part of the population. This class were employed
by the proprietors of the wood yards, to cut wood by the cord--for one
hundred cords they received fifty dollars.

Brindle Bill was five feet and eight inches high, with square shoulders
and as strong as a buffalo--and although he was classed with the
floating population, he had been in that locality for more than a year
and was a shining light at _headquarters._

This was the resort of all who claimed to be fond of fun. It was an old
cabin that was built by some early backwoodsmen, who had deserted it and
moved on. It was some distance from the river, and left unoccupied
by the woodmen. Situated in the edge of a small cane-brake, a large
quantity of cane had been cut to clear the way, and piled against the
west end of the cabin.

Here the jug was kept. These men had no brilliantly lighted saloon for
a resort, but human nature is the same under all circumstances. In this
locality, like all others, there were two parties, or two spirits--one
was to improve the other to degrade society. As we have said, Brindle
Bill was the leading spirit of his party. He was always ready to fill
the jug and play a social game at cards--he only bet, _as he said_, to
keep up a little interest in the game. Brindle Bill always had a pocket
full of money. He loved to tell long stories, and frequently related
previous combats, in which he came off the victor. As the test of
manhood was physical strength, Brindle Bill was the bully of the
settlement--no one desired a personal quarrel with him.

Some said that S. S. Simon, the proprietor of a wood yard, sided with
Brindle Bill--whether this was true or not--Simon's wife, was one of the
leading spirits of the other party. She was a woman of few words, but
the force of her character was felt by the whole neighborhood.

Cord, or steam wood, was the principal source of revenue, and large
quantities were annually sold, thousands of dollars come into Shirt-tail
Bend, but there was no improvement, they had no school house, and a
church and post-office were not thought of.

Don and Dan Carlo, proprietors of one of the principal wood yards, _dear
brothers_, were animated by different spirits. Dan was a fast friend
of Brindle Bill. Don was a silent spirit of the other party. They were
equal partners in the wood business, and when a sale was made, Dan
received half of the money, but it so happened that all expenses were
paid by Don. This had been the situation for a long time. In vain Don
appealed to Dan--tried to arouse family pride. The two kept bachelors
hall, and many times, through the long vigils of the night, Don
laid before Dan, their situation, _scoffed at_ by a large family
relationship, because they were poor, and then representing that they
must fail in their business, because half the money received would not
pay expenses, to all of this, Dan would promise to reform--and promise,
and promise, _and promise_, but would always fail.

In the dusk of the evening, after a large sale of wood had been made,
at the Carlo wood yard, S. S. Simon, Dan Carlo, Sundown Hill and Brindle
Bill were seen making their way slowly to _headquarters_. Simon's wife
remarked to a person near her, “_Dan's money will go to-night_.”

Don Carlo was seen sitting alone in his cabin, his hand upon his
forehead, his eyes gazing intently upon the floor. The burning coal upon
the hearthstone glimmered in the glory of its element; the voice of the
wild ducks upon the river shore, told the deep, dead hour of the night,
and aroused Don Carlo from his reverie--the sun had crossed the meridian
on the other side of the globe, and no sound of the foot-fall of his
absent brother disturbed the stillness of the hour.

Don Carlo picked up a pamphlet that lay upon the table and turned over
the leaves, it was the confession of _Alonzo Phelps_.

He said mentally, Phelps was a very bad, but a very brave man. He defied
the city of Vicksburg, defied the law, and the State of Mississippi.

He thought of the generations before him, and family pride filled his
veins with warm blood. Don Carlo was ready to face Brindle Bill, or
the Brindle Devil, in defence of his rights, and he started for
_headquarters_.

Cool, calculating woman--Simon's wife, the patient watcher for her
absent husband, saw Don Carlo wending his way through the stillness of
the night, to _headquarters_. Her keen, woman's wit, told her there was
trouble ahead.

Silently, and unseen, with fire brand in hand, (this was before friction
matches were thought of,) she left the Simon cabin.

When Don Carlo arrived at _headquarters_, the door and window was
fastened on the inside, a faint light from a tallow candle, that
glimmered through the cracks of the cabin, whispered the deep laid
scheme of the inmates--S. S. Simon, Sundown Hill and Brindle Bill were
banded together to swindle Dan Carlo. Don Carlo went there to enter that
cabin. Quick as thought he clambered up the corner of the jutting logs,
and passed down the chimney. In front of him, around a square table,
sat four men. On the center of the table a large pile of shining silver
dollars, enlivened the light of the tallow candle.

The players looked up in amazement; had an angel from heaven dropped
among them, they would not have been more astonished. While the men sat,
between doubt and fear, Don Carlo raked the money from the table, and
put it in his pocket.

Brindle Bill was the first to rise from the table, he held up four
cards, claimed the money, said he was personally insulted by Don Carlo,
and by G--d he should fight it out. He chose S. S. Simon for his second,
and boastingly prepared for the contest.

Don Carlo used no words, nor did he choose any second; Sundown Hill and
Dan Carlo looked at each other, and at S. S. Simon, with a look that
said, we stand by Don Carlo.

S. S. Simon hallooed _fair play_, and Brindle Bill _pitched in_. Brindle
Bill was the stoutest man, Don Carlo the most active, the contest was
sharp, and very doubtful, notwithstanding the boasting character
of Brindle Bill, true pluck was upon the side of Don Carlo. At this
critical moment, Simon's wife appeared upon the scene of action, the
door of the cabin was fast, Simon was on the inside. She could hear the
blows and smell the blood, for a lucky lick from Don had started
the blood from Brindle Bill's nose, but could not see or know the
combatants. Quick as thought, she applied the fire-brand to the cane
pile, on the west end of the cabin. A strong breeze from the west soon
enveloped the roof of the cabin in flames. The men rushed out into the
open air much frightened. Simon's wife grabbed her husband and dragged
him toward their home, with loud and eloquent cries of _shame_. The
contest was ended, and Don Carlo had the money. Brindle Bill appealed to
the men of his party to see that he should have_ fair play_. His appeals
were all in vain, the fear of him was broken, and he had no great desire
to renew the contest. Seeing no hope in the future, Brindle Bill left
the new settlement. And Don Carlo was justly entitled to the appellation
of the _Hero of Shirt-Tail Bend_.

Society was started upon the up-grade. Some planters commenced to settle
in the Bend, little towns were now springing up on the Mississippi, and
Dan Carlo out of his element, made it convenient to visit the towns. A
new era had dawned upon the criminal code in Arkansas--the pistol and
the bowie knife, of which writers of fiction have portrayed in startling
colors. Shortly after these events, Dan Carlo was found _dead in a
saloon_.

It was in April, late one Saturday evening, the steamboat “Red Stone”
 blew up sixty-five miles above Louisville, while landing on the Kentucky
shore; the boat burned to the water edge, and many lives were lost. Men
returning from the South, to the homes of their nativity, were consigned
to the placid waters of the Ohio for a resting place, others were
mangled and torn, left to eke out a weary life, without some of their
limbs. The scene upon the shore was heart-rendering above description.
The body of one poor man was picked up one-quarter of a mile from the
boat, in a corn field, every bone in his body was broken, and its fall
to the earth made a hole in the ground, eighteen inches deep. How high
he went in the air can only be conjectured, but we may safely say it was
out of sight. Several were seen to fall in the middle of the river, who
never reached the shore. The dead and dying were gathered up and carried
to the houses nearest at hand. The inhabitants of the shore had gathered
for three miles up and down the river--all classes and ages were seen
pulling pieces of the wreck and struggling persons to the shore= Two
girls or half-grown women passed by me walking slowly upon the pebbled
shore, gazing into the water, when some distance from me, I saw one of
them rush into the water up to her arm-pits and drag something to the
shore. I hastened to the spot, and the girls passed on toward the wreck.
Several men were carrying the apparently lifeless body of a man upon a
board in the direction of the half-way castle, a place of deposit for
the dead and dying. His identity was ascertained by some papers taken
from his pocket, it was--Don Carlo--the “Hero of Shirt-Tail Bend.”




SCENE THIRD--THE SEPARATED SISTERS.


```On the stream of human nature's blood,

````Are ups and downs in every shape and form,

```Some sail gently on a rising flood,

````And some are wrecked in a tearful storm.=

|Tom Fairfield was descended from one of the best families in Virginia.
Yet he was animated by what we may call a _restless spirit_. He ran away
from home at twelve years of age, and came to Kentucky with a family
of emigrants, who settled near Boone Station, in 1791. Kentucky, until
after Wayne's treaty, in 1795, was continually exposed to incursions
from the Indians; yet, before Tom's day of manhood, the bloody contest
between the white and the red men had terminated on the virgin soil of
the new-born State--Kentucky was admitted into the Union in 1792. Yet
the heroic struggles with the Indians by the early settlers were fresh
in the memories of all. Prior to the settlement of Kentucky by white
men, the Southern and Northwestern tribes of Indians were in the habit
of hunting here as upon neutral ground. No wigwam had been erected,
but it was claimed by all as a hunting ground. The frequent and fierce
conflicts that occurred upon the meeting of the Indian tribes, together
with conflicts with white men, caused the Indians first to call Kentucky
“_The dark and bloody ground_.” At no point on the American Continent
had the hatred between the two races risen to a higher point. Long
after the peace between England and America, and the close of the war
of American Independence, the conflict between the white and red men in
Kentucky was a war of extermination. The quiet cabin of the white man
was frequently entered, under cover of night, by some roving band of
Indians, and women and children tomahawked in cold blood. White men when
taken by them, whether in the field at work, or behind a tree, watching
their opportunity to shoot an Indian, were taken off to their towns
in Ohio and burned at the stake, or tortured to death in a most cruel
manner. No wonder the early settler in Kentucky swore eternal vengeance
against the Indian who crossed his path, whether in peace or war. In a
land where the white woman has cleaved the skull of the red warrior with
an ax, who attempted to enter her cabin rifle in hand, from whence all
but her had fled--who shall refuse to remember the heroines of the early
settlers, and the historic name of the _dark and bloody ground_.

When Tom Fairfield arrived at manhood, the golden wing of peace was
spread over the new-born State, from the Cumberland Mountains to the
Ohio river.

A tract of land embracing a beautiful undulating surface, with a black
and fertile soil, the forest growth of which is black walnut, cherry,
honey locust, buckeye, pawpaw, sugar maple, elm, ash, hawthorn,
coffee-tree and yellow poplar, entwined with grape vines of large size,
which has been denominated the garden of Kentucky.

Many of the phrases, familiar to our grandfathers, have become obsolete,
such as latch-string, bee-crossing, hunting-shirt, log-rolling,
hominy-block, pack-horse and pack-saddle.

While many of their customs have been entirely forgotten, or never
known, by the present generation, a history of some of the events of the
time cannot fail to be interesting.

Tom had learned to read and write in Virginia, and this accomplishment
frequently gave him employment, for many of the early settlers were glad
to pay him for his assistance in this line of business, and it suited
Tom to change his place of abode and character of employment. He was
industrious, but never firm in his purpose, frequently commencing an
enterprise, but always ready to abandon it in the middle.

Socially he was a great favorite at all wedding-parties, and weddings
were of frequent occurrence about this time.

For while Kentucky was over-run with Indians the female portion of
families were slow to immigrate to the scene of such bloody strife,
and many of the early planters were young men, who found themselves
bachelors for the want of female association. But with the influx of
population now taking place, females largely predominated.

A wedding in Kentucky at that time was a day of rejoicing, and the young
men in hearing distance all considered themselves invited. A fine dinner
or supper was always prepared; of wine they had none, but distilling
_corn whisky_ was among the first industries of Kentucky, and at every
wedding there was a custom called _running for the bottle_, which was of
course a bottle of whisky.

The father of the bride, or some male acquaintance at the house of
the bride--about one hour previous to the time announced for the
ceremony--would stand on the door-step with the bottle in his hand,
ready to deliver it to the first young man that approached him. At the
appointed time the young men of the neighborhood would rendezvous at a
point agreed upon, and when all were ready and the word _go_ given, the
race for the bottle, on fine horses, to the number of fifteen or twenty,
was amusing and highly exciting. Tom had the good fortune to be the
owner of a fleet horse--to own a fine horse and saddle was ever the
pride and ambition of the young Kentuckian--and he won many bottles;
but the end proved that it was bad instead of good luck, for Tom
subsequently became too fond of the bottle.

Tom was young and hopeful, far away from his kindred, and he also
married the daughter of an Englishman, who was not so fortunate as to be
the owner of any portion of the virgin soil, but distinguished himself
as a fine gardener, and all the inheritance Tom received with his wife
was a _cart-load of gourds_.

You laugh, but you must remember that a few pewter plates and cob-handle
knives was all that adorned the cupboards of some of our fathers, and
gourds of different size made useful vessels. Coffee was not much in
use, and in the dawn of the Revolution a party of brave Americans had
thrown a ship-load of tea into the sea.

Tom, like many of the young planters, built a cabin upon a tract of
land, under the Henderson claim, as purchased from the Cherokee Indians,
which claim was subsequently set aside by the State of Virginia.

