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THE SORROWS 
 
 OF 
 
 NiANCY 
 
 By L. BOYD. 
 
 V^ 
 
 RICHMOND, VA.: 
 
 O. E. FLANHART PRINTING COMPANY, 
 
 1899. 
 
Copyright, 1899, 
 By L. BOYD. 
 
 
 '^1 
 
PREFACE TO 
 
 THE SORROWS OF NANCY. 
 
 BY L. BOYD. 
 
 History should be painted as a stern god- 
 dess, with Truth on her right hand and Mem- 
 ory on her left, while in the background should 
 appear tradition, like a wandering light, 
 glimmering along the quicksands of oblivion, 
 and in the foreground should stand an angel 
 pointing to the future. 
 
 A man's book is the visible sign of the in- 
 visible spirit that is in him. It is his brain- 
 child over which he yearns in love and pity. It 
 is an entity that may go down the ages and 
 live in the praises of men forever, or it may 
 
6 Preface. 
 
 be slain in the arena of public opinion. If the 
 writer has told the truth and his book be thus 
 cruelly slain, it will have a resurrection and 
 come forth at last triumphant. 
 
 To w^rite the truth concerning the birth 
 and birth-place of Abraham Lincoln (so called) 
 was suggested to me as follows: 
 
 I visited Washington, D. C, for the first 
 time, about ten years ago. As I was approach- 
 ing the Capitol I came in sight of the statue 
 of Chief-Justice John Marshall, seated. There, 
 thought I, is the finest likeness of President 
 Lincoln I have ever seen. I looked at it for 
 some time from all points of view before I read 
 the name. After reading the inscription, a 
 certain saying of my father's flashed across my 
 mind, and I determined to learn the truth — the 
 zcJioIc truth — concerning President Lincoln's 
 
Preface. y 
 
 ancestry. I have done so — as the fohowing 
 affidavits will show. 
 
 I believe that President Lincohi was a 
 brave, good man. I beheve also that the peo- 
 ple of the North were the only ones who re- 
 joiced at his death. The South knew, too 
 well, that at his death her only friend had de- 
 parted from the Council of those who held her 
 destiny in the hollows of their hands. 
 
 Into the ''Sorrows of Nancy" I have 
 woven facts, traditions, and fancies. Should 
 the story live, coming generations will do me 
 justice; should it die, let it sleep with the 
 pure motive that gave it birth— the love of 
 ^^'^^^^^•' L. Boyd. 
 
^he SoFrouDg ofJlaiK^y 
 
 In sight of the Blue Ridge mountains, 
 in the " Old Dominion," stood a rude, log 
 cabin, in the latter part of the last century. 
 There lived in this cabin, at that time, a young 
 woman named Lucy and her only child, 
 Nancy. Nancy was a little child, and was to 
 be pitied, for she had no legal right to her 
 father's name, which was a high-sounding one, 
 and had been coupled with honor for hundreds 
 of years before she was born. 
 
 To say that Nancy lived in sight of the 
 Blue Ridge Mountains is to say that she saw 
 from her mother's cabin the " changing 
 
10 The Sorrows of Nancy. 
 
 glories " that float along their misty tops dii 
 dawn and at eventide, and that she searched 
 for wild flowers among the shadows of their 
 deep valleys, and reflected through her whole 
 after-life a part of the granduer she had ab- 
 sorbed among the scenes of her childhood, 
 which would have refined and educated even 
 an ordinary child, and Nancy was no ordinary 
 child. 
 
 There was an old woman called Nancy, 
 who lived with Lucy, and who was called Old 
 Nancy to distinguish her from young Nancy. 
 This woman had seen better days, and had re- 
 ceived a fair education, for the times in which 
 she lived. She was young Nancy's teacher in 
 that solitary spot, and had taught her to read 
 and write. For these accomplishments voung 
 Nancy had little use, as she possessed but one 
 
The Sorrozi's of Nancy. ii 
 
 book in the world — Bunyan's " Pilgrim's Pro- 
 gress " — and one friend outside of her 
 mother's cabin, to whom she did not need to 
 write, as she saw her daily. 
 
 This friend was a negress, who lived in a 
 hut not far away from her mother's door, and 
 took care of the cows and sheep that belonged 
 to her master. 
 
