ably treated the old hero, in always derisively calling him “King Jackson." The charge of Pope was entirely accurate, but it so happened that the Democrats of that vicinity had not heard Hardin deal with his majesty. "Yes," said Mr. Hardin in reply, with an audacity not quite candid, "I do call him King Jackson, and the American citizen who can meet the hero of New Orleans, with his clear, blue eye and tall, manly form, and not feel that he is in the presence of the equal of any king that ever sat on a throne, is unworthy to live in a free country.' It may be observed that "King Jackson's" men in that region voted for Mr. Hardin with great unanimity in the following election.*

In his Owsley speech, in 1847, he derisively and persistently called Governor Owsley "the distinguished Whig." When Mr. Mitchell, his assistant in the secretary of State's office, took the Governor's side in the controversy between the governor and Mr. Hardin, the latter dubbed him "Duke of Buckingham," and habitually referred to him as his grace, the Duke." In the constitutional convention, he threw Mr. Guthrie into a towering rage by a speech, in the course of which he called Mr. Guthrie (a man of large physical proportions) "Goliath of Gath." Charles A. Wickliffe, a man of courtly manners and dress, was either "my cousin Charles," or, if in less respectful mood, "Big Dignity."

Mr. Hardin had an overmastering habit of “talking to himself”— a habit which became more confirmed with increasing years. In the court-house, on the street, riding horseback, especially whenever alone or in motion, the struggling thoughts of his busy brain found utterance in subdued mutterings, accompanied by gesticulation.

The following observations of Mr. Disraeli on the enthusiasm of genius are pertinent in this connection:

"The allusions produced by a drama on persons of great sensibility, when all the senses are awakened by a mixture of reality with imagination, is the effect experienced by men of genius in their own vivified ideal world. Real emotions are raised by fiction. In a scene, apparently passing in their presence, where the whole train of circumstances succeeds in all the continuity of nature, and where a sort of real existence appears to rise up before them, they themselves become spectators or actors. Their sympathies are excited, and the exterior organs of sense are visibly affected--they even break out into speech, and often accompany their speech with gestures."†

* Mr. Clay always contemptuously referred to Jackson as "the hero"--and John Quincy Adams, in his "Diary," disrespectfully called him Dr. Andrew Jackson, in grim allusion to the degree of doctor of laws, absurdly conferred by Harvard. Literary Character of Men of Genius, page 184.

In a will case, where he was assailing the capacity of the testator, one of the evidences of mental aberration was the dead man's habit of soliloquy, on which he laid great stress. The late Governor Helm, for the other side, replied: "If talking to one's self be evidence of insanity, what must we think of the learned gentleman who has just addressed you? I call your attention to him now as a complete refutation of his own argument." Meantime, Mr. Hardin had been pacing back and forth outside the bar, still arguing the case to himself in undertone, and indulging vehement gesticulation.

Sometimes in the social circle he would become wholly lost in revery-unconscious of his surroundings, and would imagine himself busy in some scene passing before his mental vision. An intimate personal friend relates the following strange incident

"A few years before his death, I spent a Sunday at Mr. Hardin's house. He was in high spirits and running over with anecdotes and humorous allusions. His habit of soliloquy had a singular illustration on that day. In the midst of a lively conversation, he suddenly became silent and abstracted. Presently he began talking to himself. 'Call the witnesses, Mr. Sheriff,' said he, 'call the witnesses, sir, I will give you their names.' He thereupon repeated the names of several witnesses in the case of Logan Wickliffe, charged with the murder of Gray, then pending in Washington county. 'Be sworn, gentlemen,' said he, 'I will swear you myself,' and he repeated the usual oath. He then called the witnesses, one by one, and questioned them about the case. He paused from time to time in the attitude of listening, as though he had heard responses to each question. On completing the examination of these imaginary witnesses, he muttered, all lies, all lies.' At this point, he broke off this remarkable performance, and resumed his part in the conversation precisely where it had been thus interrupted— seemingly utterly unconscious that anything irrelevant had occurred."

On another occasion, in the presence of several gentlemen, he fell into one of these reveries, but was silent. When it ended, he began an earnest argument to prove that the misdeeds of humanity are punished in this world. To support his views, he adduced many illustrations. "How about punishment in the next world, Mr. Hardin," interrupted one of those present. "I don't know, sir," he replied. "I know nothing about it. I have never been there."