Tom, as we have said, was of a restless disposition, and from a planter
he turned to be a boatman. Leaving his family at home in their cabin, he
engaged to make a trip to Fort Washington (Cincinnati, then a village)
on a keel-boat, descending the Kentucky and ascending the Ohio rivers.
On this trip he first beheld the stupendous precipices on the Kentucky
river, where the banks in many places are three hundred feet high, of
solid limestone, and the beautiful country at he mouth of the Kentucky,
on the Ohio river.

He was absent from home three months, for prior to steam navigation, the
Ohio had been navigated by keel and flat-bottom boats for a quarter of a
century, and many of the old boatmen were men of dissipated habits--_bad
school for Tom_. When he returned home it was too late in the season
to raise a crop. The next winter was long and cold. Tom and his little
family keenly felt the grasp of poverty, and many times, in the dead
hour of night, when the cold wind made the only audible sound on the
outside, the latch-string of the cabin door had been pulled in, and the
fire burned down to a bed of coals, Tom and his wife sat quietly and
sadly by the dim light of a tallow candle, and told the stories of their
families. Tom intended at some future time to return to Virginia and
claim an inheritance, although, as he said, he was not the eldest son
of his father, and by the laws of Virginia the eldest son is entitled to
all of the estate in land, which, as he said, caused him to leave home;
but from other sources he hoped in the future to reap the benefit of an
inheritance.

Tom's wife, in her turn, told the story of her ancestors in the old
country, and how she lived in hope of some revival of family fortune,
which by the discovery of the necessary papers, would give her the means
of rising above the cold grasp of poverty, so keenly felt by them; and
many times through the long nights of winter, in that secret chamber
where no intruder comes, Tom and his wife, whom he always called by the
endearing name of _mother_, with a heart-felt desire to honor his infant
children, had many long and interesting interviews upon the subject of
the _ups_ and _downs_ of family fortune.

The joyous days of spring dawned upon the little household, and with it
new ideas in the mind of Tom Fairfield; it was to become a _preacher_;
why not? He could read--and must according to the philosophy of the
people understand the Scriptures. Whatever may have been the delinquency
of the early settlers in Kentucky, they were devotedly a religious
people.

Ministers of the gospel were not required to study Theology; to be able
to _read_ was the only accomplishment, except the _call_; it was thought
indispensable that a _preacher_ should have _a divine call_.

Whatever may be said of ignorant worship, many of the early _preachers_
in Kentucky were men of sterling piety, and did much to elevate and
improve the rude society of the backwoodsmen. What they lacked in
learning they made up in earnestness and a strict devotion to the
_Masters cause_; what they lacked in eloquence they made up in force.
Some extracts from the sermons of these old men have been preserved. I
quote from one handed me by a friend:

“As Mo-ses lif-ted up the ser-pent in the wil-der-ness--ah! e-v-e-n so
must the Son of M-a-n be lif-ted up--ah! That who so-e-v-e-r look
up-on him--ah! m-a-y not p-e-r-i-s-h--ah! but h-a-ve e-v-e-r-l-a-sting
l-i-f-e--ah!”

Notwithstanding this halting delivery, these old men laid the foundation
of the refined and elegant society now enjoyed in Kentucky.

Tom Fairfield wished to improve his fortune and position in society--pay
for preaching was small--but the many little needs of a family
frequently fell to the lot of a preacher's wife. With this object in
view, and waiting for the _call_, Tom and his wife attended all the
meetings. A _wonderful phenomenon_ occurred about this time, that upset
all of Tom's calculations--it was called the _jerks_. It was principally
confined to the females--but men sometimes were victims of it.

During the church service, and generally about the time the preacher's
earnestness had warmed the congregation, the _jerks_ would set in. Some
one in the congregation would commence throwing the head and upper part
of the body backward and forward, the motion would gradually increase,
assuming a spasmodic appearance, until all discretion would leave the
person attacked, and they would continue to _jerk_ regardless of all
modesty, until they _jerked_ themselves upon the floor.

Tom and his wife one day attended the meeting of a _sect_, then called
the “_New Lights._” During the service Tom's wife was attacked with
the _jerks_; the motion slow at first became very rapid, her combs flew
among the congregation, and her long black hair cracked like a wagon
whip. Tom was very much frightened, but with the assistance of some
friends the poor woman was taken home, and soon became quiet. Tom never
attended meeting again.

The old adage that _bad luck_ never comes single-handed, was now setting
in with Tom. Soon after this event, Tom returned from his labor one
cold, wet evening. _Mother_, as he always called his wife, was very dull
and stupid. Tom had attended to all the duties of the little household,
pulled in the latch-string of the cabin door, covered the coals on the
hearth with ashes--as the old people used to say, to keep the _seed_ of
fire.

In the morning when he awakened, his faithful wife, dear mother, as he
called her, was by his side, _cold and dead_.

With three little daughters in the cabin and nothing else in the wide
world, for the title to his land had been set aside. Disheartened with
his misfortunes, Tom, with his little daughters, moved to the Ohio
river.

Port William was the name given to the first settlement ever made at the
mouth of the Kentucky river.

Seventy miles above Louisville the Kentucky mingles its water with the
Ohio river, the land on the east side of the Kentucky and on the south
side of the Ohio, narrows into a sharp point--the water is deep up to
the shore. When navigation first commenced this point was the keel-boat
landing, and subsequently the steamboat landing.

Here, Dave Deminish kept a saloon, (then called a grocery). One room
sixteen feet square, filled with _cheap John merchandise_, the principal
article for sale was _corn whisky_, distilled in the upper counties,
and shipped to Port William on keel boats,--this article was afterwards
called _old Bourbon_.

Port William was blessed with the O!-be-joyful. Redhead Sam Sims run a
whisky shop in connection with, his tavern, but the point, or landing
was the great place of attraction, here idle boatmen were always ready
to entertain idle citizens. Old Brother Demitt owned large tracts of
land, and a number of slaves, and of course he was a leader in society,
why not? he was a member of the church if he did stand on the street
corners, tell low anecdotes, and drink whisky all-day-long. And old Arch
Wheataker owned slaves to work for him, and he, of course, could ride
his old ball-face sorrel horse to Port William, drink whisky all day and
run old Ball home at night. Late in December one dark night, the Angel
of observation was looking into the room of Dave Deminish. A tall man
with silver gray hair was pleading with Dave for one more dram. They
stood by the counter alone, and it was late, the customers had all gone
save Tom Fairfield. Tom offered to pledge his coat as a guarantee for
payment, Dave was anxious to close the store (as he called it), and he
said mildly as he laid his hand softly on Tom's shoulder, “Keep your
coat on, Tom,” and handing him a glass of spoiled beer, affected
friendship. In attempting to drink the beer Tom _heaved_. Dave was
insulted, and kicked him out, and closed the door. On reeling feet,
alone, and in the dark, Tom departed. In the middle of the night
commenced a wonderful snow storm, and the dawn of morning found the
earth covered with a white mantle twenty-four inches deep.

The ever diligent eye of the Angel of observation was peering into the
cabin of Tom Fairfield, two miles distant from the _Point_, and one mile
north of Brother Demitts. Roxie, the eldest daughter, found a few sticks
of wood, which happened to be in doors, made up a little fire and was
cooking some corn cakes. Rose had covered Suza with a tattered blanket,
and was rocking her in a trough. The cold wind upon the outside carried
away the inaudible murmurs of the little sisters.

At one o'clock in the evening the little fire had burned out. Rose was
still engaged with the baby, and Roxie passed the time between childish
conversations with Rose about the deep snow, and their absent father,
who she said would get the snow out of his way and come, home after
a while, then peeping out the crack of the door to watch for some one
passing. Old Father Tearful had passed the cabin, his face and head
wrapped up with a strap of sheepskin to ward-off the cold, and he did
not hear the cries of Roxie Fairfield. One hour later Suza was crying
piteously and shivering with the cold.

Roxie said firmly to Rose, you pet and coax the poor; thing and I will
go to Aunt-Katy's and get some one to come and, and get us some wood,
making a great effort to conceal a half suppressed sob; and a starting
tear. Then patting' Rose on the head with her little hand said
coaxingly, “Be good to-to-the baby, and I'll soon be back.” Leaving both
little sisters in tears, and pulling her little bonnet close 'round her
ears, she left the cabin, and struggled bravely through the deep snow;
fortunately when she gained the track of Father Tearful's horse she had
less difficulty. The old man was riding a Conestoga horse whose feet and
legs, from their large size, made quite an opening in the snow.

The Angel eye of observation peering into the east room of Brother
Demitt's house, (he lived in a double cabin of hewn logs,) saw Aunt Katy
sitting on one corner of the hearth-stone, busily plying her fingers
upon a half finished stocking; upon the other corner lay a large
dog; stretched at full length; half way between the two sat the old
house-cat, eying the mastiff and the mistress, and ready to retreat from
the first invader. The hickory logs in the fire-place were wrapping each
other with the red flames of heat, and the cold wind rushing 'round the
corner of the-house was the only sound that disturbed the stillness of
the hour.

With a sudden push the door swung upon its hinges, and Roxie Fairfield,
shivering with the cold, appeared upon the stage. Aunt Katy threw her
head back, and looking under her specs, straight down her nose at the
little intruder, said, in a voice half mingled with astonishment,
“Roxie Fairfield, where in the name of heaven did you come from?” Roxie,
nothing abashed by the question, replied in a plaintive tone, “Daddy
didn't come home all night nor all day--and--and we're 'fraid'the
baby'll freeze.” The simple narrative of the child told Aunt Katy the
_whole story_. She knew Tom Fairfield, and although a drunkard, he would
not thus desert his children. “Come to the fire, child,” said Aunt Katy
in a milder tone, and as she turned to the back door she said, mentally,
“_dead, and covered with snow_.” She continued, “Joe, I say, Joe, get
old Ned and hitch him to the wood slide, and go after the Fairfield
children--_quick_--call Dick to help hitch up.” Dick was an old negro
who had the gout so bad in his left foot that he could not wear a shoe,
and that foot wrapped up in a saddle blanket, made an impression in the
snow about the size of an elephant's track.

Roxie made a start to return as she came, and while Aunt Katy was
coaxing and persuading her to wait for the slide, Joe, a colored boy,
and old Ned were gotten ready for the venture. Dick, by Aunt Katy's
directions, had thrown a straw bed upon the slide, and bearing his
weight upon his right foot, he caught Roxie by the arms and carefully
placed her upon it.

Joe, as he held the rope-reins in one hand and a long switch in the
other, turned his eyes upon the face of the little heroine, all mingled
with doubt and fear, saying in a harsh tone, “keep yourself in the
middle of the slide, puss, for I'm gwine to drive like litenin'.”

Aunt Katy stood in the cold door gazing at the running horse and slide
until they were out of sight, and then turning to Dick who, standing by
the chimney, was holding his left foot close to the coals, said, “Tom
Fairfield is dead and under the snow, poor soul! and them children will
have to be raised, and I'll bet the nittin' of five pair of stockins
that old Demitt will try to poke one of 'em on me.”

Joe soon returned with the precious charge. He had Suza, the baby, in
her rocking trough, well wrapped up in the old blanket and placed in
the middle of the slide, with Roxie seated on one side and Rose on the
other. The slide had no shafts by which the old horse could hold it
back; it was Dick's office to hold back with a rope when drawing wood,
but he was too slow for this trip, and Joe's long switch served to keep
old Ned ahead of the slide when traveling down hill.

A large fire and a warm room, with Aunt Katy's pacifying tones of
voice, soon made the little sisters comparatively happy; she promised
them that daddy would soon return.

The news soon spread through the neighborhood, and every one who knew
Tom Fairfield solemnly testified that he would not desert his children;
the irresistible conclusion was that while intoxicated he was frozen,
and that he lay dead under the snow.

A council of the settlers, (for all were considered neighbors for ten
miles 'round,) was called, over which Brother Demitt presided. Aunt
Katy, as the nearest neighbor and first benefactress, claimed the
preemption right to the first choice, which was of course granted.
Roxie, the eldest, was large enough to perform some service in a family,
and Rose would soon be; Suza, the baby, was the trouble. Aunt Katy
was called upon to take her choice before other preliminaries could be
settled.

Suza, the baby, with her bright little eyes, red cheeks and proud
efforts, to stand alone, had won Aunt Katy's affections, and she,
without any persuasion on the part of old Demitt, emphatically declared
that Suza should never leave her house until she left it as a free
woman.

Mrs. Evaline Estep and Aunt Fillis Foster were the contending candidates
for Rose and Roxie.

Brother Demitt decided that Aunt Fillis should take Roxie, and Mrs.
Estep should be foster mother to Rose, with all the effects left in the
Fairfield cabin.

These ladies lived four miles from the Demitt house, in different
directions. With much persuasion and kind treatment they bundled up the
precious little charges and departed.

While the Angel of sorrow hovered round the little hearts of the
departed sisters.




SCENE FOURTH--ROXIE DAYMON AND ROSE SIMON.


```The road of life is light and dark,

```Each journeyman will make his mark;

```The mark is seen by all behind,

```Excepting those who go stark blind.

```Men for women mark out the way,

```In spite of all the rib can say;

```But when the way is rough and hard,

```The woman's eye will come to guard

```The footsteps of her liege and lord,

```With gentle tone and loving word.=

|Since the curtain fell upon the closing sentence in the last scene,
many long and tedious seasons have passed away.