 If uneducated people have a fair average 
 of good, common sense, they are invariably 
 the best story tellers — because they draw their 
 metaphors and trophes from nature, and these 
 are always original and oftentimes sublime. 
 
 This negress was named Joult, and was 
 wise beyond her day and generation. 
 
 A cold spring evening was drawing to a 
 close on the scene around Lucy's cabin; while 
 on the mountain tops there gleamed a pale 
 
12 The Sorrozi's of Nancy. 
 
 electric light among the gathering shadows. 
 Lucy chopped some wood, made a fire on the 
 wide hearth of her cabin, and made some 
 corn-meal mnsh — the only kind of food the 
 family had tasted for weeks. Afterwards she 
 took some rolls and began to spin on the big 
 wheel. Old Nancy was carding rolls in the 
 chimney corner. It is to be regretted that 
 spinning (on the big wheel) has been discontin- 
 ued, for no exercise could be more beneficial 
 to the health, nor is any other half so graceful. 
 The firelight was the only light in the room, 
 and its fitful, flickering rays fell on Lucy's 
 lythe form as it went back and forth to the 
 whirr of the wheel. Her long hair, unbound, 
 fell in waves far below her waist. The expres- 
 sion of her face was melancholy in the ex- 
 treme, and added to the charm of her beautv. 
 
The Sorrozi's of Nancy. ij 
 
 There was a knock at the door. Little Nancy 
 ran to open it, and Joult walked in and sat 
 down in the corner opposite to old Nancy. 
 She did this with an air of condescension — for 
 she belonged to an aristocrat, a very rich man 
 in the neighborhood, and felt herself far above 
 the family she visited, and she was, certainly, 
 much better dressed than any member of it. 
 Little Nancy drew a stool to the side of Joult, 
 who had filled and lighted her pipe, and was 
 smoking in contemplative mood, and had said 
 nothing since her ertrance, but " Good even' 
 to ye." Directly little Nancy looked in her 
 face and said : " Aunt Joult, what's your 
 soul? " Joult took her pipe from her mouth, 
 and, looking at Nancy with a puzzled expres- 
 sion on her jet-black face, replied : " Lord, 
 Gawd Amighty, chile, w'y hit's youah sper- 
 
/^ The Sorrows of Nancy. 
 
 ret — you a great, big gal en kin read en write, 
 (loan know dat?" "Did you ever see one, 
 Aunt Joult?" Joult thought a while before 
 answering: "Yes, I did onct. I wur livin' 
 right heah in dis heah cabin," pointing in the 
 direction of her hut with her i)i])e, " en I done 
 ben to a funel. Jess done die — po fellah — en T 
 wur late gittin' home — en jes' es I git in de 
 valley — at de foot ob de snail shell — I seed 
 sumpen go ' bop ' by me — en dah ! bless 
 Gawd, I see a boss douten a head on 'im gwin 
 by me lek de win'. My boss wur dat scud dat 
 he rared up — he rared up — en me specin' 
 ebery minit fur to go clean ober his head. But 
 I hilt on, do — en when I git home I doan git 
 done trimblin de whole night." Little Nancy 
 looked in the fire and seemed lost in thought. 
 " Aunt Joult," said she, " will you be a horse 
 
The Sorrows of Nancy. 15 
 
 when you die? " " A boss ! Listen at dat now ! 
 A boss! Who say I gwine be a boss? I not 
 gwine talk long ob you ef you talk dat away. 
 Ole Miss say — en she know — dat I gwine be 
 white es she am when I dies." Old Nancy, to 
 pacify her, said : '' Tell us about the fort, Joult, 
 Nancy is a child, and talks like one." " Dat 
 too long," said Joult, '' but ef you wan't me 
 fur to tell hit, I kin." Lucy stopped the wheel. 
 Old Nancy laid aside her cards, and little 
 Nancy put her elbows on Joult's knee, and 
 over all the firelight played with flickering, 
 fitful blaze. The picture was one to which 
 Rembrant could have done justice — as he of 
 all the artists of the world knew how to 
 paint shadows. 
 
