Collins historical sketches of Kentucky. History of Kentucky: Vol. I, Part 111

Author: Collins, Lewis, 1797-1870. cn; Collins, Richard H., 1824-1889. cn
Publication date: 1874
Publisher: Covington, Ky., Collins & Co.
Number of Pages: 1452

USA > Kentucky > Collins historical sketches of Kentucky. History of Kentucky: Vol. I > Part 111

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O'er the eaves and the roof, like a green velvet gown,

The lone mother comes, and she thinks drearily

Of the days which are not, and she sings wearily,

"Ah! baby you've gone-gone, forever away

From the little brown house with its shad- ows so gray !

The pigeons come round me and coo all in vain

For baby's pink hands may not feed them again !

I peep through the window-no baby is there-

I call you, my darling-but echoes I hear ! The webs on the windows seem crapes which are tied

To keep out the sunshine since baby has died !

Ah! mother would give all she owns just to sleep

Where the ceilings are low and the staircase is steep ! With you on my breast, as we used to sleep when

You smiled in my face in your baby dreams then-

Ere I pined for the grander house over the stream

Where you passed from my life like a " Sometimes are sweets after the Summer !" beautiful dream 1

But mother has learned it is not outward things

Which give the heart rest, but contentment, which flings

A halo round life, which, like sunshine will creep

O'er walls without gildings, and stairs which are steep." July 18, 1870.

AFTER THE SUMMER.

BY ALICE SMITH WINSTON. OVER some plants, faded and yellow, Where no beams fell, golden and mellow ; Where spiders wove over their mosses Skeleton leaves, spun with their flosses, Soft as the down blown from the thistie By a bee's wing, or a bird's whistle ; Over these plants (children of Summer), Yesterday flew Spring's busy hummer Searching for sweets. "Seek for them rather

Where, 'round some bud, Autumn beams gather,

Warming the leaves left by the Summer ; There is thy place, blithe little hummer ; Not to dead plants cometh the blossom- Grace abides not in the cold bosom

Where there is death ; Hope builds her fire Where there is warmth ; look for sweets higher,"

Musing, I said ; musing and sighing, (Not for the leaves fading and dying), But for a want I in my bosom

Felt, while the bee searched for its blossom.

" Nothing but death !" softly I muttered ; But as the bee close to me fluttered,

Stirred by its flight scent of a blossom Floated to me, and in my bosom Filled full of doubts, Hope, like the flower,

Opened her door in that dim hour ! Gladly, I said, "Ah ! little hummer, Sometimes are sweets after the Summer ! Sometimes the Lord maketh in bosoms Barren as sand places for blossoms ! Oft daises spring, queens of the meadow, Wearing their crowns in the dim shadow- God knows our needs-gifts without num- ber

Often He sends after the Summer !" Up to the light gently I brought it- Close to my side still the bee sought it, And through that day seemed he to mur- mur,

December 5, 1870.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

WHEN WILL WOMEN VOTE? BY ALICE SMITH WINSTON.

When, oh when, will women, gentle women vote ?

When the birds cease sending sweet songs from their throat ;

When the field-born lily learns to work and spin ;

Then, hurrah for women ! then, and not till then.

When the gold-bee homeward with but poison hies ;

When the white-winged pigeon with the eagle flies ;

When the lamb's soft bleating changes to a bark ;

Then to woman's suffrage possibly we'll hark.

For, when socks are mended, and the baby's drest,

And its lips, like rosebuds, to our own are prest ;

When the flowers are watered, and the birds are fed ;

When the fluted laces ripple o'er the bed ; When the room is dusted till no atoms pass

Through the bars of sunshine, like some gate of glass ;

When the bird is sending from its little throat

Songs, till even baby listens to each note, "Shoo fly !" who could leave them, leave such joys to vote ?

When the roaring lion bleateth as the lamb ;

When we call tornadoes but the day's soft calm ;

Then shall men nurse babies, wear the petticoats,

While their wives are shaving-shaving men and notes !

When men take their knitting out with them to tea,

When they friz on hair-pins locks most killingly ;

When they wear "switches," braids, chignons and rolls ;

Women will wear switches out about the polls !

Woman's kingdom lieth in her home's sweet ties ;

The ballot-box her cradle, where her dar- ling lies;

And mothers should be happy if they're allowed by fate

To taste the sweets which cling to this sweetest candy(?)date.

