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Updated: June 26, 2025
"Mebbe," Shorty answered. "Kentucky's full of 'em. Mebbe they're peaceable citizens, though." "How kin you tell the guerrillas from the citizens?" "By the way they shoot at you. The peaceable citizens don't shoot at least, in day time and out in the open. They lay for you with sole-leather pies, and chuck-a-luck boards and 40-rod whisky, and aid. and abet the Southern Confedrisy that way.
At thirty he was, to use the language of the stump, "Kentucky's favorite son," and incomparably the finest orator in the Western country. Kentucky had tried him, and found him perfectly to her mind. He was an easy, comfortable man to associate with, wholly in the Jeffersonian taste.
On the one hand, he was behind his times because he failed to appreciate adequately the fact that freedom was necessary to frontier communities in meeting their peculiar problems a freedom which the doctrine of State Rights promised them and so he had roused Kentucky's wrath by the pedantic and, as the Court itself was presently forced to admit, unworkable decision in Green vs. Biddle.
I have also heard you state that the immortal Breckenridge, Kentucky's favorite son, was the same to you as the tiger Lincoln, the deadly foe of Southern institutions. Silence, culprit!" Here Saccharissa moaned, and wafted a slight flavor of musk to me from her cambric wet with tears. "Colonel Plickaman," continued the Judge, "produce the letters and papers of the culprit."
"No, sir!" said injured Moppet. "You don't catch me!" "But O Moppet, see the round drops hanging and burning on the blinds! And how the little mud-puddles shine, Moppet!" Out of her pain and her patience God had brought her beautiful answer. It was well for Sharley. But if such answer had not come? That also would have been well. Kentucky's Ghost. True? Every syllable.
There forever is to be application of marvelous propriety, of the mournful and noble lines of Kentucky's poet, Theodore O'Hara: "On Fame's eternal camping ground Their silent tents are spread, And Glory guards with solemn round The bivouac of the dead."
This was farther enriched by a piquancy gained from the smoke of the burning hickory and oak, with which they were cured, and the absorption of odors from the scented herbs in the rooms where they were drying. Many have sung the praises of Kentucky's horses, whisy and women, but no poet has tuned his lyre to the more fruitful theme of Kentucky's mast-fed, smoke-cured, herb-scented hams.
Above the din of commoner men, the logic of John Bell, calm and patriotic, brings conviction. The soaring eloquence of Stephen A. Douglas claims the Western shores for freedom. Haughty Foote and steadfast Benton break lances in the arena. Kentucky's greatest chieftain, whose gallant son's life-blood reddened Buena Vista's field, marshals the immortal defenders of human liberty.
Brilliant as a garden of flowers was the grand-stand where the fairest of old Kentucky's wondrous women were as numerous as were her gallant men; full of handsome figures were the lawns, where old Kentucky's youth and manhood strolled and smoked and gossipped of the day's great race to come; like an ebon sea in storm was the great crowd of blacks which in certain well-defined limits crowded to the rail about the track.
She, too, was painting pictures and seeing visions of the long ago pictures which included not only the heroic band of Kentucky's defenders in the midst of the bloody horrors of that battlefield, but also that band of devoted women shut up alone with their helpless little ones in that lonely station, not knowing what terrible fate was befalling husbands, brothers, kinsmen out in the wilderness, nor what even greater evils from lurking foes might at any moment beset themselves within their stockade fortress; and her brave lip trembled and the visions in the fire became dimmed and blurred as she thought of that terrible ride under the scorching rays of the August sun, and of the eighteen-months-old babe, her little William, who, already ailing before the departure from Houston's, and unable to bear the merciless heat of the long journey, had died in her arms at Bryan's two days later hours before her husband returned from that ill-fated march to the Licking.
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