 Old Joult began, after lighting her pipe: 
 " When ole Moss come heah to settle, he lef 
 
i6 The Sorrozus of Nancy. 
 
 ole Miss in de settlemint at de Fort — en his 
 niggahs, too — en he buy me en Jess on de 
 way heah. So we come on, we did, wid ole 
 Moss en a passel ob po' white men wha' he 
 fotch along wid 'im fur to build his cabin — 
 case we 'bleged fur to lib in a cabin till we git 
 de big house built whut Ole Moss lib in now. 
 W^ell, suh ! when de cabin wur done — hit wur 
 chunked wid stones en mud f'um top to bot- 
 tom, en jis' little holes, fur light to come in, 
 'bout big es a man's head en bouten es high 
 fum de flo'. Ole Moss, he hab de flo' ob de 
 cabin built a considabul way fum de groun', 
 en you 'bleged fur to go up steps fur to git in 
 at de do'. I foun' out whut Ole Moss do dat 
 fur atter while. We hab a cow en a hog or 
 two, en chickens, en, suh ! we hab a rooster 
 whut could outcrow Ginil Washinton, an he 
 
The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 17 
 
 crow all dc time — hit 'peared to me, en rared 
 'roun' continaly, lek he wan' to light. He 
 cotch hit fur dat foohshtnest. Ef he done 
 been a peacable roostah, he mought a ben 
 hvin' to-day. Oh, yes, we hab a dog, too, 
 name Towser, en Ole Moss think de worle 
 en all ob dat dog. He nevah mek no noise; he 
 up en bites when de time comes. Well, suh ! 
 one evenin' a man come ridin' past Ole 
 Moss's cabin wid his boss all in a lathah ob 
 sweat, en hollah to Ole ]\Ioss dat de Injuns 
 wur a-comin' — dat dee done kill a whole pas- 
 sel ob people, en wur a-comin' dis away, en 
 dat he bettah mek his way to de settlemint — 
 en den he rid on, he do, et de top ob his voice. 
 Ole Moss, he look up at de sun, en say: " Hit 
 am not more'n a hour high, en he not got time 
 to mek de Fort, en he not gwine risk hit." He 
 
i8 The Sorrows of Nancy. 
 
 call all de men en Jess and me, en say : " Kill 
 de hogs; tek up de flo', en kill right undah hit, 
 so de Injuns cayn't see de blood, en drive de 
 cow into de woods, en de hosses, drive dem, 
 too, en kill de chickens en put em undah de 
 ilo', too, en Towser — poor Towser — I hab fur 
 to kill Towser, or loss de life ob ebery man 
 Jack ob us." I seed Jess look kinder quare, en 
 I gib 'im a nudge. " Did they kill Towser, 
 Aunt Joult, did — " " Now, hush, little Nancy, 
 I gwine tell you treckly. You jes' listen. I's 
 a-talkin' now." She paused and put a straw 
 through the stem of her pipe, filled it leisurely, 
 lighted it l)y putting a coal of fire on it, began 
 to puff and resumed her story. 
 
 " De fust cotch de hogs, en tuck en knock 
 'em in de head en put 'em undah de flo' en cut 
 de throats, en den me en Jess, we climb up de 
 
The Sorrozvs of Nancy. ip 
 
 tree — case de chickens done gone to roost by 
 dat time — kaze bit wur nurly dark. We tuck 
 de cbicken by de neck en choke 'em en den 
 fling 'em down to Ole Moss en he cotch 'em. 
 I cotch dat roostah. I do declar' — I wur right 
 sorry fur 'im, so I wur, caze he fit lek a man 
 en nuvah screech en squall lek de hens — he jes' 
 fit en say nothin'. He lek to get away onct or 
 twict. Ole Moss say, ' Joult, why'n you fling 
 down de roostah?' I say, ' I's comin', Ole 
 Moss.' So I belt de roostah twill I got to de 
 las' limb ob de tree, en ban' 'im to Ole Moss — 
 kaze I not gwine kill 'im. I nevah kin furgit 
 dat roostah, kaze he wur a purty thing en crow 
 lek bis wanpike done been mek outen brass, 
 stridden meat, en stuff. 
 