I looked around in wonder, when maids and women sweet

Cut off the long trails hiding from sight their little feet,

And thought we'd see the peacocks cut off their long tails, too,

And thought that hens would cackle a cock-a-doodle-doo,

When maids, and even mothers, put on the jaunty hat ;

But now I take for granted these things, but wonder that

The maids, who wear gold lockets and chains round snowy throat,

(Sweet, pretty, gentle ring-doves) should ever want to vote !

To such I say, keep busy at home, tend ivies green-

Go cut a snowy apron to stitch on the ma- chine ;

Rub windows till they glisten, all free from dust and mote ;

But, darling girls, please listen, oh, never, never, vote !

When briars turn to roses, and brides wear cabbage stalks ;

When little lambs wear wolf-skins, and new-born baby talks;

When man in moon wears night cap, with clouds for ruffles white,

And owls go off a courting through day as well as night;

When doves wear chains of serpents around their purple throat,

Then, girls, get out your tickets, for then will women vote ! February, 1870.

JOHN'S LETTER.

" The Kingdom of Heaven is within us."

BY ALICE SMITH WINSTON.

One night, when Discontent and I Were battling with each other, (For every soul must have, you know, Its bright and stormy weather), I found this letter written to- Well, say to " Kitty Clover "-

'Tis all the same; the letter was From "John," a noble lover.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

Not noble as regarded blood- (Why care for scarlet lining Of casket, more than jewel which Gives casket its refining ?)- But noble in the sight of God This lover, who, at Love's note, Left higher nest and mated with A dove within a dove-cote !

"No satin shoe your tiny foot, My winsome Kitty, covers ; Your shoes are oftenest the grass, Your buckles but the clovers. Your hands grudge not the sun the kiss Which rests so oft upon them ; They'd look as strange as lilies vailed, If they had gloves to span them ! Where, Kitty, now the doubts you had ? You can no sooner find them, Than find the blossoms of the Spring Which leaves us fruit behind them ! Where now my pining for a home One notch above your station ? The bird in nest below my own Has blest that habitation !

Let parrots wear their green and gold, And mock when we go near them ; My bird has songs the whole day long, And I'm the one to hear them ! You feared the eagle yet would pine To soar off to the mountain, Forgetting pretty lessons taught By mountain-stream and fountain ! Ah! Kitty, I have learned not all The joy which Fate is spinning Is woven in the cloth of gold And ' purple and fine linen !' I've learned that cares, like butterflies, Are born 'mongst Fortune's flowers, And seldom come to steal the sweets From humble lives like ours ! Has gold some strange, magnetic power- Have jewels, too, their magnet- That palaces are places where Pain oft'nest sets her signet ?

Ah ! sometimes, when I wish for what You never wish, or can wish ; ' The Kingdom is within !' I say, And all my yearnings vanish ! Then I'm content without the wealth With which I would surround you- Content to bring my sphere of life To that in which I found you. Our baby's feet are just as pink, As though its pretty mother's Had never waded in the dew, Half knee-deep in the clovers ! Though acorns be his only toy, And buckeyes serve for rattle,

I'm sure the angels visit him, And understand his prattle. (The homely vase, in window there, Holds loveliest of flowers ; Why care for the surroundings of This blossom sweet of ours ?)

In rustic crib he sleeps as sound 'Neath shade of green-fringed willow As though his curls were rippling o'er A prince's downy pillow ! So, Kitty dear, remember this : Should fickle Fortune spin us Her cloth of gold and linens fine

' The Kingdom is within us !' No golden chain can still the beat Of heart where conscience waketh ; No rustic of a silken gown (Which ugly silkworm maketh) Can hush the whisper of the soul, Or still its faintest yearning ! God sets his light within the heart, And we must keep it burning !"

* #

When I had finished, Discontent Had left me altogether ! And, as a bird will in the sun Show most the brilliant feather, My soul put on a shining garb, Which suits me always better- (The light was all reflected from John's simple, truthful letter !) May 3, 1871.