The placid waters of the beautiful Ohio have long since been disturbed
by steam navigation; and the music of the steam engine echoing from the
river hills have alarmed the bat and the owl, and broke the solitude
around the graves of many of the first settlers. Many old associations
have lived and died. The infant images of the early settlers are men
and women. In the order of time Roxie Fairfield, the heroine of the snow
storm, and Aunt Fillis Foster, claim our attention.

With a few back glances at girlhood, we hasten on to her womanhood. Aunt
Fillis permitted Roxie to attend a country school a few months in each
year. The school house was built of round logs, was twenty feet square,
with one log left out on the south side for a window. The seats were
made of slabs from the drift wood on the Ohio River, (the first cut
from the log, one side flat, the other having the shape of the log,
rounding); holes were bored in the slabs and pins eighteen inches long
inserted for legs. These benches were set against the wall of the room,
and the pupils arranged sitting in rows around the room. In the center
sat the teacher by a little square table, with a switch long enough to
reach any pupil in the house without rising from his seat. And thus the
heroine of the snow storm received the rudiments of an education, as she
grew to womanhood.

Roxie was obedient, tidy--and twenty, and like all girls of her class,
had a lover. Aunt Fillis said Roxie kept everything about the house in
the right place, and was always in the right place herself; she said
more, she could not keep house without her. By what spirit Aunt Fillis
was animated we shall not undertake to say, but she forbade Roxie's
lover the prerogative of her premises.

Roxie's family blood could never submit to slavery, and she ran
away with her lover, was married according to the common law, which
recognizes man and wife as one, and the man is that one.

They went to Louisville, and the reader has already been introduced to
the womanhood of Roxie Fairfield in the person of Daymon's wife.

The reader is referred to the closing sentence of Scene First. Daymon
was granted a new trial, which never came off, and the young couple left
Louisville and went to Chicago, Illinois. Roxie had been concealed by a
female friend, and only learned the fate of Daymon a few minutes before
she entered the court room. Daymon resolved to reform, for when future
hope departed, and all but life had fled, the faithful Roxie rose like a
spirit from the dead to come and stand by him.

Daymon and Roxie left Louisville without any intimation of
their-destination to any one, without anything to pay expenses, and
nothing but their wearing apparel, both resolved to work, for the sun
shone as brightly upon them as it did upon any man and woman in the
world.

As a day laborer Daymon worked in and around the infant city, as
ignorant of the bright future as the wild ducks that hovered 'round the
shores of the lake.

It is said that P. J. Marquette, a French missionary from Canada was the
first white man that settled on the spot where Chicago now stands. This
was before the war of the Revolution, and his residence was temporary.

Many years afterward a negro from San Domingo made some improvements
at the same place; but John Kinzie is generally regarded as the first
settler at Chicago, for he made a permanent home there in 1804. For a
quarter of a century the village had less than one hundred inhabitants.
A wild onion that grew there, called by the Indians Chikago, gave the
name to the city.

After a few years of hard, labor and strict economy a land-holder was
indebted to Daymon the sum of one hundred and fifty dollars. Daymon
wished to collect his dues and emigrate farther west. By the persuasion
of Roxie he was induced to accept a deed to fifteen acres of land. In a
short time he sold one acre for more than the cost of the whole tract,
and was soon selling by the foot instead of the acre. The unparalleled
growth of the city made. Daymon rich in spite of himself. .

The ever wakeful eye of the Angel of observation is peering into the
parlor of the Daymon _palace_, to see Roxie surrounded with all the
luxuries of furniture, sitting by an ornamented table, upon which lay
gilt-edged paper; in the center of the table sat a pearl ink-stand and a
glass ornament set with variegated colors. Roxie's forehead rested upon
the palm of her left hand, elbow on the table. Profound reflections
are passing through her brain; they carry her back to the days of her
childhood. Oh, how she loved Suza; the little bright eyes gazed upon
her and the red lips pronounced the inaudible sound, “_dear sister_.”
 “Yes, I will write,” said Roxie, mentally. She takes the gold pen in
her right hand, adjusting the paper with her left, she _paused_ to
thank from the bottom of her heart old Ben Robertson, who in the country
school had taught her the art of penmanship. _Hush!_ did the hall bell
ring? In a few minutes a servant appeared at the door and announced the
name of Aunt Patsy Perkins.

“Admit Aunt Patsy--tell her your mistress is at home,” said Roxie,
rising from the table.

Aunt Patsy Perkins was floating upon the surface of upper-tendom
in Chicago. She understood all of the late styles; a queen in the
drawing-room, understood the art precisely of entertaining company; the
grandest ladies in the city would listen to the council of Aunt Patsy,
for she could talk faster and more of it than any woman west of the
Alleghany Mountains.

The visitor enters the room; Roxie offers Aunt Patsy an easy chair;
Aunt Patsy is wiping away the perspiration with a fancy kerchief, in one
hand, and using the fan with the other. When seated she said:

“I must rest a little, for I have something to tell you, and I will
tell you now what it is before I begin. Old Perkins has no more love for
style than I have for his _dratted poor kin_. But as I was going to tell
you, Perkins received a letter from Indiana, stating this Cousin Sally
wished to make us a visit. She's a plain, poor girl, that knows no more
of style than Perkins does of a woman's comforts. I'll tell you what
it is, Mrs. Daymon, if she does come, if I don't make it hot for old
Perkins, it'll be because I can't talk. A woman has nothing but her
tongue, and while I live I will use mine.”

Then pointing her index finger at Roxie, continued: “I will tell you
what it is Mrs. Daymon, take two white beans out of one hull, and place
them on the top of the garden fence, and then look at 'em across the
garden, and if you can tell which one is the largest, you can seen what
difference there is in the way old Perkins hates style and I hate his
_dratted poor kin_. What wealthy families are to do in this city, God
only knows. I think sometimes old Perkins is a _wooden man_, for, with
all my style, I can make no more impression on h-i-m, than I can upon
an oak stump, Mrs. Daymon. What if he did make a thousand dollars last
week, when he wants to stick his _poor kin_ 'round me, like stumps in a
flower garden.” At this point Roxie ventured to say a word. “Aunt Patsy,
I thought Jim was kinsfolk on your side of the house.”

“Yes, but honey, I am good to Jim, poor soul, he knows it,” said Aunt
Patsy gravely, and then she paused.

Jim was a poor boy, eighteen years old, and the son of Aunt Patsy's dear
brother, long since laid under the dark green sod of Indiana. The poor
boy, hearing of the wealth of his Aunt Patsy, had come to Chicago and
was working on the streets, poorly clad.

Aunt Patsy would sometimes give him a few dollars, as you would throw
a bone to a dog, requesting him at the same time to always come to the
back door, and never be about the house when she had company.

Aunt Patsy said emphatically, as she left the Daymon palace, “I'll tell
you what it is, Mrs. Daymon, I'm goin' home to study human nature,
and if I don't find some avenue to reach old Perkim, I shall take the
liberty to insult the first one of his _dratted poor kin_ that sets foot
in my house.”

After Aunt Patsy left, Roxie thought no more of her letter of inquiry,
and company engaged her attention for some days until the subject passed
entirely out of her mind.

Soon after these events Roxie died with the cholera--leaving an only
daughter--and was buried as ignorant of the fate of her sister as the
stone that now stands upon her grave.

We must now turn back more than a decade, which brings us to the burning
of the steamboat Brandywine, on the Mississippi river. The boat was
heavily freighted, with a large number of passengers on board; the
origin of the fire has never been positively known; it was late in
the night, with a heavy breeze striking the boat aft, where the fire
occurred. In a short time all on board was in confusion; the pilot, from
the confusion of the moment, or the lack of a proper knowledge of the
river, headed the boat for the wrong shore, and she ran a-ground on
a deep sand bar a long way from shore and burned to the waters' edge;
between the two great elements of fire and water many leaped into the
river and were drowned, and some reached the shore on pieces of
the wreck. Among those fortunate enough to reach the shore was an
Englishman, who was so badly injured he was unable to walk; by the more
fortunate he was carried to the cabin of a wood cutter, where he soon
after died.

When he fully realized the situation he called for ink and paper; there
was none on the premises; a messenger was dispatched to the nearest
point where it was supposed the articles could be obtained, but he was
too late. When the last moments came the dying man made the following
statement: “My name is John A. Lasco. I have traveled for three years
in this country without finding the slightest trace of the object of
my search--an only and a dear sister. Her name is Susan Lasco; with our
father she left the old country many years ago. They were poor.--the
family fortune being held in abeyance by the loss of some papers. I
remained, but our father gave up all hope and emigrated to America,
taking Susan with him. In the course of nature the old man is dead,
and my sister Susan, if she is living, is the last, or soon will be the
last, link of the family. I am making this statement as my last will and
testament. Some years ago the post-master in my native town received
a letter from America stating that by the confession of one, Alonzo
Phelps, who was condemned to die, that there was a bundle of papers
concealed in a certain place by him before he left the country. Search
was made and the papers found which gave me the possession of the family
estate. The letter was subscribed D. C., which gave a poor knowledge of
the writer. I sold the property and emigrated to this country in search
of my sister; I have had poor success. She probably married, and the
ceremony changed her name, and I fear she is hopelessly lost to her
rights; her name was Susan Lasco--what it is now, God only knows. But
to Susan Lasco, and her descendants, I will the sum of twenty thousand
dollars, now on deposit in a western bank; the certificate of deposit
names the bank; the papers are wet and now upon my person; the money in
my pocket, $110, I will to the good woman of this house--with a request
that she will carefully dry and preserve my papers, and deliver them
to some respectable lawyer in Memphis----” at this point the speaker was
breathing hard--his tone of voice almost inaudible. At his request,
made by signs, he was turned over and died in a few moments without any
further directions.

The inmates of the cabin, besides the good woman of the house, were only
a few wood cutters, among whom stood Brindle Bill, of Shirt-Tail
Bend notoriety. Bill, to use his own language, was _strap'd_, and was
chopping wood at this point to raise a little money upon which to make
another start. Many years had passed away since he left Shirt Tail Bend.
He had been three times set on shore, from steamboats, for playing sharp
tricks at three card monte upon passengers, and he had gone to work,
which he never did until he was entirely out of money. Brindle Bill left
the cabin, _ostensibly_ to go to work; but he sat upon the log, rubbed
his hand across his forehead, and said mentally, “Susan La-s-co. By the
last card in the deck, _that is the name_; if I didn't hear Simon's
wife, in Shirt-Tail Bend, years ago, say her mother's name was S-u-s-a-n
L-a-s-c-o. I will never play another game; and--and _twenty thousand in
bank_. By hell, I've struck a lead.”

The ever open ear of the Angel of observation was catching the sound of
a conversation in the cabin of Sundown Hill in Shirt-Tail Bend. It was
as follows--

“Many changes, Bill, since you left here; the Carlo wood yard has play'd
out; Don Carlo went back to Kentucky. I heard he was blowed up on a
steamboat; if he ever come down again I did'nt hear of it.”

“Hope he never did,” said Bill, chawing the old grudge with his eye
teeth.

Hill continued: “You see, Bill, the old wood yards have given place to
plantations. Simon, your old friend, is making pretentions to be called
a planter,” said Sundown Hill to Brindle Bill, in a tone of confidence.

“Go slow, Hill, there is a hen on the nest. I come back here to play a
strong game; twenty thousand in bank,” and Brindle Bill winked with his
right eye, the language of which is, I deal and you play the cards I
give you. “You heard of the burning of the Brandywine; well, there was
an Englishman went up in that scrape, and he left twenty thousand in
bank, and Rose Simon is the _heir_,” said Bill in a tone of confidence.

“And what can that profit y-o-u?” said Hill rather indignantly.

“I am playing this game; I want you to send for Simon,” said Bill rather
commandingly.

“Simon has changed considerably since you saw him; and, besides,
fortunes that come across the water seldom prove true. Men who have
fortunes in their native land seldom seek fortunes in a strange
country,” said Hill argumentatively.

“There is no mistake in this case, for uncle John had-the _di-dapper
eggs_ in his pocket,” said Bill firmly.

Late that evening three men, in close council, were seen, in Shirt-Tail
Bend. S. S. Simon had joined the company of the other two. After Brindle
Bill had related to Simon the events above described, the following
questions and answers, passed between the two:

“Mrs. Simon's mother was named Susan Lasco?”

“Undoubtedly; and her father's name was Tom Fairfield. She is the brave
woman who broke up, or rather burned up, the gambling den in Shirt-Tail
Bend. We were married in Tennessee. Mrs. Simon was the adopted daughter
of Mrs. Evaline Estep, her parents having died when she was quite young.
The old lady Estep tried to horn me off; but I _beat her_. Well the old
Christian woman gave Rose a good many things, among which was a box of
family keep sakes; she said they were given to her in consideration of
her taking the youngest child of the orphan children. There may be
something in that box to identify the family.”

At this point Brindle Bill winked his right eye--it is my deal, you play
the cards I give you. As Simon was about to' leave the company, to break
the news to his wife, Brindle Bill said to him very confidentially:
“You find out in what part of the country this division of the orphan
children took place, and whenever you find that place, be where it
will, right there is where I was raised--the balance of them children is
_dead_, Simon,” and he again winked his right eye.