 "' Den Jess he turn to Ole Moss en say : 
 ' Ole Moss, sarvant, sub ! I gwine tek de 
 
20 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 
 
 bosses — ride one en lead t'other — en dribe de 
 cow a piece in de woods, en leab 'em, en take 
 Towser en go on, ef you gwine gib youah 
 cornsent — kaze Towser he am nurdly people, 
 anyhow, en I cayrn't kill 'im, Ole Moss; cndccd 
 I cayrn't.' Ole Moss's eyes farly wartered 
 Avhen he say, ' Gawd be wid you, Jess, you kin 
 go.' So Jess he cotch de bosses en druv de 
 cow off a piece, en Towser be galloped along 
 lek he done been tried fur 'is life en jes' gut 
 loose, ^^^e'uns all got undab de fio' en lay 
 down. De men kick up sich a dust a gittin' 
 undab de fio' an' a puttin' down de puncbins 
 afterwurds dat I up en sneeze — en, sub! Ole 
 Moss he gimme such a plot in de side dat I 
 tuck a stitch in bit — en dab I wur, en feared 
 to hollah ! A\'ay long in de night we beam 'em 
 comin'. Dee kick up a powful bellabolu, but 
 
The Sorrows of^ Nancy. 21 
 
 no dog bark, no hen cackle, no hog grunt; 
 but way off in de woods Specklefoot she bawd 
 lek she wan me fur to come to 'er. De Injuns 
 come up to de house en dim' up en look in 
 de holes; all vvur dark en de cayrn't see nuffin. 
 I wur feared de mought hear my heart a- 
 beatin' — kaze I hean hit my own sef — bip, bip, 
 bipetee-bip — en I wur afeared to draw my 
 breaf. Treckly de yallah dogs busts de do' 
 wide open en walk right squa' acrost wha' I 
 wur a-layin'. Den de struck a flint — we hearn 
 'em — en I say to myself, 'We'uns done clean 
 gone — dee'll git us now.' But, no, suh, he tar 
 'roun' en hollah lek de gwane bust deeselves, 
 en den de went ofT jes' es dee come. We 
 nevah crawl outen dat place till broad day- 
 light, en den w^e crope out, en Ole Moss tuck 
 us to de settlemint. Dat's w-ha' I seed dat 
 
22 The Sorrcnvs of Nancy. 
 
 awful snake. I gwine home now. I gwine tell 
 YOU 'bout dat, little Nancy, anucklah night. 
 Tell you whut ! Ef little Nancy tek de right 
 cayre ob herself, she gwine be a beauty. Dat 
 she am." 
 
 There was a rocky bridle path just at the 
 foot of the hill on which Lucy's cabin stood, 
 and close to the path that led down to it grew 
 a spreading beech-tree. In this tree Nancy 
 had watched a pair of robins build their nest 
 for three successive springs. The nest w\as 
 finished now, Nancy knew, and the mother 
 bird sitting on it, for Cockrobin sang to her 
 morning and evening, and filled the air with 
 the melody of love. And, what time he was 
 not foraging for dainties to regale her appe- 
 tite withal, he strutted in the sunshine on the 
 bare trunk of a fallen tree. Nancv loved to 
 
Tlie Sorrows of Nancy. 2j 
 
 watch him. The httle mite was filled with 
 pride; he was soon to be a father; he would 
 hand down his name to future generations. 
 At that thought he hopped along a few steps, 
 and then stood straight up and looked Hke 
 a fat man with his hands in his pockets strut- 
 ting the streets of some great city thinking: 
 " I have filled my barns. I have builded 
 houses; my children are coming on, and I shall 
 never want." Cockrobin snatched a worm 
 that crawled before him and flew to his mate, 
 and while she devoured it he sang his loudest 
 notes. If he had only known what was before 
 him, they would have been notes of farewell. 
 He flew back to the log, and began to strut, 
 as before. On the mountain side, bathed in 
 the light of early morning, was the Judas-tree. 
 She flaunted her beautiful dress in the face of 
 
2/j. The Sorrows of Nancy. 
 
 other trees less grandly clad, as if to say: 
 " Look at me ! I am the loveliest tree in the 
 forest, and I have lovers whose names are 
 countless." An old tree, clothed in grave, 
 dark green, whose branches towered above 
 the Judas-tree in mighty strength, seemed to 
 shake its head at her, and say: " Your beauty 
 is short-lived. I shall be here when the places 
 that know you now shall know you no more 
 forever; for mine is the beauty of strength." 
 The young trees in their pale-green garniture 
 laughed back at the Judas-tree — as if they 
 knew a thing or two — while below the wild 
 flowers and the sweet Anemone kept their 
 own counsel. Cockrobin's time had come. 
 Never more ; oh, never more ! should he fly 
 from the Sunny South and build his nest in the 
 shelter of the Blue Ridge, nor lead his young 
 
