if I don't intend to know as much of it as they do. This is a Bible." He was not only fond of Isaiah, as above observed, but also of Job. "I consider them (Isaiah and Job) the most eloquent I ever read, except the twenty-third chapter of Matthew, where it takes hold of those it calls Pharisees, hypocrites, and scribes, and says: 'Wo! unto you, ye scribes and Pharisees.""

His mother was a member of the Baptist church, but his wife was a Methodist, and to the latter church he was always inclined. Said he, in 1849, "I am not a Methodist, but I am a lobby member, and I believe a good deal in that doctrine. I believe that good works go a great way toward getting a man into heaven; and that they are the best turnpikes and railroads upon which one can travel in that direction. There is a doctrine, once elected always elected, that I do not understand."

He was particularly fond of both vocal and instrumental music, and would frequently attend church to enjoy the singing, and would often weep under its influence.

"When at home," writes a valued correspondent, "he would frequently send for his niece and the writer to come to his house and sing for him. This was before he had made any religious profession, or disease or infirmity. had given special warning to prepare for the hereafter. Among his favorite hymns were, 'Jesus, lover of my soul,' 'Show pity, Lord! oh, Lord, forgive,' and 'An alien from God and a stranger to grace. """*

The following extract is from Dr. Redford's "History of Methodism in Kentucky:"

"Ben Hardin and his family were among the best and earliest friends of the Methodist church in Bardstown, and, in the course of years, became members of its communion. Mr. Hardin was peculiarly attracted by Methodist singing. This was the charm of Methodism to him. He would diverge at any time from his regular road on his tour to courts, to enjoy the luxury of camp-meeting songs. May Methodism never lose those warmhearted and energetic appliances which won the heart of that great lawyer.

"An anecdote, related to me both by Marcus Lindsey and Ben Hardin, aught, perhaps, to be preserved. Mr. Hardin had turned aside from his route to court in Hardin county, to stop at a camp-meeting, which Mr. Lindsey was attending. About midnight, Mr. Lindsey observed Mr. Hardin about to lie down on some clapboards between two tents. He kindly invited him to sleep in the preachers' tent. Accordingly, his guest laid down. but about two o'clock, a tremendous shouting was raised in the altar over souls converted. Mr. Hardin sprang up very suddenly, and, rubbing

Dr. W. A. Hickman.

his eyes, exclaimed, with an oath, that if they kept on that way, they would kill the devil before day. Mr. Lindsey happened to be near, and remarked to him: 'That would be bad business for you lawyers, Mr. Hardin.' 'Yes,' said Mr. Hardin, 'quite as bad for you preachers, Mr. Lindsey, for it would break up both professions.'

The religion of the pioneers was, in a high degree, emotional. Spiritual regeneration, in those times, was attended with wild shoutings and mental perturbation, seemingly little short of insanity. The veritable stories told by pioneer historians of religious enthusiasts falling in swoons, beholding visions, and possessed of the "jerks" are rapidly assuming the tinge of romance. While Mr. Hardin was always a "believer," his clear judgment and sober reason caused him to shrink from participation in such excesses, and to question the divinity of their origin.

The late Bishop Hubbard Hinde Kavanaugh and Mr. Hardin were long, warm personal friends. Mr. Hardin was a very infrequent attendant on public worship, but was always in the sanctuary when Kavanaugh occupied the pulpit at Bardstown. That was in the days of the bishop's itinerancy-before he wore the highest honor of his church. But he was then conspicuous for piety, learning, eloquence, and rare mental gifts. Coupled with these, he possessed a racy wit, and herein was "the one touch of human nature," in which originated that allied friendship with Hardin that death only sundered.

While partial to the church of his wife, yet he was broader than any church in his views and feelings. When his son William died, while a student at the Roman Catholic college of St. Joseph, of Bardstown, although little more than a child, no objection was made to his receiving the consolations of that church. Afterward the eccentric William Downes, a minister of that anti-missionary branch of the Baptist church, which traces its origin to apostolic times, fell into a theological dispute with a Catholic priest. Mr. Hardin acted as the friend of Downes, and a debate was arranged. He supplied Downes with a handsome suit of clothes to wear upon the occasion, and, according to Spencer (the Baptist historian), the latter came off triumphant. In the constitutional convention, Mr. Hardin stood almost alone with Rev. Dr. John L. Waller, in the unsuccessful attempt to defeat the apparently needless restriction against clergymen occupying seats in the General Assembly. It was charged to Mr. Hardin, to the discredit of his candor and sincerity, that "he was all things to all men," that he talked agriculture with the farmer, cooking with his

wife, medicine with the physician, law with the lawyer, politics with the politician, etc. He, undoubtedly, was fond of discussing the Bible and theology with the clergy, though his discussions never degenerated into disputes. His mind was full of that thirsting after truth that caused it to drink at every wayside spring that babbled and flowed by the path of life.