“I understand,” said Simon, and as he walked on towards home to apprise
Rose of her good fortune, he said mentally, “This is Bill's deal, I will
play the cards he gives me.” Simon was a shifty man; he stood in the
_half-way house_ between the honest man and the rogue: was always ready
to take anything he could lay hands on, as long as he could hold some
one else between himself and danger. Rose Simon received the news with
delight. She hastened to her box of keepsakes and held before Simon's
astonished eyes an old breast-pin with this inscription: “Presented to
Susan Lasco by her brother, John A. Lasco, 1751.”

“That's all the evidence we want,” said Simon emphatically. “Now,”
 continued Simon, coaxingly, “What became of your sisters?”

“You know when Mrs. Estep moved to Tennessee I was quite small. I have
heard nothing of my sisters since that time. It has been more than
fifteen years,” said Rose gravely. .

“At what point in Kentucky were you separated?” said Simon inquiringly.

“Port William, the mouth of the Kentucky river,” said Rose plainly.

“Brindle Bill says they are dead,” said Simon slowly.

“B-r-i-n-d-l-e  B-i-l-l, why, I would not believe him on oath,” said Rose
indignantly.

“Yes, but he can prove it,” said Simon triumphantly, and he then
continued, “If we leave any gaps down, _my dear_, we will not be able to
draw the money until those sisters are hunted up, and then it would cut
us down to less than seven thousand dollars--and that would hardly build
us a fine house,” and with many fair and coaxing words Simon obtained a
promise from Rose that she would permit him to manage the business.

At the counter of a western bank stood S. S. Simon and party presenting
the certificate of deposit for twenty thousand dollars. In addition to
the breast-pin Rose had unfolded an old paper, that had laid for years
in the bottom of her box. It was a certificate of the marriage of Tom
Fairfield and Susan Lasco. Brindle Bill and Sundown Hill were sworn and
testified that Rose Simon _alias_ Rose Fairfield was the only surviving
child of Tom Fairfield and Susan Lasco. Brindle Bill said he was raised
in Port William, and was at the funeral of the little innocent years
before, The money was paid over. Rose did not believe a word that
Bill said but she had promised Simon that she would let him manage the
business, and few people will refuse money when it is thrust upon them.

The party returned to Shirt-Tail Bend. Simon deceived Rose with the plea
of some little debts, paid over to Brindle Bill and Sundown Hill three
hundred dollars each. Brindle Bill soon got away with three hundred
dollars; “Strop'd again,” he said mentally, and then continued, “Some
call it blackmailin' or backmailin', but I call it a _back-handed_ game.
It is nothing but making use of power, and if a fellow don't use power
when it's put in his hands he had better bunch tools and quit.”
 Brindle Bill said to S. S. Simon, “I have had a streak of bad luck; lost
all my money; want to borrow three hundred dollars. No use to say you
havn't got it, for I can find them sisters of your wife in less than
three weeks,” and he winked his right eye.

Simon hesitated, but finally with many words of caution paid over the
money.

Soon after these events S. S. Simon was greatly relieved by reading in
a newspaper the account of the sentence of Brindle Bill to the state
prison for a long term of years.

S. S. Simon now stood in the front rank of the planters of his
neighborhood; had built a new house and ready to furnish it; Rose was
persuaded by him to make the trip with him to New Orleans and select her
furniture for the new house. While in the city Rose Simon was attacked
with the yellow fever and died on the way home. She was buried in
Louisiana, intestate and childless.




SCENE FIFTH.--THE BELLE OF PORT WILLIAM.


```A cozy room, adorned with maiden art,

```Contained the belle of Port William's heart.

```There she stood--to blushing love unknown,

```Her youthful heart was all her own.

```Her sisters gone, and every kindred tie,

```Alone she smiled, alone she had to cry;

```No mother's smile, no father's kind reproof,

```She hop'd and pray'd beneath a stranger's roof.=

|The voice of history and the practice of historians has been to dwell
upon the marching of armies; the deeds of great heroes; the rise and
fall of governments; great battles and victories; the conduct of troops,
etc., while the manners and customs of the people of whom they write are
entirely ignored.

Were it not for the common law of England, we would have a poor
knowledge of the manners and customs of the English people long
centuries ago.

The common law was founded upon the manners and customs of the people,
and many of the principles of the common law have come down to the
present day. And a careful study of the common laws of England is the
best guide to English civilization long centuries ago.

Manners and customs change with almost every generation, yet the
principles upon which our manners and customs are founded are less
changeable.

Change is marked upon almost everything It is said that the particles
which compose our bodies change in every seven years. The oceans
and continents change in a long series of ages. Change is one of the
universal laws of matter.

And like everything else, Port William changed. Brother Demitt left Port
William, on foot and full of whisky, one cold evening in December. The
path led him across a field fenced from the suburbs of the village. The
old man being unable to mount the fence, sat down to rest with his back
against the fence--here it is supposed he fell into a stupid sleep. The
cold north wind--that never ceases to blow because some of Earth's poor
children are intoxicated--wafted away the spirit of the old man, and
his neighbors, the next morning, found the old man sitting against the
fence, frozen, cold and dead.

Old Arch Wheataker, full of whisky, was running old Ball for home one
evening in the twilight. Old Ball, frightened at something by the side
of the road, threw the old man against a tree, and “busted” his head.

Dave Deminish had retired from business and given place to the
brilliantly lighted saloon. Old Dick, the negro man, was sleeping
beneath the sod, with as little pain in his left foot as any other
member of his body. Joe, the colored boy that drove the wood slide so
fast through the snow with the little orphan girls, had left home, found
his way to Canada, and was enjoying his freedom in the Queen s Dominion.

The Demitt estate had passed through the hands of administrators much
reduced. Old Demitt died intestate, and Aunt Katy had no children. His
relations inherited his estate, except Aunt Katy's life interest. But
Aunt Katy had money of her own, earned with her own hands.

Aunt Katy was economical and industrious. Every dry goods store in Port
William was furnished with stockings knit by the hands of Aunt Katy. The
passion to save in Aunt Katy's breast, like Aaron's serpent, swallowed
up the rest.

Aunt Katy was a good talker--except of her own concerns, upon which she
was non-committal. She kept her own counsel and her own money. It was
supposed by the Demitt kinsfolk that Aunt Katy had a will filed away,
and old Ballard, the administrator, was often interrogated by the
Demitt kinsfolk about Aunt Katy's will. Old Ballard was a cold man of
business--one that never thought of anything that did not pay him--and,
of course, sent all will-hunters to Aunt Katy.

The Demitt relations indulged in many speculations about Aunt Katy's
money. Some counted it by the thousand, and all hoped to receive their
portion when the poor old woman slept beneath the sod.

Aunt Katy had moved to Port William, to occupy one of the best houses
in the village, in which she held a life estate. Aunt Katy's household
consisted of herself and Suza Fairfield, eleven years old, and it was
supposed by the Demitt relations, that when Aunt Katy died, a will would
turn up in favor of Suza Fairfield.

Tom Ditamus had moved from the backwoods of the Cumberland mountains
to the Ohio river, and not pleased with the surroundings of his adopted
locality, made up his mind to return to his old home. Tom had a wife and
two dirty children. Tom's wife was a pussy-cat woman, and obeyed all of
Tom's commands without ever stopping to think on the subject of “woman's
rights.” Tom was a sulky fellow; his forehead retreated from his
eyebrows, at an angle of forty-five degrees, to the top of his head; his
skull had a greater distance between the ears than it had fore and aft';
a dark shade hung in the corner of his eye, and he stood six feet above
the dirt with square shoulders. Tom was too great a coward to steal, and
too lazy to work. Tom intended to return to his old home in a covered
wagon drawn by an ox team.

The Demitt relations held a council, and appointed one of their number
to confer with Tom Ditamus and engage him to take Suza Fairfield--with
his family and in his wagon--to the backwoods of the Cumberland
Mountains. For, they said, thus spirited away Aunt Katy would never hear
from her; and Aunt Katy's money, when broken loose from where she
was damming it up, by the death of the old thing would flow in its
legitimate channel.

And the hard-favored and the hard-hearted Tom agreed to perform the job
for ten dollars.

It was in the fall of the year and a foggy morning. When the atmosphere
is heavy the cold of the night produces a mist by condensing the
dampness of the river, called fog; it is sometimes so thick, early in
the morning, that the eye cannot penetrate it more than one hundred
yards.

Tom was ready to start, and fortunately for him, seeing Suza Fairfield
passing his camp, he approached her. She thought he wished to make some
inquiry, and stood still until the strong man caught her by the arm,
with one hand in the other hand he held an ugly gag, and told her if she
made any noise he would put the bit in her mouth and tie the straps on
the back of her head. The child made one scream, but as Tom prepared to
gag her she submitted, and Tom placed her in his covered wagon between
his dirty children, giving the gag to his wife, and commanding her if
Suza made the slightest noise to put the bridle on her, and in the dense
clouds of fog Tom drove his wagon south.

Suza realized that she was captured, but for what purpose she could not
divine; with a brave heart--far above her years--she determined to make
her escape the first night, for after that she said, mentally, she
would be unable to find home. She sat quietly and passed the day in
reflection, and resolved in her mind that she would leave the caravan of
Tom Ditamus that night, or die in the attempt. She remembered the words
of Aunt Katy--“Discretion is the better part of valor”--and upon that
theory the little orphan formed her plan.

The team traveled slow, for Tom was compelled to let them rest--in the
warm part of the day--the sun at last disappeared behind the western
horizon. To the unspeakable delight of the little prisoner, in a dark
wood by the shore of a creek, Tom encamped for the night, building a
fire by the side of a large log. The party in the wagon, excepting Suza,
were permitted to come out and sit by the fire. While Tom's wife was
preparing supper, Suza imploringly begged Tom to let her come to the
fire, for she had something to tell him. Tom at last consented, but said
cautiously, “you must talk low.”

“_Oh! I will talk so easy_,” said Suza, in a stage whisper. She was
permitted to take her seat with the party on a small log, and here for
an hour she entertained them with stories of abuse that she had received
from the _old witch, Aunt Katy_, and emphatically declared that she
would go anywhere to get away from the _old witch_.

The orphan girl, eleven years of age, threw Tom Dita-mus, a man
thirty-five years of age, entirely off his guard. Tom thought he had a
_soft thing_ and the whole party were soon sound asleep, except Suza.

With a step as light as a timid cat, Suza Fairfield left Tom Ditamus and
his family sleeping soundly on the bank of the creek in the dark woods,
and sped toward Port William. They had traveled only ten miles with
a lazy ox team and the active feet of the little captive could soon
retrace the distance, if she did not lose the way; to make assurance.
doubly sure, Suza determined to follow the Kentucky river, for she knew
that would take her to Port William; the road was part of the way on the
bank of the river, but sometimes diverged into the hills a considerable
distance from the river. At those places Suza would follow the river,
though her path was through dense woods and in places thickly set with
underbrush and briars. Onward the brave little girl would struggle,
until again relieved by the friendly road making its appearance again
upon the bank of the river, and then the nimble little feet would travel
at the rate of four miles an hour. Again Suza would have to take to
the dark woods, with no lamp to guide her footsteps but the twinkling
distant star. In one of these ventures Suza was brought to a stand, by
the mouth of White's creek pouring its lazy waters into the Kentucky
river. The water was deep and dark. Suza stood and reflected. An owl
broke the stillness of the night on the opposite side of the creek. The
last note of his voice seemed to say, _come over--over--little gal_.
Suza sank upon the ground and wept bitterly. It is said that the cry of
a goose once saved Rome. The seemingly taunting cry of the owl did not
save Suza, but her own good sense taught her that she could trace the
creek on the south side until she would find a ford, and when across
the creek retrace it back on the north side to the unerring river; and
although this unexpected fate had perhaps doubled her task, she had
resolved to perform it. She remembered Aunt Katy's words, “if there is
a will, there is a way,” and onward she sped for two long hours. Suza
followed the zigzag course of the bewildering creek, and found herself
at last in the big road stretching up from the water of the creek.
She recognized the ford, for here she had passed in the hateful prison
wagon, and remembered that the water was not more than one foot deep.
Suza pulled off her little shoes and waded the creek; when upon the
north side she looked at the dark woods, on the north bank of the creek,
and at the friendly road, so open and smooth to her little feet, and
said, mentally, “this road will lead me to Port William, and I will
follow it, if Tom Ditamus does catch me;” and Onward she sped.

The dawn of morning had illuminated the eastern sky, when Suza Fairfield
beheld the broad and, beautiful bottom land of the Ohio river.

No mariner that ever circumnavigated the globe could have beheld his
starting point with more delight than Suza Fairfield beheld the chimneys
in Port William. She was soon upon the home street, and saw the chimney
of Aunt Katy's house; no smoke was rising from it as from others;
everything about the premises was as still as the breath of life on the
Dead Sea. Suza approached the back yard, the door of Aunt Katy's room
was not fastened, it turned upon its hinges as Suza touched it; Aunt
Katy's bed was not tumbled; the fire had burned down; in front of the
smoldering coals Aunt Katy sat upon her easy chair, her face buried in
her hands, elbows upon her knees--Suza paused--_Aunt Katy sleeps_; a
moment's reflection, and then Suza laid her tiny hand upon the gray
head of the sleeping woman, and pronounced the words, nearest her little
heart in a soft, mellow tone, “A-u-n-t K-a-t-y.”