Tlic Sorrows of Nancy. 2^ 
 
 in its shadowy valleys, nor cleave the air of 
 their misty tops, for the sharp crack of a rifle 
 v/as heard, and he lay weltering in his blood. 
 Nancy nttered no cry. She ran to Vvdiere he 
 lay when he fell from the tree trunk and took 
 him to her bosom, and his life-blood flowed 
 above a heart tender and true in its love for 
 him. Ker silent tears fell fast. A boy about 
 fifteen came out of the thicket at the foot of 
 the mountains and w^alked swiftly to Nancy's 
 side. Her beauty kept him silent a moment, 
 and then he said, w^ith a deprecating look, " I 
 did not know you were here or I should not 
 have killed the bird. There are thousands 
 about here. I will catch you a young one, and 
 you can put it in a cage." "' No," said Nancy, 
 " another bird wouldn't feed his mate in that 
 tree," pointing to the beech with her blood- 
 
26 The Sorrows of Nancy. 
 
 stained hand. " She'll die; I know she will." 
 And she wept ah'esh. Death and life are 
 mysteries to a child, and death is a hopeless, 
 awful mystery. A child, as well as his elders, 
 perceives, when he is brought in contact with 
 his icy breath, that gone never to return is 
 written on all things that he touches with his 
 invisible hand, and while his grief is of short 
 duration, its unreasoning depths know no con- 
 solation. At length the boy said cheerfully: 
 "Come ! let us bury Cockrobin with the honors 
 of war." Nancy was so much awed by the 
 dress and manner of the boy that she laid her 
 dead friend in his outstretched hand and fol- 
 lowed him to the foot of the beech-tree with- 
 out a word. There the boy hollowed a little 
 grave and laid the dead bird in it and covered 
 him over. Such a little, little grave as it was, 
 
The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 2j 
 
 and only the grave of a little bird, for whom 
 there was no resurrection (?), and who was not 
 allowed to live out the span of life his Father, 
 the Infinite One, had vouchsafed to him here. 
 The boy turned to Nancy, saying, " Don't cry, 
 little girl; I am sorry." Children understand 
 one another readily, and are good judges of 
 human nature. Nancy knew that the boy 
 was sorry for what he had done, but she could 
 not forgive him just yet. " What is your 
 name, and where do you live? " " My name is 
 Nancy, and I live in the cabin on the hill." 
 '' My name is Andrew," said the boy, at part- 
 ing. They went their different ways — they 
 zvho zvere to inftuence one of the greatest nations 
 of the earth. 
 
 Nancy wxnt to Joult's cabin and found 
 her smoking in her doorway, and wept as she 
 
28 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 
 
 poured out her griefs to her. Her intuitions 
 were unerring. Joult was fuh of sympathy for 
 her, and, after pufting a wdiile, she began the 
 task of consolation. 
 
 *' Lemme tell you, Nancy, dat robin you's 
 so sorry fur gwine git annuddah mate fore 
 long, lessen she's not lek people. Whut do 
 she know 'bout deaf, en whut do she kuah? 
 Why yistiddy I sot right heah in dis heah do' 
 en I seed sumpen dat sot me a-thinkin'. You 
 sees dat rail yondah? Well, suh ! yistiddy 
 mawnin' a po' worm wur a humpin' hissef 
 along on dat dah rail en a doin' fur hissef, en 
 along come Mistew Robin a doin' fur hissef, 
 too. He see dat worm en dat worm see him, 
 en knowin' whut he wur attah he fall offen dat 
 rail en hide hissef undah hit, en Mistew Robin 
 he fiy off — he do. Treckly de worm say to 
 
The Sorrozi's of Nancy. 2g 
 
 liissef, ' De robin done gone, now I gwine 
 home.' He crawl out — he do — en gun fur to 
 mek his way crost de log — when down come 
 Mistew Robin en snatch him ball headed in a 
 minnit. He tuck 'im — he do — en he roll 'im 
 in de dus' — he roll 'im in de dus' — jes' lek Ole 
 Moss hab de niggahs do de hogs in de hot 
 wattah when dee done dead en cayan't holp 
 deeselves." Joult puffed and puffed, and 
 Nancy, thinking that she had finished, rose to 
 go, when Joult resumed : " Yes, indeed, honey, 
 people's mean en robins am mean, wdien he 
 gits a chance. I boun' some ole robin done 
 been a skylarkin' 'bout dat widdah long befo' 
 dis, chile." 
 