Mr. Hardin lived in the constant exercise of many virtues essential to Christian character. No one ever suspected him of being in the slightest degree a hypocrite or pretender. He was what he was and scorned all pretense. Hypocrites, pretenders, upstarts, and parvenus were his especial abhorrence. His honesty and integrity were never questioned. His word was ever his bond. Much as he delighted in professional victory, it was never charged that he won it by falsehood. He might, in discussing a case, ignore the law and the facts, but if he alluded to either he stated them fairly. He scorned the arts of sophistry and misstatement practiced by small and crafty minds. He was sober and temperate in his habits. He delighted in secret charities, and instances of generous deeds could be recorded touching in the delicacy with which they were done. In him, the widow and the orphan, the ignorant and the helpless, found an unfailing and constant friend. He always acted on the idea, though bound by no religious tie, that an account of his deeds was being kept, that much misdoing was punished in this world, but that somewhere in the universe and at some period in the cycles of time, the account would be settled, and that full and complete justice would be done. Such a man, so imbued by study with biblical wisdom, had not far to go to find the straight and narrow path that leads to life eternal.

MR

CHAPTER XL.

THE END AND HOW IT CAME.

"There is a time, we know not when,

There is a line, we know not where."

R. HARDIN'S sixty-eighth spring was less bright to him than its predecessors. Year by year the hopes and ambitions of an exuberant manhood had grown more subdued. Professional success, the honors of office, a wide-spread fame, a comfortable fortune, a happy home-all these and more had attended and crowned his career, and these, undoubtedly, alleviated the burden of life. But age was making inroads on bodily strength and endurance, and the spirits grew less elastic. His gifted and manly sons, whom he had idolized and from whom he had hoped so much, were dead before their time. Rowan, his best beloved, during the previous year had fallen by an assassin's hand in a foreign land.

Old friends, with whom he had started life, were rapidly passing down to "dusty death," leaving him with the sensation of lingering when the banquet of life was done. If the days were not already "few and evil," such a period seemed approaching. But he indulged po idle or senseless repining. "Work while it is day," was the motto on which he had acted all his life. No task was shirked, no duty neglected, no engagement unfulfilled. Yet his habit of revery and selfcommunion grew more marked and of more frequent recurrence.

On the adjournment of the legislative session of 1851-2 he returned home from Frankfort, and resumed his professional labors. On a bright Sabbath day in May he left Bardstown to attend court at Lebanon. His riding-horse inclined to be easily scared, and his saddle-girth was defective. As he was setting out, Mrs. Hardin expostulated with him about incurring the danger of the bad girth, but with a smile and a jocular remark he rode away. He intended to lodge that night with his son-in-law, Dr. Palmer, near Springfield, and so he did. The following morning, in attempting, while mounted, to open a gate that led to the turnpike, the treacherous saddle-girth broke, and he fell to the ground. He was so injured as to be unable to rise. Dr. Palmer,

who had witnessed the accident, hastened to his assistance.

As Doc

tor P. approached, Mr. Hardin looked up from his prostrate position, and, with a smile, repeated the lines from Burns:

"How many lengthened sage advices

The husband frae the wife despises."

As his daughter remarked of this accident, "it was the beginning of the end." By the fall the sciatic and sacral nerves were bruised. His wife brought him home to Bardstown in a carriage, but all that affectionate care and nursing could accomplish under the best medical advice, while prolonging life, afforded no permanent relief. Mr. Hardin soon realized that his recovery was doubtful, and that his concern in the affairs of life drew to a close. His sufferings were great, but were borne with patient and philosophic fortitude. Many weary nights his neighbors and friends watched at his bedside. Among these watchers was one, then a law student of Mr. Hardin-since distinguished by many high offices and now attorney-general of the United States-A. H. Garland. "In his last illness," said Mr. Garland, “I sat up many nights with him, and he was pretty much the same Old Ben' he was when well." His negro man, Bill, a faithful and tried domestic, fulfilled to some extent the duties of nurse, which, however, fell chiefly upon Mrs. Hardin. He often interrupted the tedium of confinement and suffering, and illustrated the saying, "the ruling passion strong in death," by some humorous observation or recital.

One night as the weary hours dragged their slow length along, Bill, who aspired to freedom (but to whom freedom would have manifestly been a misfortune), concluded it was an auspicious time to urge his wishes. "Mas' Ben," says he, interrupting a protracted silence, "what will become of poor Bill if you should die?" "Ah! Bill, I don't know," answered the sufferer, and the matter dropped. After the lapse of an hour or so, Bill concluded to introduce the subject again: "Mas' Ben, you are mighty sick." "Yes, Bill, I am mighty sick." "I hope," rejoined the negro, "you is going to get well, but I don't know what is going to become of poor Bill if you should die." "Well, Bill, I can tell you exactly what will become of you; I have already made my will and appointed Tom Linthicum and Bill Johnson, my executors. In a few months after my death, Tom Linthicum will take you to the court-house some day, and there offer you at public sale. There will be (naming several noted

— and

and