When absorbed in this singular manner, it was imprudent to disturb him. Once he was walking the streets in Bardstown, muttering to himself, and gesticulating, unconscious of surroundings. One of those impertinent, but well-meaning, fellows, who "rush in where

angels fear to tread," stopped him. Mr. Hardin," said the man, "people say that you are losing your mind, and it seems to me to be true." Hardin glared at him a few seconds as though meditating means or mode of destruction. "The people say that I am losing my mind, do they?" "Yes," responded the maladroit, less confidently. "Do you know, sir, what people say of you, sir?" "No." "Well, I'll tell you, sir. They all agree that you are a d-d little fool." Saying which, Hardin passed on.

Mr. Hardin was accused of being deficient in physical courage. He lived at a period and in a locality where and when to be so suspected was to his serious discredit. It has been intimated that the edge of his invective was sometimes dulled by his fears. It has been said (on authority not to be disregarded), that when secure from personal responsibility he could denounce an enemy in the most blood-curdling way, and profess a fool-hardy daring not surpassed by any age, which he did not indulge in less secure circumstances. But he was physically disabled from engaging in personal encounters during the greater part of his life, and wholly powerless to cope with the pugnacious citizen, more abundant in his day than now, who had the grit to engage in fisticuffs, and was always ready for the encounter. One who knew him, in answer to the author's question as to his courage, responded: "he was cowardly, sir; he would run like a turkey. I remember, "continued this informant, "an occasion when he came out of the court house at Elizabethtown, that a man-somewhat of a bully and ruffian, it is true-who was offended at Mr. Hardin's allusion to him in a speech, met him, and began cursing and abusing him. He followed him to his hotel and cursed him on his route. He followed him into the bar, when he ordered his horse, and cursed him there. He followed him into the dining-room, and, sitting near him at the table, continued to speak of him in his hearing most offensively. Mr. Hardin nevertheless ate a hearty meal, and, during the entire time, paid not the slightest attention to the abuse. After dinner he put on his leggins (which he wore at all seasons, in traveling horseback). His horse was brought, he mounted, put each foot in the stirrups, examined himself to see that he was equipped for the journey, and then, for the first time, turning to his maligner, and in a most savage way, exclaimed: 'Dry up, you dirty dog, or I will get down there and cut your livers out!' Saying which, without waiting response, he gave his horse a keen cut with a cowhide and rode away, leaving his adversary dumbfounded at the denouement."

After all, physical courage is a quality in which the most ignorant are the equals of the most intelligent, in which the brute excels human kind. "Brute" courage, it is sometimes not inappropriately called, a term exceedingly descriptive. Mr. Hardin's rare, moral courage. amply compensated for any real or supposed deficiency in the respect referred to. He had strong convictions, and unfalteringly clung to them in sun and storm. His public career, from the beginning to the end, was filled with illustrations of this trait. His part in the Old and New Court struggle, and his contest with Governor Owsley, evinced a moral courage and an intellectual fortitude rarely equaled.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

SOME THINGS OTHERS THOUGHT AND SAID OF MR. HARDIN.

HARACTER, or its manifestations, after all, is a matter resting much in the domain of public opinion. It is illuminated or discolored by the effect of partiality or prejudice on the lens through which it is discerned. An enemy and a friend are seen more or less truly, but on different sides, and in varied lights. Thus they seem antipodal in characteristics, yet, when beheld in like conditions, and from similar standpoints, are scarcely distinguishable. These observations but amplify the old saying: "No one is a hero to his valet." From the valet's point of observation, one does not so appear.

The witty and philosophic Doctor Holmes was not mistaken when he said, that when John and Thomas conversed, at least six persons of them were present. There were the real John and the real Thomas -two. There were John's ideal John, and Thomas' ideal Thomasfour. John's ideal Thomas, and Thomas' ideal John-six.* Two others, the discerning reader will perceive, are omitted in this estimate, assuming, as should be done, that John and Thomas were friends. The omitted two are by no means so comely as either of the other six. They are the respective John and Thomas as they appear to their enemies.

In estimating the character of one not personally known, the true mean will be found between the extreme opinions of friends and enemies. Instead of undertaking this formal estimate, a selection of expressed opinions, emanating from those who were friends and from those who disliked Mr. Hardin, are here gathered. Many of these were publicly expressed, in his lifetime, and may serve other purposes than showing what others thought and said of him. They may throw light on some of his motives, and explain many of his actions. Some matters that might be alluded to in this connection, will be found elsewhere, in the estimate of his character as a lawyer and statesman.

During his lifetime, the newspapers teemed with notices of him at the bar, in Congress, on the stump, and in private life. His large and angular physical "make-up" indicated a massive intellectuality, jagged and projecting, with which the public were perpetually com

Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, page 61.