 That night Joult did not make her appear- 
 ance at Lucy's cabin, and little Nancy retired 
 early. It was her birthday, but she did not 
 
JO TJic Sorrozvs of Nancy. 
 
 know it. It had always been a day of mourn- 
 ing with Lucy as often as its anniversary came 
 around. She did not spin that night, but sat 
 before the dying fire, and grieved in silence. 
 Old Nancy replenished the fire and sat down 
 near Lucy, and put her hand on her bowed 
 head and said kindly: " Lucy, tell your story; 
 it will do you good. Tell it, Lucy, now that 
 little Nancy is asleep; it will ease your mind. 
 " There is little to tell. You know, Nancy, 
 that the best blood of Virginia runs in little 
 Nancy's veins, but that doesn't comfort me. I 
 want her to know, when I am dead, and that 
 will be before long, that I fell through my af- 
 fections, and that I have suffered enough since 
 that time to atone for the sins of the whole 
 world. You know that Mr. M was hand- 
 some, and far above me in station, and he 
 
The Sorrozvs of Nancy, ji 
 
 used all the arts he was master of to entice 
 me from the path of right. But, oh, Nancy, 
 lie loved me — indeed he did — and I loved him. 
 I should have been as willing to die for him 
 as Christ was to die for the sins of the world, 
 and God knows it. I proved it, for I became a 
 living sacrifice for his sake and suffer more 
 every day than if I died. The night before 
 he went away he came here; he made the 
 sweetest music on the bugle that was ever 
 heard. It echoed among the valleys as if it 
 came from Heaven and the angels were calling 
 the dead — the sainted dead, Nancy — only they 
 shall hear the angels at the last. He came in 
 and took little Nancy in his arms and kissed 
 her, and traced his own likeness in her fea- 
 tures. He was tender and kind; and, oh, 
 Nancy, I could not reproach him. I loved 
 
j^ The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 
 
 him, but I stood in awe of him as weU, and 
 that made me love him all the better — I be- 
 lieve. When he told me good-bye, he said : ' I 
 am going- to the frontier, Lucy, to meet dan- 
 ger, and it may be death : if I live I shall come 
 l)ack and marry you and take you across the 
 ocean, and there we shall educate little Nancy 
 and be happy. If I fall and fill a soldier's 
 grave, my fate will be better than I deserve 
 for my treatment of you. Should I survive 
 and return, you shall hear my bugle sound 
 among the mountains long before you see me. 
 Dead or alive, I icill come back to you, and 
 the notes of the bugle shall call you to come to 
 me, wherever I shall be ! " 
 
 "And, Nancy, I never saw him again; but 
 I have heard his bugle blowing and the 
 sound dying away in a solemn wail among the 
 
Tlie Sorrozvs of Nancy. jj 
 
 valleys of the Blue Ridge often and often, 
 when you were asleep, and it seemed to call 
 me." 
 
 It was apparent to old Nancy that night, 
 for the first time, that Lucy was failing, and 
 that the end was drawing near. 
 
 All the poetry little Nancy had ever read 
 was written in the scenery about her mother's 
 cabin. The mornings that broke calm and 
 still in springtime over the tall peaks of the 
 Blue Ridge, and the lands that lay below them 
 were, to her, Idyls of Youth and Love. The 
 young trees were her friends and the old 
 ones were her counselors. Those that lay 
 dead taught her a lesson of death that was 
 not repulsive. The summer, with its burning 
 sun and noontide brightness, told her of the 
 prime of life, and the burden and heat of the 
 
^4- The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 
 
 day that came with mature years. Autumn 
 sighed of hfe's decline and of a beauty which 
 was fading, and had put on gorgeous colors to 
 hide the ravages of time. Winter, cold and 
 cheerless, to her, was an old man standing on 
 the borders of a rushing river, whose dark and 
 turbid waters, only, divided him from a 
 Better Land. 
 