In an instant Aunt Katy Demitt was pressing Suza Fairfield close to her
old faithful heart.

Old and young tears were mingled together for a few minutes, and then
Suza related her capture and escape as we have recorded it; at the close
of which Suza was nearly out of breath. Aunt Katy threw herself upon her
knees by the bedside and covered her face with the palms of her hands.
Suza reflected, and thought of something she had not related, and
starting toward the old mother with the words on her tongue when the
Angel of observation placed his finger on her lips, with the audible
sound of _hush!_ Aunt Katy's praying.

Aunt Katy rose from her posture with the words: “I understand it all my
child; the Demitts want you out of the way. Well, if they get the few
four pences that I am able to scrape together old Katy Demitt will give
'em the last sock that she ever expects to knit; forewarned, fore-armed,
my child. As for Tom Ditamus, he may go for what he is worth. He has
some of the Demitt-money, no doubt, and I have a warning that will last
me to the grave. Old Demitt had one fault, but God knows his kinsfolk
have thousands.”

Aunt Katy took Suza by the hand and led her to the hiding place, and
Suza Fairfield, for the first time, beheld Aunt Katy's money--five
hundred dollars in gold and silver--and the old foster mother's will,
bequeathing all her earthly possessions to Suza Fairfield. The will was
witnessed by old Ballard and old Father Tearful. And from thence forward
Suza was the only person in the wide world in full possession of Aunt
Katy Demitt's secrets. Tantalized by her relations, Aunt Katy was like a
student of botany, confined in the center of a large plain with a single
flower, for she doated on Suza Fairfield with a love seldom realized by
a foster mother.

Tom Ditamus awoke the next morning (perhaps about the time Suza entered
Port William) and found the little prisoner gone. Tom did not care; he
had his money, and he yoked up his cattle and traveled on.

We must now look forward more than a decade in order to speak of Don
Carlo, the hero of Shirt-Tail Bend, whom, in our haste to speak of other
parties, we left at the half-way castle in a senseless condition, on the
fatal day of the explosion of the Red Stone.

The half-way castle was one of the first brick houses ever built on the
Ohio river. It had long been the property of infant heirs, and rented
out or left unoccupied; it stood on the southern bank of the river
about half way between Louisville and Cincinnati, hence the name of
the half-way castle. Don Carlo was severely stunned, but not fatally
injured; he had sold out in Shirt-Tail Bend, and was returning to the
home of his childhood when the dreadful accident occured. Don had
saved a little sum of money with which he had purchased a small farm in
Kentucky, and began to reflect that he was a bachelor. Numerous friends
had often reminded him that a brave young lady had rushed into the
water and dragged his lifeless body to the friendly shore, when in a few
minutes more he would have been lost forever.

Twelve months or more after these events a camp meeting was announced to
come off in the neighborhood of Port William. Camp meetings frequently
occurred at that day in Kentucky. The members of the church, or at least
a large portion of them, would prepare to camp out and hold a protracted
meeting. When the time and place were selected some of the interested
parties would visit the nearest saw mill and borrow several wagon loads
of lumber, draw it to the place selected, which was always in the woods
near some stream or fountain of water, with the plank placed upon logs
or stumps, they would erect the stand or pulpit, around the same, on
three sides at most, they would arrange planks for seats by placing them
upon logs and stumps; they would also build shanties and partly fill
them with straw, upon which the campers slept. Fires were kindled
outside for cooking purposes. Here they would preach and pray, hold
prayer meetings and love feasts night and day, sometimes for two or
three weeks. On the Sabbath day the whole country, old and young, for
ten miles around, would attend the camp meeting.

Don Carlo said to a friend: “I shall attend the camp meeting, for I have
entertained a secret desire for a long time to make the acquaintance of
the young lady who it is said saved my life from the wreck of the Red
Stone.”

The camp meeting will afford the opportunity. It was on a Sabbath
morning. Don and his friend were standing upon the camp ground; the
people were pouring in from all directions; two young ladies passed them
on their way to the stand; one of them attracted Don Carlo's attention,
she was not a blonde nor a brunette, but half way between the two,
inheriting the beauty of each. Don said to his friend;

“There goes the prettiest woman in America.”

Then rubbing his hand over his forehead, continued;

“You are acquainted with people here, I wish you would make some inquiry
of that lady's name and family.”

“I thought you was hunting the girl that pulled you out of the river,”
 said his friend, sarcastically.

“Yes, but I want to know the lady that has just passed us,” said Don,
gravely.

Love at first sight. Ah! what is love? It has puzzled mental
philosophers of all ages; and no one has ever told us why a man will
love one woman above all the balance of God's creatures. And then, the
strangest secret in the problem is, that a third party can see nothing
lovable in the woman so adored by her lord.

No wonder, the ancient Greeks represented cupid as blind. No, they did
not represent him as blind, but only blind folded, which undoubtedly
leaves the impression that the love-god may peep under the bandage; and
we advise all young people to take advantage of that trick--look before
you love. History has proven that persons of the same temperament should
not marry, for their children are apt to inherit the _bad_ qualities
of each parent; while upon the other hand, when opposites marry the
children are apt to inherit the _good_ qualities of each parent.

Marriage is the most important step taken in life. When a young man goes
out into the world to seek fame and _fortune_ the energies of his mind
are apt to concentrate upon the problem of obtaining a large fortune.
The wife is thought of as a convenience, the love-god is consulted and
fancy rules the occasion. Now let me say to all young men, the family is
the great object of life, you may pile millions together, and it is all
scattered as soon as you are dead. A man's children are his only living
and permanent representatives.

You should not therefore consult fancy with regard to fortune or other
trivial things, but in the name of all the gods, at once consult common
sense in regard to the family you produce.

While Don's friend was upon the tour of inquiry to ascertain the
identity of the handsome young lady, Don sat alone upon a log, and said
mentally, “A woman may draw me out of the sea ten thousand times, and
she would never look like that young lady. O! God, who can she be!
Perhaps out of my reach.” Don's friend returned smiling. “Lucky,
lucky,” and Don's friend concluded with a laugh. “What now?” said Don,
impatiently.

“That lady is the girl that drew Don Carlo out of the river, her name
is Suza Fairfield, and she is the belle of Port William. An orphan girl
raised and educated by old Aunt Katy Demitt. She has had a number of
suitors, but has never consented to leave Aunt Katy's house as a free
woman.”

When the congregation dispersed in the evening, Don Carlo and Suza
Fairfield rode side by side toward Port William.

The language of courtship is seldom recorded. The ever open ear of the
Angel of observation, has only furnished us with these words:

“You are old, my liege, slightly touched with gray. Pray let me live and
with Aunt Katy stay.”

“With old Aunt Katy you shall live my dear, and on her silent grave drop
a weeping tear.”

We can only speak of Suza Fairfield as we wish to speak of all other
belles.=

````The outward acts of every belle,

`````Her inward thoughts reveal;

````And by this rule she tries to tell

`````How other people feel.=

It was the neighborhood talk, that Suza Fairfield, the belle of Port
William, and Don Carlo, the hero of Shirt-Tail Bend, were engaged to be
married.

All neighborhoods will talk. Aunt Katy at the table, Betsey Green and
Cousin Sally; the meeting and the show; all neighborhoods will talk, for
God has made them so.

Secrets should be kept, but neighbors let them go; with caution on the
lip, they let a neighbor know, all secrets here below. Some add a little
and some take away. Each believes his neighbors in everything they say.
They hold a secret _sacred_ and only tell a friend, and then whisper
in the ear, Silly told me this and you must keep it dear; when all have
kept it and every body knows, true or false, they tell it as it goes.




SCENE SIXTH.--THE SECOND GENERATION.


````The son may wear the father's crown,

````When the gray old father's dead;

````May wear his shoe, and wear his gown,

````But he can never wear his head.=

|How few realize that we are so swiftly passing away, and giving our
places on earth, to new men and women.

Tramp, tramp, tramp, and on we go, from the cradle to the grave, without
stopping to reflect, that an old man is passing away every hour, and a
new one taking his place.

Like drops of rain, descending upon the mountains, and hurrying down to
form the great river, running them off to the ocean, and then returning
in the clouds. The change is almost imperceptible.

New men come upon the stage of life as it were unobserved, and old ones
pass away in like manner, and thus the great river of life flows on.
Were the change sudden, and all at once, it would shock the philosophy
of the human race. A few men live to witness the rise and fall of two
generations. Long years have intervened and the characters portrayed in
the preceding part of our story, have all passed away.

Some of their descendants come upon the stage to fight the great battle
of life.

Young Simon will first claim our attention; he is the only son of S. S.
Simon by a second wife, his mother is dead, and Young Simon is heir to a
large estate.

The decade from eighteen hundred and forty to eighteen hundred and
fifty, is, perhaps, the most interesting decade in the history of the
settlement and progress of the Western States.

In that era, the great motive power of our modern civilization, the iron
horse and the magnetic telegraph were put into successful operation,
across the broad and beautiful Western States.

The history of the West and Southwest in the first half of the
nineteenth century, is replete with romance, or with truth stranger than
fiction. The sudden rise of a moneyed aristocracy in the West, furnishes
a theme for the pen of a historian of no mean ability.

This American aristocracy, diverse from the aristocracy of the old
world, who stimulated by family pride, preserved the history of a long
line of ancestors, born to distinction, and holding the tenure of office
by inheritance, could trace the heroic deeds of their fathers back to
the dark ages, while some of our American aristocrats are unable to give
a true history of their grandfather.

In the first half of the nineteenth century the cultivation of the cotton
plant in the Southern States assumed gigantic proportions. The Northern
States bartered their slaves for money, and the forest of the great
Mississippi river fell by the ax of the colored man; salvation from the
_demons of want_ was preached by the nigger and the mule.

Young Simon was a cotton planter, inheriting from his father four
plantations of one thousand acres, and more than six hundred slaves.

Young Simon knew very little of the history of his family, and the
more he learned of it, the less he wanted to know. His father in his
lifetime, had learned the history of Roxie Daymon alias Roxie Fairfield,
up to the time she left Louisville, and had good reason to believe
that Roxie Daymon, or her descendants, also Suza Fairfield, or her
descendants still survived. But as we have said, S. S. Simon stood in
the half-way-house, between the honest man and the rogue. He reflected
upon the subject mathematically, as he said mentally, “Twenty thousand
dollars and twenty years interest--why! it would break me up; I wish to
die a _rich man_.”

And onward he strove, seasoned to hardship in early life, he slept but
little, the morning bell upon his plantations sounded its iron notes up
and down the Mississippi long before daylight every morning, that the
slaves might be ready to resume their work as soon as they could see.
Simon's anxiety to die a _rich man_ had so worked upon his feelings for
twenty years, that he was a hard master and a keen financier.

The time to die never entered his brain; for it was all absorbed
with the _die rich_ question. Unexpectedly to him, death's white face
appeared when least expected, from hard work, and exposure, S. S. Simon
was taken down with the _swamp fever_; down--down--down for a few days
and then the _crisis_, the last night of his suffering was terrible, the
attending physician and his only son stood by his bedside. All night he
was delirious, everything he saw was in the shape of Roxie Daymon,
every movement made about the bed, the dying man would cry, “_Take Roxie
Daymon away._”

Young Simon was entirely ignorant of his father's history--and the name
_Roxie Daymon_ made a lasting impression on his brain. Young Simon grew
up without being inured to any hardships, and his health was not good,
for he soon followed his father; during his short life he had everything
that heart could desire, except a family name and good health, the lack
of which made him almost as poor as the meanest of his slaves.

Young Simon received some comfort in his last days from his cousin
Cæsar. Cæsar Simon was the son of the brother of S. S. Simon who died in
early life, leaving three children in West Tennessee. Cousin Cæsar was
raised by two penniless sisters, whom he always called “big-sis” and
“little-sis.” “Big-sis” was so called from being the eldest, and had the
care of cousin Cæsar's childhood. Cousin Cæsar manifested an imaginary
turn of mind in early childhood. He was, one day, sitting on his little
stool, by the side of the tub in which “big-sis” was washing, (for she
was a washer-woman,) gazing intently upon the surface of the water.
“What in the world are you looking at C-a-e-s-a-r?” said the woman,
straightening up in astonishment.

“Looking at them bubbles on the suds,” said the boy, gravely.

“And what of the bubbles?” continued the woman.

“I expected to see one of them burst into a l-o-a-f of b-r-e-a-d,” said
the child honestly.

“Big-sis” took cousin Cæsar to the fire, went to the cupboard and cut
her last loaf of bread, and spread upon it the last mouthful of butter
she had in the world, and gave it cousin Cæsar.

And thus he received his first lesson of reward for imagination which,
perhaps, had something to do with his after life.