MISS LAURA CATHARINE FORD

Is a native of Owen co., Ky., where her father, Capt. Harbin H. Ford, an extensive farmer, from Virginia, had settled about 1845. A few years after, while Laura was very young, the father died; and the mother, with her little son and daughter, removed to Frankfort, where they still reside (May, 1874). Like many others of the gifted daughters of the West, Laura C. Ford was first encouraged by the bounding enthusiasm and genuine admira- tion of the great poet-editor, George D. Prentice, to try her pen at poetry.

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

Her earlier efforts were published in the Louisville Journal, afterwards in the Louisville Courier, the Courier-Journal, and other Kentucky periodicals, and latterly and mainly in the Frankfort Yeoman. She writes with great ease, for pastime, and with a vividness and elasticity that promises much for the future.

HUNTED DOWN. BY LAURA C. FORD.

STRANGE was his life: 'twould seem his natal star

Was shrouded in the inky folds of clouds ;

No brightness crossed his path without a bar

Of utter gloom, and these bars came in crowds.

He was a dreamer from his earliest years, Which held him isolated from his kind, And rendered him in youth a mark for jeers From many a baser, many a lesser mind.

His gentle soul, while wounded by the darts,

In voiceless agony endured each shaft, Although they rankled in the tenderest parts- Life's bitterest cup in silence proud he quaffed.

Grown into manhood, he was hunted still By little souls that failed to compre- hend

The subtile workings of a finer will, Whose iron strength their malice could not bend.

Upon his brow great genius sat enthroned, And shone in flashes from his dark gray eye. No petty meannesses his bosom owned, But smoldered there a pride untamed and high.

The world, a sycophant, his offerings spurned ;

And hate and envy skulked along his way; Till pride flamed up, and, hunted down, he turned

And, like a goaded lion, stood at bay.

He proudly stood-his tongue sharp-edged with scorn,

And fierce defiance shooting from his eyes,

The pack, like cowards from their covert torn, Crouched to the soul which they had dared despise.

That boon which they to modesty denied, Respect that near to veneration came, They yielded now unmurmuringly to pride, And on their shoulders lifted him to fame. May 12, 1874.

THE HIGHER AIM.

BY LAURA C. FORD.

THE firelight, with its flash and flare, Threw fitful shadows on the wall,

And flickered o'er the veteran's chair, Who smoked his pipe at evening's fall, And dreamed of years beyond recall.

He sees himself as once a boy Elate with all a boy's wild dreams ; Sees ripening fruits which may not eloy, Reserved for him-ah, radiant seems The distance gilded with Hope's beams.

Within his pipe the slow fire died- The dreamy light went from his eyes- He turned to Edward at his side, Whose youth still led him 'neath the skies

That, cloudless, arch life's Paradise.

"Tell me, my boy," he said, "from whence

It is life's discontent arrives ? 'Till oft we say in vain pretense, No lingering love of life survives Within the shade that haunts our lives.

" For, in the nature of us all, There is to earth a stubborn tie :

Though some, who drain its cup of gall, Have, in rash moments, dared to die, And send unshriven souls on high.

"Those trembling souls, methinks, look back Regretful at the prison fled- But I have wandered from the track O'er which I'd have your wisdom led ;

From what are half life's sorrows shed ?"

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

And Edward spoke, in language bold :

" Methinks that were not hard to tell-

Life's blessings always come with gold ;

When Want comes in the home to dwell, With larder scant and fireless cold, The heart life's bitterest woes may hold."

" Not so," the old man said, and smiled.

He, looking downward from the height Of four-score years, deemed but a child The man whose twentieth year that night

Time jotted down in its ownward flight.

"I grant that poverty is sore, But still susceptible of cure.

My mind to-night is running o'er An ill that will and must endure, Although the years should reach four- score.

" Oft in the cloudless, dreamy years, Through which your life is drifting now, Ambition's hand the water stirs,

'Till fame in fancy wreathes the brow And in estatic dreams one hears Himself proclaimed without compeers.

" He hugs the fancy to his breast, Before an ignis fatuus flies,

And lures him with no thought of rest, 'Till weary, worn, Hope's taper dies ; Ambition's fires alone arise.

"Ambition lives, and more and more The tortured spirit strives to fret ; Even with the hope of greatness o'er, It feeds him on its poison yet, And goads him with a vain regret.

"And from chimeras such as this It is that half life's sorrows fall, And lap up every drop of bliss, And then refill the cup with gall; While Fame's a bubble after all,

" But live, my son, for the higher fame, Which is the boon of years well spent ;

Transmit your children a spotless name ; It will soothe, though poverty be sent, The chastened spirit with content."