 And what in all that world of grandeur 
 spoke to Nancy of Immortality? Not the flower 
 that dropped its seed and died. No. Another 
 plant of its kind came, but not the same one. 
 Gone ncz^er to return was written above its 
 grave. She had often and often watched a 
 worm make its own coffin; but she did not 
 know that the worm lay down in it, sure of a 
 resurrection. Another, wiser than she, taught 
 her that long afterwards. 
 
The Sorro'ws of Nancy. 35 
 
 One evening in the early fall old and young 
 Nancy and Lucy sat under the beech-tree 
 that was near the bridle-path at the foot of the 
 hill. A grand gentleman, such as Nancy had 
 never seen before, accompanied by Andrew, 
 the boy who had killed the robin, rode up to 
 where they were sitting and stopped. Andrew 
 asked to be directed to the spring, as he 
 wanted some water. Little Nancy's eyes were 
 fixed on the old gentleman. His long hair 
 was caught at the 1)ack of his head with a 
 ribbon, and he was dressed in Continental 
 style — that grand old fashion that made a 
 common man look like a gentleman, and a 
 gentleman look like a hero. He had on gold 
 knee buckles, and his shoes w^ere adorned with 
 the same precious metal. How long little 
 Nancv would have stood there taking in every 
 
j6 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 
 
 detail of the old man's dress and features is not 
 known. Andrew touched her, and she roused 
 herself, and led the way to the spring. 
 
 While the children were gone, the old gen- 
 tleman said to Lucy: ""Whose child is that, 
 Madame? " " Mine," said Lucy. " Who was 
 her father? " said the old gentleman, fixing 
 Lucy w^th his piercing black eyes. Lucy 
 covered her worn face with her hands, and all 
 the parts of her face and neck that were visible 
 were covered by a deep blush. Nancy and 
 Andrew soon returned, Andrew carrying a 
 bucket of water with a white gourd in it, hav- 
 ing a long handle — the only thing Lucy pos- 
 sessed to serve water in. Andrew handed the 
 old gentleman a gourdful of water; he held it 
 in his hand and stared at little Nancy. What 
 could have moved him so? Nancv's face was 
 
The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 37 
 
 beautiful, but in looking at it the grand gen- 
 tleman lost his self-control, and dashed the 
 gourd to pieces on the rocky bridle-path be- 
 low, and rode away. Andrew gave little 
 Nancy a pitying look, and then mounted his 
 horse and followed his father. '' Who is that, 
 Aunt Nancy?" asked little Nancy. Old 
 Nancy might have said truly, " That is your 
 erandfather " ; but she said simply, ''Judge 
 
 Chief-Justice M ." '' Is Andrew his son? " 
 
 continued little Nancy. " No, he is the son 
 of his adoption, and not of kin at all. He is 
 the son of an Englishman, who came here and 
 
 died, and Judge M made him his heir 
 
 at law after his own son was killed on the 
 frontier, some years ago." 
 
 Lucy rose and tottered, as she walked 
 slowly to the cabin. She had a distressing 
 
j8 The Sorrows of Nancy. 
 
 cough, and was growing weaker and thinner 
 day by day. When the leaves began to fall she 
 grew rapidly worse. She had let go the anchor 
 of life and was drifting away. It was soon ap- 
 parent, even to little Nancy, that Lucy was 
 very ill, and Lucy knew and rejoiced that she 
 was soon to make her last earthly atonement 
 for the sin of her youth. Old Nancy and Joult 
 prepared such simples as they had been taught 
 were remedies for consumption, but they failed 
 to relieve the sufiferer. Little Nancy was 
 thoughtful beyond her years, as solitary chil- 
 dren always' are. She had learned many les- 
 sons from mother Nature, but nothing had 
 taught her to face her mother's death. She 
 could not bear to contemplate such a calamity 
 as her loss. 
 
 The great events of this life are solitary. 
 
The Sorrows of Nancy. jp 
 
 Every human being comes from the shore of a 
 past eternity alone, passes through Time — 
 a stranger in a strange land — goes alone and 
 without his volition into a future eternity, 
 and there none but the dead may follow him. 
 