Cousin Cæsar detested work, but had a disposition to see the bottom of
everything. No turkey-hen or guinea fowl could make a nest that cousin
Cæsar could not find. He grew up mischievous, so much so that “big-sis”
 would occasionally thrash him. He would then run off and live with
“little-sis” until “little-sis” would better the instruction, for she
would whip also. He would then run back to live with “big-sis.” In this
way cousin Cæsar grew to thirteen years of age--too big to whip. He
then went to live with old Smith, who had a farm on the Tennessee river,
containing a large tract of land, and who hired a large quantity
of steam wood cut every season. Rob Roy was one of old Smith's wood
cutters--a bachelor well advanced in years, he lived alone in a cabin
made of poles, on old Smith's land. His sleeping couch was made with
three poles, running parallel with the wall of the cabin, and filled
with straw. He never wore any stockings and seldom wore a coat, winter
or summer. The furniture in his cabin consisted of a three-legged stool,
and a pine goods box. His ax was a handsome tool, and the only thing he
always kept brightly polished. He was a good workman at his profession
of cutting wood. No one knew anything of his history. He was a man that
seldom talked; he was faithful to work through the week, but spent
the Sabbath day drinking whisky. He went to the village every Saturday
evening and purchased one gallon of whisky, which he carried in a stone
jug to his cabin, and drank it all himself by Monday morning, when he
would be ready to go to work again. Old Rob Roy's habits haunted the
mind of cousin Cæsar, and he resolved to play a trick Upon the old
wood cutter. Old Smith had some _hard cider_ to which cousin Cæsar had
access. One lonesome Sunday cousin Cæsar stole Roy's jug half full
of whisky, poured the whisky out, re-filled the jug with cider, and
cautiously slipped it back into Roy's cabin. On Monday morning Rob Roy
refused to work, and was very mad. Old Smith demanded to know the
cause of the trouble. “You can't fool a man with _cider_ who loves
good _whisky_,” said Roy indignantly. Old Smith traced the trick up and
discharged cousin Cæsar.

At twenty years of age we find Cousin Cæsar in Paducah, Kentucky,
calling himself Cole Conway, in company with one Steve Sharp--they were
partners--in the game, as they called it. In the back room of a saloon,
dimly lighted, one dark night, another party, more proficient in the
sleight of hand, had won the last dime in their possession. The time had
come to close up. The sun had crossed the meridian on the other side of
the globe. Cole Conway and Steve Sharp crawled into an old straw shed,
in the suburbs, of the village, and were soon soundly sleeping. The
sun had silvered the old straw shed when Sharp awakened, and saw Conway
sitting up, as white as death's old horse. “What on earth is the matter,
Conway?” said Sharp, inquiringly.

“I slumbered heavy in the latter end of night, and had a brilliant
dream, and awoke from it, to realize this old straw shed doth effect
me,” said Conway gravely. “The dream! the dream!” demanded Sharp. “I
dreamed that we were playing cards, and I was dealing out the deck; the
last card was mine, and it was very thick. Sharp, it looked like a
box, and with thumb and finger I pulled it open. In it there were
three fifty-dollar gold pieces, four four-dollar gold pieces, and ten
one-dollar gold pieces. I put the money in my pocket, and was listening
for you to claim half, as you purchased the cards. You said nothing more
than that 'them cards had been put up for men who sell prize cards.' I
took the money out again, when lo, and behold! one of the fifty-dollar
pieces had turned to a rule about eight inches long, hinged in the
middle. Looking at it closely I saw small letters engraved upon it,
which I was able to read--you know, Sharp, I learned to read by spelling
the names on steamboats--or that is the way I learned the letters of the
alphabet. The inscription directed me to a certain place, and there I
would find a steam carriage that could be run on any common road where
carriages are drawn by horses. We went, and found the carriage. It was
a beautiful carriage--with highly finished box--on four wheels, the box
was large enough for six persons to sit on the inside. The pilot sat
upon the top, steering with a wheel, the engineer, who was also fireman,
and the engine, sat on the aft axle, behind the passenger box. The whole
structure was very light, the boiler was of polished brass, and sat upon
end. The heat was engendered by a chemical combination of phosphorus
and tinder. The golden rule gave directions how to run the engine--by
my directions, Sharp, you was pilot and I was engineer, and we started
south, toward my old home. People came running out from houses and
fields to see us pass I saw something on the beautiful brass boiler that
looked like a slide door. I shoved it, and it slipped aside, revealing
the dial of a clock which told the time of day, also by a separate hand
and figures, told the speed at which the carriage was running. On the
right hand side of the dial I saw the figures 77. They were made of
India rubber, and hung upon two brass pins. I drew the slide door over
the dial except when I wished to look at the time of day, or the rate of
speed at which we were running, and every time I opened the door, one
of the figure 7's had fallen off the pin. I would replace it, and again
find it fallen off. So I concluded it was only safe to run seven miles
an hour, and I regulated to that speed. In a short time, I looked again,
and we were running at the rate of fifteen miles an hour. I knew that I
had not altered the gauge of steam. A hissing sound caused me to think
the water was getting low in the boiler. On my left I saw a brass handle
that resembled the handle of a pump. I seized it and commenced work. I
could hear the bubbling of the water. I look down at the dry road, and
said, mentally, 'no water can come from there.' Oh! how I trembled. It
so frightened me that I found myself wide awake.”

“Dreams are but eddies in the current of the mind, which cut off from
reflection's gentle stream, sometimes play strange, fantastic tricks.
I have tumbled headlong down from high and rocky cliffs; cold-blooded
snakes have crawled 'round my limbs; the worms that eat through
dead men's flesh, have crawled upon my skin, and I have dreamed of
transportation beyond the shores of time. My last night's dream hoisted
me beyond my hopes, to let me fall and find myself in this d----old
straw shed.”

“The devil never dreams,” said Sharp, coolly, and then continued:
“Holy men of old dreamed of the Lord, but never of the devil, and to
understand a dream, we must be just to all the world, and to ourselves
before God.”

“I have a proposition to make to you, Conway?

“_What?_” said Conway, eagerly.

“If you will tell me in confidence, your true name and history, I will
give you mine,” said Sharp, emphatically. “Agreed,” said Conway, and
then continued, “as you made he proposition give us yours first.

“My name is Steve Brindle. My father was called Brindle Bill, and once
lived in Shirt-Tail Bend, on the Mississippi. He died in the state
prison. My mother was a sister of Sundown Hill, who lived in the same
neighborhood. My father and mother were never married. So you see, I am a
come by-chance, and I have been going by chance all of my life. Now, I
have told you the God's truth, so far as I know it. Now make a clean
breast of it, Conway, and let us hear your pedigree,” said Brindle,
confidentially.

“I was born in Tennessee. My father's name was Cæsar Simon, and I bear
his name. My mother's name was Nancy Wade. I do not remember either of
them I was partly raised by my sisters, and the balance of the time I
have tried to raise myself, but it seems it will take me a Iong time
to _make a raise_--” at this point, Brindle interfered in breathless
suspense, with the inquiry, “Did you have an uncle named S. S. Simon?”

“I have heard my sister say as much,” continued Simon.

“Then your dream is interpreted,” said Brindle, emphatically. “Your
Uncle, S. S. Simon, has left one of the largest estates in Arkansas,
and now you are on the steam wagon again,” said Brindle, slapping his
companion on the shoulder.

Brindle had been instructed by his mother, and made Cousin Cæsar
acquainted with the outline of all the history detailed in this
narrative, except the history of Roxie Daymon _alias_ Roxie Fairfield,
in Chicago.

The next day the two men were hired as hands to go down the river on a
flat-bottom boat.

Roxie Daymon, whose death has been recorded, left an only daughter, now
grown to womanhood, and bearing her mother's name. Seated in the parlor
of one of the descendants of Aunt Patsy Perkins, in Chicago, we see her
sad, and alone; we hear the hall bell ring. A servant announces the name
of Gov. Morock. “Show the Governor up,” said Roxie, sadly. The ever open
ear of the Angel of observation has only furnished us with the following
conversation:

“Everything is positively lost, madam, not a cent in the world. Every
case has gone against us, and no appeal, madam. You are left hopelessly
destitute, and penniless. Daymon should have employed me ten years
ago--but now, it is too late. Everything is gone, madam,” and the
Governor paused. “My mother was once a poor, penniless girl, and I can
bear it too,” said Roxie, calmly. “But you see,” said the Governor,
softening his voice; “you are a handsome young lady; your fortune is yet
to be made. For fifty dollars, madam, I can fix you up a _shadow_, that
will marry you off. You see the law has some _loop holes_ and--and in
your case, madam, it is no harm to take one; no harm, no harm, madam,”
 and the Governor paused again. Roxie looked at the man sternly, and
said: “I have no further use for a lawyer, Sir.”

“Any business hereafter, madam, that you may wish transacted, send your
card to No. 77, Strait street,” and the Governor made a side move toward
the door, touched the rim of his hat and disappeared.

It was in the golden month of October, and calm, smoky days of
Indian summer, that a party of young people living in Chicago, made
arrangements for a pleasure trip to New Orleans. There were four or five
young ladies in the party, and Roxie Daymon was one. She was handsome
and interesting--if her fortune _was gone_. The party consisted of the
moneyed aristocracy of the city, with whom Roxie had been raised and
educated. Every one of the party was willing to contribute and pay
Roxie's expenses, for the sake of her company. A magnificent steamer, of
the day, plying between St. Louis and New Orleans, was selected for
the carrier, three hundred feet in length, and sixty feet wide. The
passenger cabin was on the upper deck, nearly two hundred feet in
length; a guard eight feet wide, for a footway, and promenade on the
outside of the hall, extended on both sides, the fall length of the
cabin; a plank partition divided the long hall--the aft room was the
ladies', the front the gentlemen's cabin. The iron horse, or some of
his successors, will banish these magnificent floating palaces, and I
describe, for the benefit of coming generations.

Nothing of interest occured to our party, until the boat landed at the
Simon plantations. Young Simon and cousin Cæsar boarded the boat, for
passage to New Orleans, for they were on their way to the West Indies,
to spend the winter. Young Simon was in the last stage of consumption
and his physician had recommended the trip as the last remedy. Young
Simon was walking on the outside guard, opposite the ladies' cabin, when
a female voice with a shrill and piercing tone rang upon his ear--“_Take
Roxie Daymon away_.” The girls were romping.--“Take Roxie Daymon away,”
 were the mysterious dying words of young Simon's father. Simon turned,
and mentally bewildered, entered the gentlemen's cabin. A colored boy,
some twelve years of age, in the service of the boat, was passing--Simon
held a silver dollar in his hand as he said, “I will give you this, if
you will ascertain and point out to me the lady in the cabin, that they
call _Roxie Daymon_.” The imp of Africa seized the coin, and passing on
said in a voice too low for Simon's ear, “good bargain, boss.” The Roman
Eagle was running down stream through the dark and muddy waters of the
Mississippi, at the rate of twenty miles an hour.

In the dusk of the evening, Young Simon and Roxie Daymon were sitting
side by side--alone, on the aft-guard of the boat. The ever open ear
of the Angel of observation has furnished us with the following
conversation..

“Your mother's maiden name, is what I am anxious to learn,” said Simon
gravely.

“Roxie Fairfield, an orphan girl, raised in Kentucky,” said Roxie sadly.

“Was she an only child, or did she have sisters?” said Simon
inquiringly.

“My mother died long years ago--when I was too young to remember,
my father had no relations--that I ever heard of--Old aunt Patsey
Perkins--a great friend of mother's in her life-time, told me after
mother was dead, and I had grown large enough to think about kinsfolk,
that mother had two sisters somewhere, named Rose and Suza, _poor
trash_, as she called them; and that is all I know of my relations: and
to be frank with you, I am nothing but poor trash too, I have no family
history to boast of,” said Roxie honestly.

“You will please excuse me Miss, for wishing to know something of your
family history--there is a mystery connected with it, that may prove
to your advantage”--Simon was _convinced_.--He pronounced the
word twenty--when the Angel of caution placed his finger on his
lip--_hush!_--and young Simon turned the conversation, and as soon as
he could politely do so, left the presence of the young lady, and sought
cousin Cæsar, who by the way, was well acquainted with the most of the
circumstances we have recorded, but had wisely kept them to himself.
Cousin Cæsar now told young Simon the whole story.

Twenty-thousand dollars, with twenty years interest, was against his
estate. Roxie Daymon, the young lady on the boat, was an heir, others
lived in Kentucky--all of which cousin Cæsar learned from a descendant
of Brindle Bill. The pleasure party with Simon and cousin Cæsar, stopped
at the same hotel in the Crescent City. At the end of three weeks the
pleasure party returned to Chicago. Young Simon and cousin Cæsar left
for the West Indies.--Young Simon and Roxie Daymon were engaged to be
married the following spring at Chicago. Simon saw many beautiful women
in his travels--but the image of Roxie Daymon was ever before him. The
good Angel of observation has failed to inform us, of Roxie Daymon's
feelings and object in the match. A young and beautiful woman; full of
life and vigor consenting to wed a dying man, _hushed_ the voice of the
good Angel, and he has said nothing.

Spring with its softening breezes returned--the ever to be remembered
spring of 1861.

The shrill note of the iron horse announced the arrival of young Simon
and cousin Cæsar in Chicago, on the 7th day of April, 1861.

Simon had lived upon excitement, and reaching the destination of his
hopes--the great source of his life failed--cousin Cæsar carried
him into the hotel--he never stood alone again--the marriage was put
off--until Simon should be better. On the second day, cousin Cæsar was
preparing to leave the room, on business in a distant part of the city.
Roxie had been several times alone with Simon, and was then present.
Roxie handed a sealed note to cousin Cæsar, politely asking him to
deliver it. The note was inscribed, Gov. Morock, No. 77 Strait street.