MRS. SALLIE M. B. PIATT,

Nee Bryan, is a native of Henry co., Ky., and. was educated at the best schools in New Castle, the county seat. After leaving school, she ventured upon poetry, and sent her first pieces to the Louisville Journal about 1857-8, winning kind words and positive encouragement from the editor, Mr. Pren- tice. About 1860, she married John J. Piatt, himself a poet and newspaper correspondent of vigor and raciness, then resident in Louisville, and removed to Washington city. Her first volume, "A Woman's Poems," 127 pp., was published in Boston, 1871; and a second, " A Voyage to the Fortunate Isles, and Other Poems," June, 1874.

AFTER WINGS. BY SALLIE M. B. PIATT. THIS was your butterfly, you see. His fine wings made him vain ! The caterpillars crawl, but he Pass'd them in rich disdain !- My pretty boy says, " Let him be Only a worm again !"

Oh, child, when things have learn'd to wear

Wings once, they must be fain To keep them always high and fair. Think of the creeping pain Which even a butterfly must bear To be a worm again !

TO-DAY. BY SALLIE M. B. PIATT.

AH, real thing of bloom and breath, I can not love you while you stay. Put on the dim, still charm of death, Fade to a phantom, float away, And let me call you Yesterday !

Let empty flower-dust at my feet Remind me of the buds you wear ; Let the bird's quiet show how sweet The far-off singing made the air ; And let your dew through frost look fair.

In mourning you I shall rejoice. Go: for the bitter word may be

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

A music-in the vanish'd voice ; And on the dead face I may see How bright its frown has been to me.

Then in the haunted grass I'll sit, Half tearful in your wither'd place, And watch your lovely shadow flit Across To-morrow's sunny face, And vex her with your perfect grace.

So, real thing of bloom and breath, I weary of you while you stay.

Put on the dim, still charm of death, Fade to a phantom, float away, And let me call you Yesterday !

MY GHOST.

A STORY TOLD TO MY LITTLE COUSIN KATE. BY SALLIE M. B. PIATT.

YES, Katie, I think you are very sweet, Now that the tangles are out of your hair.

And you sing as well as the birds you meet,

That are playing, like you, in the blos- soms there.

But now you are coming to kiss me, you say :

Well, what is it for ? Shall I tie your shoe,

Or loop your sleeve in a prettier way ? "Do I know about ghosts ?" Indeed I do.

"Have I seen one ?" Yes : last eve- ning, you know,

We were taking a walk that you had to miss,

(I think you were naughty and cried to go,

But, surely, you'll stay at home after this !)

And, away in the twilight lonesomely (" What is the twilight ?" It's-getting late 1)

I was thinking of things that were sad to me-

There, hush ! you know nothing about them, Kate.

Well, we had to go through the rocky lane, Close to that bridge where the water roars,

By a still, red house, where the dark and rain

Go in when they will at the open doors ;

And the moon, that had just waked up, look'd through

The broken old windows and seem'd afraid,

And the wild bats flew and the thistles grew

Where once in the roses the children play'd.

Just across the road by the cherry-trees Some fallen white stones had been lying so long,

Half hid in the grass, and under these There were people dead. I could hear the song

Of a very sleepy dove, as I pass'd

The graveyard near, and the cricket that cried ;

And I look'd (ah ! the Ghost is coming at last !)

And something was walking at my side.

It seem'd to be wrapp'd in a great dark shawl,

(For the night was a little cold, you know.)

It would not speak. It was black and tall ;

And it walk'd so proudly and very slow.

Then it mock'd me-every thing I could do :

Now it canght at the lightning-flies like me ;

Now it stopp'd where the elder-blossoms grew ;

Now it tore the thorns from a gray bent tree.

Still it followed me under the yellow moon,

Looking back to the graveyard now and then,

Where the winds were playing the night a tune-

But Kate, a Ghost doesn't care for men,

And your papa couldn't have done it harm !

Ah, dark-eyed darling, what is it you see ?

There, you needn't hide in your dimpled arm-

It was only my Shadow that walk'd with me !

THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

617 .

THE POORLY-DRESSED MAN. BY HENRY C. BLOUNT.

WE SEE that strange man as he enters the hall;

The servant avoids him, scarce asks him, " Come in ;"

The children look shy, the dogs bark, and all

Are amazed at his garments so tattered and thin.

He's honest, upright, does the best that he can-

A stranger-but see, he's a poorly-dressed man !

"Don't judge from appearance," how often we hear ;

'Tis a lesson all learn-but learn not to heed.

Who looks on a portly-dressed man but to sneer,

No matter whose fault, how much he may need !

Don't give him your smiles, nor your friendship, more than

Politeness requires to a poorly-dressed man !

A dandy knows well the importance of dress ;

He does not, he claims not, to pass by his sense ; If you ask him, if truthful, he can but confess,

The favor he wins is his greatest ex- pense;

He sees how the world will deridingly scan More merit than he has in a poorly-dressed man !

Who cares who it is, when he goes 'long the street,

His feet out, his knees out, his elbows both bare?

Who'll ask why it is, when they chance him to meet ?

He's so much like a beggar, and how many care ?

May he not be your kindred ? Oh, hor- ror ! How can You say so in jest ? He's such a poorly- dressed man !

Why shrink back, when seated in stage coach or car ?

They are all fellow-travelers-have all paid their way ;

They are all strangers to you ; don't move back so far ;

You can read where you are, or look out if you may.

Oh ! I see why you do. 'Tis true there's a ban

Placed, Cain-like, upon every poorly- dress'd man !

He goes to the park, to the ball, or soiree ; Who gives him a welcome, who speaks to him cheer ?

There beauty and fashion, in charming array,

Do frown when they see him, and wish him not near.

What lady would even let fall her dear fan

If she thought 'twould be lifted by a poorly-dressed man ?

When the business of life and its trials are o'er,

And heaven reveals its glories so bright, Where scoffs will be heard not, nor jeers any more

Will all share alike its peace and de- light ?

Oh ! hasten to tell me, if any one can, Will there be a welcome for a poorly- dress'd man ?

WARSAW, KY., 1867.

THE OLD TOWN CLOCK.

BY A. FULEERSON.

THE old town clock is a marvelous thing, As it tells of the passing hours,

When its hollow tones on the midnight ring,

Starling this slumb'ring world of ours ! And it watches the flight of unstaying time

To chronicle moments that were, And the voice of the ages is heard in the chime,

As it wails on the startled air 1

Its fingers are pointing to a path in the sky,

And its tongue hath an utterance grand

Of the rest that remains in the mansions on high,

And the way to the beautiful land ! But the children of men, never heeding its voice

Move onward to music and mirth ;

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THE POETS AND POETRY OF KENTUCKY.

In the days of their youth and strength | " Here's a health to old whishky," she said they rejoice, as she tuck it,

Till they pass like a dream from the earth !

The old town clock -I have heard the peal ! Of its measured strike, give three at morn,

When I felt as the lone and the wretched feel, In a bleak cold world forlorn !

I have counted the tones from its iron throat, As they moaned and died on the wind, Till its music fell like a funeral note On my dreary and desolate mind !

The old town clock-let it speak again A dirge-like note for departing time. Tis a sybil voice in the mystic strain, From the grand old past sublime ! And its echoes tell us of glorious days, When the heart and the world were young ;

When minstrels chanted the heroes' praise, And the lute to love and mirth was strung ! FRANKFORT, March 3, 1870.

A FRACAS AT THE WIDDY WARD'S.

BY A REPORTER FOR THE LOUISVILLE COURIER-JOURNAL.

Ir was Mr. and Mrs. Dolony who rinted A basement and kitchen from swate Widdy Ward,

An' more illigant quarters was niver in- vinted,

Wid every thing nice that the two could afford.

They'd praties for breakfast, and cold ones for dinner,

An' for supper the cold ones made into a sthew,

And at night (it's as thrue as the divil's a sinner)

They dhrank larger beer, and a bucket- ful, too.

The widdy, hiven bless her ! an illigant leddy,

Sint out ivery night for her botthle of rhye;

And she dhrank wid her childer, as always was rheady

To take what she'd give, widout wink- ing an eye.

And nine times dhrank over a litthle drap more ;

Thin, dancing a jig on the top ov & bucket,

Come down wid a thunderin' smash on the floor.