Cousin Cæsar had been absent but a short time, when that limb of the law
appeared and wrote a will dictated by young Simon; bequeathing all
of his possessions, without reserve to Roxie Daymon. “How much,” said
Roxie, as the Governor was about to leave. “Only ten dollars, madam,”
 said the Governor, as he stuffed the bill carelessly in his vest pocket
and departed.

Through the long vigils of the night cousin Cæsar sat by the side of the
dying man; before the sun had silvered the eastern horizon, the soul
of young Simon was with his fathers. The day was consumed in making
preparations for the last, honor due the dead. Cousin Cæsar arranged
with a party to take the remains to Arkansas, and place the son by the
side of the father, on the home plantation. The next morning as cousin
Cæsar was scanning the morning papers, the following brief notice
attracted his attention: “Young Simon, the wealthy young cotton planter,
who died in the city yesterday, left by his last will and testament his
whole estate, worth more than a million of dollars, to Roxie Daymon, a
young lady of this city.”

Cousin Cæsar was bewildered and astonished. He was a stranger in the
city; he rubbed his hand across his forehead to collect his thoughts,
and remembered No. 77 Strait street. “Yes I observed it--it is a
law office,” he said mentally, “there is something in that number
seventy-seven, I have never understood it before, since my dream on the
steam carriage _seventy-seven_,” and cousin Cæsar directed his steps
toward Strait street.

“Important business, I suppose sir,” said Governor Mo-rock, as he read
cousin Cæsar's anxious countenance.

“Yes, somewhat so,” said cousin Cæsar, pointing to the notice in the
paper, he continued: “I am a relative of Simon and have served him
faithfully for two years, and they say he has willed his estate to a
stranger.”

“Is it p-o-s-s-i-b-l-e-,” said the Governor, affecting astonishment.

“What would you advise me to do?” said cousin Cæsar imploringly.

“Break the will--break the will, sir,” said the Governor emphatically.

“Ah! that will take money,” said cousin Cæsar sadly.

“Yes, yes, but it will bring money,” said the Governor, rubbing his
hands together.

“I s-u-p p-o-s-e we would be required to prove incapacity on the part of
Simon,” said cousin Cæsar slowly.

“Money will prove anything,” said the Governor decidedly.

The Governor struck the right key, for cousin Cæsar was well schooled in
treacherous humanity, and noted for seeing the bottom of things; but he
did not see the bottom of the Governor's dark designs.

“How much for this case?” said cousin Cæsar.

“Oh! I am liberal--I am liberal,” said the Governor rubbing his hands
and continuing, “can't tell exactly, owing to the trouble and cost of
the things, as we go along. A million is the stake--well, let me see,
this is no child's play. A man that has studied for long years--you
can't expect him to be cheap--but as I am in the habit of working for
nothing--if you will pay me one thousand dollars in advance, I will
undertake the case, and then a few more thousands will round it
up--can't say exactly, any more sir, than I am always liberal.”

Cousin Cæsar had some pocket-money, furnished by young Simon, to pay
expenses etc., amounting to a little more than one thousand dollars. His
mind was bewildered with the number seventy-seven, and he paid over to
the Governor one thousand dollars. After Governor Morock had the money
safe in his pocket, he commenced a detail of the cost of the suit--among
other items, was a large amount for witnesses.

The Governor had the case--it was a big case--and the Governor has
determined to make it pay him.

Cousin Caeser reflected, and saw that he must have help, and as he left
the office of Governor Morock, said mentally: “One of them d--n figure
sevens I saw in my dream, would fall off the pin, and I fear, I have
struck the wrong lead.”

In the soft twilight of the evening, when the conductor cried, “all
aboard,” cousin Cæsar was seated in the train, on his way to Kentucky,
to solicit aid from Cliff Carlo, the oldest son and representative man,
of the family descended from Don Carlo, the hero of Shirt-Tail Bend, and
Suza Fairfield, the belle of Port William.




SCENE SEVENTH--WAR BETWEEN THE STATES.

|The late civil war between the States of the American Union was the
inevitable result of two civilizations under one government, which no
power on earth could have prevented We place the federal and confederate
soldier in the same scale _per se_, and one will not weigh the other
down an atom.

So even will they poise that you may mark the small allowance of the
weight of a hair. But place upon the beam the pea of their actions while
upon the stage, _on either side_, an the poise may be up or down.

More than this, your orator has nothing to say of the war, except its
effect upon the characters we describe.

The bright blossoms of a May morning were opening to meet the sunlight,
while the surrounding foliage was waving in the soft breeze ol spring;
on the southern bank of the beautiful Ohio, where the momentous events
of the future were concealed from the eyes of the preceding generation
by the dar veil of the coming revolutions of the globe.

We see Cousin Cæsar and Cliff Carlo in close counsel, upon the subject
of meeting the expenses of the contest at law over the Simon estate, in
the State of Arkansas.

Cliff Carlo was rather non-committal. Roxie Daymon was a near relative,
and the unsolved problem in the case of compromise and law did not admit
of haste on the part of the Carlo family. Compromise was not the forte
of Cousin Cæsar, To use his own words, “I have made the cast, and will
stand the hazard of the die.”

But the enterprise, with surrounding circumstances, would have baffled a
bolder man than Cæsar Simon. The first gun of the war had been fired at
Fort Sumter, in South Carolina, on the 12th day of April, 1861.

The President of the United States had called for seventy-five thousand
war-like men to rendezvous at Washington City, and form a _Praetorian_
guard, to strengthen the arm of the government. _To arms, to arms!_ was
the cry both North and South. The last lingering hope of peace between
the States had faded from the minds of all men, and the bloody crest of
war was painted on the horizon of the future. The border slave States,
in the hope of peace, had remained inactive all winter. They now
withdrew from the Union and joined their fortunes with the South,
except Kentucky--the _dark and bloody ground_ historic in the annals
of war--showed the _white feather_, and announced to the world that her
soil was the holy ground of peace. This proclamation was _too thin_
for Cæsar Simon. Some of the Carlo family had long since immigrated
to Missouri. To consult with them on the war affair, and meet with an
element more disposed to defend his prospect of property, Cousin
Cæsar left Kentucky for Missouri. On the fourth day of July, 1861,
in obedience to the call of the President, the Congress of the United
States met at Washington City. This Congress called to the contest five
hundred thousand men; “_cried havoc and let slip the dogs of war_,” and
Missouri was invaded by federal troops, who were subsequently put under
the command of Gen. Lyon. About the middle of July we see Cousin Cæsar
marching in the army of Gen. Sterling Price--an army composed of all
classes of humanity, who rushed to the conflict without promise of
pay or assistance from the government of the Confederate States of
America--an army without arms or equipment, except such as it gathered
from the citizens, double-barreled shot-guns--an army of volunteers
without the promise of pay or hope of reward; composed of men from
eighteen to seventy years of age, with a uniform of costume varying from
the walnut colored roundabout to the pigeon-tailed broadcloth coat. The
mechanic and the farmer, the professional and the non-professional,'
the merchant and the jobber, the speculator and the butcher, the country
schoolmaster and the printer's devil, the laboring man and the dead
beat, all rushed into Price's army, seemingly under the influence of the
watchword of the old Jews, “_To your tents, O Israeli_” and it is a
fact worthy of record that this unarmed and untrained army never lost a
battle on Missouri soil in the first year of the war. * Gov. Jackson
had fled from Jefferson City on the approach of the federal army, and
assembled the Legislature at Neosho, in the southwest corner of the
State, who were unable to assist Price's army. The troops went into the
field, thrashed the wheat and milled it for themselves; were often upon
half rations, and frequently lived upon roasting ears. Except the Indian
or border war in Kentucky, fought by a preceding generation, the first
year of the war in Missouri is unparalleled in the history of war
on this continent. Gen. Price managed to subsist an army without
governmental resources. His men were never demoralized for the want of
food, pay or clothing, and were always cheerful, and frequently danced
'round their camp-fires, bare-footed and ragged, with a spirit of
merriment that would put the blush upon the cheek of a circus. Gen.
Price wore nothing upon his shoulders but a brown linen duster, and, his
white hair streaming in the breeze on the field of battle, was a picture
resembling the _war-god_ of the Romans in ancient fable.

     * The so called battle of Boonville was a rash venture of
     citizens, not under the command of Gen. Price at the time.

This army of ragged heroes marched over eight hundred miles on Missouri
soil, and seldom passed a week without an engagement of some kind--it
was confined to no particular line of operations, but fought the enemy
wherever they found him. It had started on the campaign without a
dollar, without a wagon, without a cartridge, and without a bayonet-gun;
and when it was called east of the Mississippi river, it possessed about
eight thousand bayonet-guns, fifty pieces of cannon, and four hundred
tents, taken almost exclusively from the Federals, on the hard-fought
fields of battle.

When this army crossed the Mississippi river the star of its glory had
set never to rise again. The invigorating name of _state rights_ was
_merged_ in the Southern Confederacy.

With this prelude to surrounding circumstances, we will now follow the
fortunes of Cousin Cæsar. Enured to hardships in early life, possessing
a penetrating mind and a selfish disposition, Cousin Cæsar was ever
ready to float on the stream of prosperity, with triumphant banners, or
go down as _drift wood_.

And whatever he may have lacked in manhood, he was as brave as a lion on
the battle-field; and the campaign of Gen. Price in Missouri suited no
private soldier better than Cæsar Simon. Like all soldiers in an active
army, he thought only of battle and amusement. Consequently, the will,
Gov. Morock and the Simon estate occupied but little of Cousin Cæsar's
reflections. One idea had taken possession of him, and that was southern
victory. He enjoyed the triumphs of his fellow soldiers, and ate his
roasting ears with the same invigorating spirit. A sober second thought
and cool reflections only come with the struggle for his own life, and
with it a self-reproach that always, sooner or later, overtakes the
faithless.

The battle of Oak Hill, usually called the battle of Springfield, was
one of the hardest battles fought west of the Mississippi river. The
federal troops, under Gen. Lyon, amounted to nearly ten thousand men.
The confederate t oops, under Generals McCulloch, Price, and Pearce,
were about eleven thousand men.

On the ninth of August the Confederates camped at Wilson's Creek,
intending to advance upon the Federals at Springfield. The next morning
General Lyon attacked them before sunrise. The battle was fought with
rash bravery on both sides. General Lyon, after having been twice
wounded, was shot dead while leading a rash charge. Half the loss on the
Confederate side was from Price's army--a sad memorial of the part they
took in the contest. Soon after the fall of General Lyon the Federals
retreated to Springfield, and left the Confederates master of the field.
About the closing scene of the last struggle, Cousin Cæsar received a
musket ball in the right leg, and fell among the wounded and dying.

The wound was not necessarily fatal; no bone was broken, but it was very
painful and bleeding profusely. When Cousin Cæsar, after lying a
long time where he fell, realized the situation, he saw that without
assistance he must bleed to death; and impatient to wait for some one to
pick him up, he sought quarters by his own exertions. He had managed to
crawl a quarter of a mile, and gave out at a point where no one would
think of looking for the wounded. Weak from the loss of blood, he could
crawl no farther. The light of day was only discernable in the dim
distance of the West; the Angel of silence had spread her wing over
the bloody battle field. In vain Cousin Cæsar pressed his hand upon the
wound; the crimson life would ooze out between his fingers, and Cousin
Cæsar lay down to die. It was now dark; no light met his eye, and no
sound came to his ear, save the song of two grasshoppers in a cluster of
bushes--one sang “Katie-did!” and the other sang “Katie-didn't!” Cousin
Cæsar said, mentally, “It will soon be decided with me whether Katie did
or whether she didn't!” In the last moments of hope Cousin Cæsar heard
and recognized the sound of a human voice, and gathering all the
strength of his lungs, pronounced the word--“S-t-e-v-e!” In a short
time he saw two men approaching him. It was Steve Brindle and a Cherokee
Indian. As soon as they saw the situation, the Indian darted like a wild
deer to where there had been a camp fire, and returned with his cap full
of ashes which he applied to Cousin Cæsar's wound. Steve Brindle bound
it up and stopped the blood. The two men then carried the wounded man to
camp--to recover and reflect upon the past. Steve Brindle was a private,
in the army of General Pearce, from Arkansas, and the Cherokee Indian
was a camp follower belonging to the army of General McCulloch. They
were looking over the battle field in search of their missing friends,
when they accidentally discovered and saved Cousin Cæsar.

Early in the month of September, Generals McCulloch and Price having
disagreed on the plan of campaign, General Price announced to his
officers his intention of moving north, and required a report of
effective men in his army. A lieutenant, after canvassing the company to
which Cousin Cæsar belonged, went to him as the last man. Cousin Cæsar
reported ready for duty. “All right, you are the last man--No. 77,” said
the lieutenant, hastily, leaving Cousin Cæsar to his reflections. “There
is that number again; what can it mean? Marching north, perhaps to
meet a large force, is our company to be reduced to seven? One of them
d------d figure sevens would fall off and one would be left on the pin.
How should it be counted--s-e-v-e-n or half? Set up two guns and take
one away, half would be left; enlist two men, and if one is killed, half
would be left--yet, with these d------d figures, when you take one you
only have one eleventh part left. Cut by the turn of fortune; cut with
short rations; cut with a musket ball; cut by self-reproach--_ah, that's
the deepest cut of all!_” said Cousin Cæsar, mentally, as he retired to
the tent.