"Hoot !" spake up Dolony ; his wife she wint scramin'

As a bushel ov phlaster fell into their beer ;

" Who the divil could live in this house, and be dhramin'

Ov comfort and illegance lingerin' here ? Bedad, it's the widdy ; St. Pathrick defend her ?

It's a shtop I'll be putting upon this to- night ;"

And he throw'd a tom cat through the widdy's back winder,

Which sheratched the young childer and put out the light.

" Bedad, I'll beat that," said the widdy advancing,

And paking below, through a crack in the wall ;

"Its the divil himself ye'll be thinking & dancin'

Before yez gets through wid the fracas at all."

Thin a tub full of schlops she snatched, the nixt minnit,

And tumbled 'em out of the door wid a yell,

And Misther Dolony was narely dhrowned in it,

For he stood where the wather (bad luck to it) fell.

Thin Misther Dolony, all ravin' and mad, he

Wint afther a warrant and sint her to jail ;

.But whin she came into the court-room be- dad, he

Felt just like a bull-dog widout ony tail. His Honor looked over the facts in the case, thin,

And towld thim they both should be fined, it was clear,

For, he said, paple niver would try to be dacent, whin Ore would dbrink whisky, and the other one beer.

JOSEPH 4 8054

200.0

CEL . FAST

THONGS & NOBLE

KENTUCKY ARTISTS,

ARTISTS OF KENTUCKY.

THE great art-centers of America are Boston, New York, and Philadelphia. Except the states of which they are each the metropolis, probably no other in the American Union has excelled Kentucky in the real merit of her por- trait painters. In this line of art, probably no American has excelled Matt. Jouett, certainly at the early age at which he was taken ; while few have equalled the richness and glow and expression of his best portraits. In the lines of genre, historical and landscape painting, while the state has furnished scenes and subjects and scenery for some of the finest pieces executed in America, her own artists, as a rule, have only in later years, begun to bestow the attention which so exhaustless and inviting a field presents and deserves. In sculpture, one artist alone, Joel T. Hart, has made the state famous-the remarkable life-likeness, fidelity, and beauty of his statues, portrait-busts, and ideal works ranking him to-day as the greatest of living American sculp- tors, perhaps only equalled among the dead by the late Hiram Powers, of Cincinnati.

Our information has been fullest about the artists who have painted in the interior of Kentucky.

MATTHEW HARRIS JOUETT, still familiarly known to many old residents as " Matt. Jouett "-the greatest and most distinguished painter of Kentucky, and equalled by few in America-dates back his ancestry and name to pioneer Kentucky. His uncle, after whom he was named, MATTHEW JOUETT, was clerk of the first legislative body assembled west of the Allegheny mountains, May 23, 1775 ;* returned, soon after, to Virginia; was a captain of the Virginia continental line in the Revolution, and killed during the war or died before 1784.+ His father, Capt. JOHN (or " Jack") JOUETT (born Dec. 7, 1754, died March 1, 1822, aged 67) was also a Revolutionary officer, and the recipient from the legislature of Virginia of an elegant sword, for gallantry and boldness in preventing the capture of that body (then in ses- sion at Charlottesville) by the raiding British Col. Tarleton ; } came to Mercer co., Ky., in 1782; was married to Sally Robards, Aug. 20, 1784; a delegate from Mercer co. to the Virginia legislature, in 1787 (five years before Ken- tucky was made a state), and again in 1790; a member of the convention at Danville, in 1788; a representative in the Kentucky legislature from Mercer county in 1792, from Woodford county, in 1795, '96, and '97, and probably also from Bath county, where he soon after made his home. He was a man of note in his day, " physically and mentally a man ;" full of humor, fond of fun, a high liver, remarkable for hospitality, the associate and companion of Clay, Jackson, Joe Daveiss, Breckinridge, and the Marshalls, indeed of all the great men of early Kentucky.

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Collins historical sketches of Kentucky. History of Kentucky: Vol. I, Part 111

Author: Collins, Lewis, 1797-1870. cn; Collins, Richard H., 1824-1889. cn Publication date: 1874 Publisher: Covington, Ky., Collins & Co. Number of Pages: 1452

Author: Collins, Lewis, 1797-1870. cn; Collins, Richard H., 1824-1889. cn
Publication date: 1874
Publisher: Covington, Ky., Collins & Co.
Number of Pages: 1452