Steve Brindle had saved Cousin Cæsar's life, had been an old comrade
in many a hard game, had divided his last cent with him in many hard
places; had given him his family history and opened the door for him to
step into the palace of wealth. Yet, when Cousin Cæsar was surrounded
with wealth and power, when honest employment would, in all human
possibility, have redeemed his old comrade, Cousin Cæsar, willing to
conceal his antecedents, did not know S-t-e-v-e Brindle.

General Price reached the Missouri river, at Lexington, on the 12th of
September, and on the 20th captured a Federal force intrenched there,
under the command of Colonel Mulligan, from whom he obtained five
cannon, two mortars and over three thousand bayonet guns. In fear
of large Federal forces north of the Missouri river, General Price
retreated south. Cousin Cæsar was again animated with the spirit of
war and had dismissed the superstitious fear of 77 from his mind. He
continued his amusements round the camp fires in Price's army, as he
said, mentally, “Governor Morock will keep things straight, at his
office on Strait street, in Chicago.”

Roxie Daymon had pleasantly passed the summer and fall on the reputation
of being _rich_, and was always the toast in the fashionable parties
of the upper-ten in Chicago. During the first year of the war it was
emphatically announced by the government at Washington, that it would
never interfere with the slaves of loyal men. Roxie Daymon was loyal
and lived in a loyal city. It was war times, and Roxie had received no
dividends from the Simon estate.

In the month of January, 1862, the cold north wind from the lakes swept
the dust from the streets in Chicago, and seemed to warn the secret,
silent thoughts of humanity of the great necessity of m-o-n-e-y.

The good Angel of observation saw Roxie Daymon, with a richly-trimmed
fur cloak upon her shoulders and hands muffed, walking swiftly on Strait
street, in Chicago, watching the numbers--at No. 77 she disappeared.

The good Angel opened his ear and has furnished us with the following
conversation;

“I have heard incidentally that Cæsar Simon is preparing to break the
will of my _esteemed_ friend, Young Simon, of Arkansas,” said Roxie,
sadly.

“Is it p-o-s s-i-b-l-e?” said Governor Morock, affecting astonishment,
and then continued, “More work for the lawyers, you know I am always
liberal, madam.”

“But do you think it possible?” said Roxie, inquiringly. “You have money
enough to fight with, madam, money enough to fight,” said the Governor,
decidedly. “I suppose we will have to prove that Simon was in full
possession of his mental faculties at the time,” said Roxie, with legal
_acumen_. “Certainly, certainly madam, money will prove anything; will
prove anything, madam,” said the Governor, rubbing his hands. “I believe
you were the only person present at the time,” said Roxie, honestly.

“I am always liberal, madam, a few thousands will arrange the testimony,
madam. Leave that to me, if you please,” and in a softer tone of voice
the Governor continued, “you ought to pick up the _crumbs_, madam, pick
up the crumbs.”

“I would like to do so for I have never spent a cent in the prospect of
the estate, though my credit is good for thousands in this city.. I want
to see how a dead man's shoes will fit before I wear them,” said Roxie,
sadly.

“Good philosophy, madam, good philosophy,” said the Governor, and
continued to explain. “There is cotton on the bank of the river at the
Simon plantations. Some arrangement ought to be made, and I think
I could do it through some officer of the federal army,” said the
Governor, rubbing his hand across his forehead, and continued, “that's
what I mean by picking up the crumbs, madam.”

“_How much?_” said Roxie, preparing to leave the office.

“I m always liberal, madam, always liberal. Let me see; it is attended
with some difficulty; can't leave the city; too much business pressing
(rubbing his hands); well--well--I will pick up the crumbs for half.
Think I can secure two or three hundred bales of cotton, madam,” said
the Governor, confidentially.

“How much is a bale of cotton worth?” said Roxie, affecting ignorance.

“Only four hundred dollars, madam; nothing but a crumb--nothing but a
crumb, madam,” said the Governor, in a tone of flattery.

“Do the best you can,” said Roxie, in a confidential tone, as she left
the office.

Governor Morock was enjoying the reputation of the fashionable lawyer
among the upper-ten in Chicago. Roxie Daymon's good sense condemned him,
but she did not feel at liberty to break the line of association.

Cliff Carlo did nothing but write a letter of inquiry to Governor
Morock, who informed him that the Simon estate was worth more than a
million and a quarter, and that m-o-n-e-y would _break the will_.

The second year of the war burst the bubble of peace in Kentucky. The
State was invaded on both sides. The clang of arms on the soil where the
heroes of a preceding generation slept, called the martial spirits in
the shades of Kentucky to rise and shake off the delusion that peace and
plenty breed cowards. Cliff Carlo, and many others of the brave sons of
Kentucky, united with the southern armies, and fully redeemed their war
like character, as worthy descendents of the heroes of the _dark and
bloody ground_.

Cliff Carlo passed through the struggles of the war without a sick day
or the pain of a wound. We must, therefore, follow the fate of the less
fortunate Cæsar Simon.

During the winter of the first year of the war, Price's army camped on
the southern border of Missouri.

On the third day of March, 1862, Maj. Gen. Earl Van Dorn, of the
Confederate government, assumed the command of the troops under Price
and McCulloch, and on the seventh day of March attacked the Federal
forces under Curtis and Sturgis, twenty-five thousand strong, at
Elkhorn, Van Dorn commanding about twenty thousand men.

Price's army constituted the left and center, with McCulloch on the
right. The fight was long and uncertain. About two o'clock McCulloch
fell, and his forces failed to press the contest.

The Federals retreated in good order, leaving the Confederates master of
the situation.

For some unaccountable decision on the part of Gen. Van Dorn, a retreat
of the southern army was ordered, and instead of pursuing the Federals,
the wheels of the Southern army were seen rolling south.

Gen. Van Dorn had ordered the sick and disabled many miles in advance of
the army. Cousin Cæsar had passed through the conflict safe and sound;
it was a camp rumor that Steve Brindle was mortally wounded and sent
forward with the sick. The mantle of night hung over Price's army, and
the camp fires glimmered in the soft breeze of the evening. Silently and
alone Cousin Cæsar stole away from the scene on a mission of love and
duty. Poor Steve Brindle had ever been faithful to him, and Cousin Cæsar
had suffered self-reproach for his unaccountable neglect of a faithful
friend. An opportunity now presented itself for Cousin Cæsar to relieve
his conscience and possibly smooth the dying pillow of his faithful
friend, Steve Brindle.

Bravely and fearlessly on he sped and arrived at the camp of the sick.
Worn down with the march, Cousin Cæsar never rested until he had looked
upon the face of the last sick man. Steve was not there.

Slowly and sadly Cousin Cæsar returned to the army, making inquiry of
every one he met for Steve Brindle. After a long and fruitless inquiry,
an Arkansas soldier handed Cousin Cæsar a card, saying, “I was
requested by a soldier in our command to hand this card to the man whose
name it bears, in Price's army.” Cousin Cæsar took the card and read,
“Cæsar Simon--No. 77 deserted.” Cousin Cæsar threw the card down as
though it was nothings as he said mentally, “What can it mean. There are
those d----d figures again. Steve knew nothing of No. 77 in Chicago. How
am I to understand this? Steve understood my ideas of the mysterious
No. 77 on the steam carriage. Steve has deserted and takes this plan
to inform me. _Ah! that is it!_ Steve has couched the information in
language that no one can understand but myself. Two of us were on the
carriage and two figure sevens; one would fall off the pin. Steve has
fallen off. He knew I would understand his card when no one else could.
But did Steve only wish me to understand that he had left, or did he
wish me to follow?” was a problem Cousin Cæsar was unable to decide. It
was known to Cousin Cæsar that the Cherokee Indian who, in company with
Steve, saved his life at Springfield, had, in company with some of his
race, been brought upon the stage of war by Albert Pike. Deserted! And
Cousin Cæsar was left alone, with no bosom friend save the friendship
of one southern soldier for another. And the idea of _desertion_ entered
the brain of Cæsar Simon for the first time.

Cæsar Simon was a born soldier, animated by the clang of arms and roar
of battle, and although educated in the school of treacherous humanity,
he was one of the few who resolved to die in the last ditch, and he
concluded his reflections with the sarcastic remark, “Steve Brindle is a
coward.”

Before Gen. Van Dorn faced the enemy again, he was called east of the
Mississippi river. Price's army embarked at Des Arc, on White river, and
when the last man was on board the boats, there were none more cheerful
than Cousin Cæsar. He was going to fight on the soil of his native
State, for it was generally understood the march by water was to
Memphis, Tennessee.

It is said that a portion of Price's army showed the _white feather_
at Iuka. Cousin Cæsar was not in that division of the army. After that
event he was a camp lecturer, and to him the heroism of the army owes
a tribute in memory for the brave hand to hand fight in the streets
of Corinth, where, from house to house and within a stone's throw of
Rosecrans'' headquarters, Price's men made the Federals fly. But the
Federals were reinforced from their outposts, and Gen. Van Dorn was in
command, and the record says he made a rash attack and a hasty retreat.

Maj. Gen. T. C. Hindman was the southern commander of what was called
the district of Arkansas west of the Mississippi river. He was a petty
despot as well as an unsuccessful commander of an army. The country
suffered unparalleled abuses; crops were ravaged, cotton burned, and
the magnificent palaces of the southern planter licked up by flames. The
torch was applied frequently by an unknown hand. The Southern commander
burned cotton to prevent its falling into the hands of the enemy.
Straggling soldiers belonging to distant commands traversed the country,
robbing the people and burning. How much of this useless destruction
is chargable to Confederate or Federal commanders, it is impossible to
determine. Much of the waste inflicted upon the country was by the hand
of lawless guerrillas. Four hundred bales of cotton were burned on the
Simon plantation, and the residence on the home plantation, that cost
S. S. Simon over sixty-five thousand dollars, was nothing but a heap of
ashes.

Governor Morock's agents never got any _crumbs_, although the Governor
had used nearly all of the thousand dollars obtained from Cousin
Cæsar to pick up the _crumbs_ on the Simon plantations, he never got a
_crumb_.

General Hindman was relieved of his command west of the Mississippi, by
President Davis. Generals Kirby, Smith, Holmes and Price subsequently
commanded the Southern troops west of the great river. The federals had
fortified Helena, a point three hundred miles above Vicks burg on the
west bank of the river. They had three forts with a gun-boat lying in
the river, and were about four thousand strong. They were attacked by
General Holmes, on the 4th day of July, 1863. General Holmes had under
his command General Price's division of infantry, about fourteen hundred
men; Fagans brigade of Arkansas, infantry, numbering fifteen hundred
men, and Marmaduke's division of Arkansas, and Missouri cavalry, about
two thousand, making a total of four thousand and nine hundred men.
Marmaduke was ordered to attack the northern fort; Fagan was to attack
the southern fort, and General Price the center fort. The onset to be
simultaneously and at daylight.

General Price carried his position. Marmaduke and Fagan failed. The
gun-boat in the river shelled the captured fort. Price's men sheltered
themselves as best they could, awaiting further orders. The scene
was alarming above description to Price's men. It was the holiday of
American Independence. The failure of their comrades in arms would
compel them to retreat under a deadly fire from the enemy. While thus
waiting, the turn of battle crouched beneath an old stump. Cousin Cæsar
saw in the distance and recognized Steve Brindle, he was a soldier in
the federal army.

“Oh treacherous humanity! must I live to learn thee still Steve Brindle
fights for m-o-n-e-y?” said Cæsar Simon, mentally. The good Angel
of observation whispered in his car: “Cæsar Simon fights for land
_stripped of its ornaments._” Cousin Cæsar scanned the situation and
continued to say, mentally: “Life is a sentence of punishment passed by
the court of existence on every _private soldier_.”

The battle field is the place of execution, and rash commanders are
often the executioners. After repeated efforts General Holmes failed to
carry the other positions. The retreat of Price's men was ordered;
it was accomplished with heavy loss. Cæsar Simon fell, and with him
perished the last link in the chain of the Simon family in the male
line.

We must now let the curtain fall upon the sad events of the war until
the globe makes nearly two more revolutions 'round the sun in its
orbit, and then we see the Southern soldiers weary and war-worn--sadly
deficient in numbers--lay down their arms--the war is ended. The Angel
of peace has spread her golden wing from Maine to Florida, and from
Virginia to California. The proclamation of freedom, by President
Lincoln, knocked the dollars and cents out of the flesh and blood of
every slave on the Simon plantations. Civil courts are in session.
The last foot of the Simon land has been sold at sheriff's sale to pay
judgments, just and unjust.=

````The goose that laid the golden egg

````Has paddled across the river.=

Governor Morock has retired from the profession, or the profession
has retired from him. He is living on the cheap sale of a bad
reputation--that is--all who wish dirty work performed at a low price
employ Governor Morock.

Roxie Daymon has married a young mechanic, and is happy in a cottage
home. She blots the memory of the past by reading the poem entitled,
“The Workman's Saturday Night.”

Cliff Carlo is a prosperous farmer in Kentucky and subscriber for


THE ROUGH DIAMOND.