 The grief one feels for the dead must be 
 borne alone; iniaided one must conquer it, or 
 it must conquer him, and no man may help 
 him. None can win honor for another and 
 none can lead a blameless life, except for him- 
 self. The good deeds of one's ancestors may 
 reflect honor upon a man; but, if he would 
 really possess honor, Jic nmst zvin it for him- 
 self. It took the Son of God to atone for 
 the sins of the world, and He suffered death 
 alone. 
 
 Poor little Nancy! She had but three 
 friends in the world, and now she was about 
 
40 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 
 
 to lose the best one of them. Out of her 
 mother's presence she wept bitter tears. 
 
 Her dying mother lay on her hard, straw 
 bed awaiting the solemn change she knew 
 must come, and her one thought was Nancy. 
 "Oh, little Nancy! What will become of 
 little Nancy? " Her sufferings were intense. 
 Her bones wore through their covering, and 
 her body was ready for the grave, while her 
 soul retained its healthful vigor. " These 
 vile bodies! " How they serve the souls that 
 inhabit them ! They often and often shut 
 them up in silence and darkness — eye and ear 
 refusing to do their office — and the poor soul, 
 in its watchtower of clay, is unable to signal 
 to those about it, and is glad to go to the 
 deeper darkness and longer silence of the 
 grave, even if the grave should mean ever- 
 lasting sleep. 
 
The Sorroivs of Nancy. 4.1 
 
 The anniversary of the Christ child's 
 birth brought release to Lucy. She said to 
 old Nancy on Christmas-Eve, " Stay with me 
 to-night, Nancy, I shall be at rest in the 
 morning." 
 
 The moon shone high in the heavens, and 
 about midnight Lucy asked Joult to open 
 the door. A long track of moonlight crossed 
 the floor and touched the dying woman's face. 
 She lifted her wasted arms, as if embracing 
 some one, and her face was radiant with love, 
 and so her soul passed — unseen by mortal 
 eyes — into the immensity of space. Just as 
 she died, old Nancy and little Nancy and Joult 
 heard the sound of a bugle dying away 
 among the dark valleys of the Blue Ridge. 
 
 Lucy was buried under the shade of the 
 beech-tree. Slaves made her grave, and the 
 
42 The Sorrows of Nancy, 
 
 rude coffin in which her body lay. They 
 placed the clods of the valley above the wreck 
 of what had once been a beautiful, innocent 
 g-irl, and they did it reverently and tenderly. 
 There was no minister to read at the grave 
 of this poor outcast this most sublime passage 
 ever written : 
 
 '' I am the resurrection and the life, saith 
 the Lord : he that believeth in Me, though he 
 were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever 
 livcth and bclicvcth in inc shall never die.'' 
 
 The dome of Heaven was her mausoleum 
 and above her grave was whispered : " I am 
 the resurrection and the life," and the winds 
 answered Resurgam. 
 
 Through the winter that followed Lucy's 
 death old Nancy and little Nancy barely lived. 
 Joult divided her scanty store with them, and 
 
Uijl///^^'-,j^rf,j,.it#i<?' 
 
 ^'-"'^^^^umm' 
 
 ^^^#wrSS*S 
 
TJic Sorroz^'s of Nancy. 45 
 
 in every way acted the part of a Christian to 
 these poverty-stricken tenants of the wayside 
 cabin. But the woh' hovv-led at their door, day 
 and night, and they were often brought face 
 to face with that gaunt visitant, and alone they 
 could not have driven him away. 
 
 Spring came early that year, and was 
 unusually bright and warm. The mate of the 
 " Widder Robin " built his nest in the beech- 
 tree and sang as of yore, but his notes were a 
 dirge to Xancy, for he sang above her 
 mother's grave. 
 
 As the season advanced and the wild 
 flowers bloomed, Xancy took the brush that 
 had been piled above her mother's resting- 
 place to prevent the stock from trampling it, 
 and planted flowers about it, and built a rude 
 fence around it, and knelt reverently there to 
 
4^ The Sorrozvs of N^ancy. 
 
 pray, morning and night. The Hghts that 
 guided this daughter of the wilderness were 
 dim, but the All-Seeing eyes beheld her. Her 
 greatest trouble was that she could not sepa- 
 rate her mother's soul n'om her body — her 
 reason refused to do it, and her grief had in it 
 a tinge of despair. 
 
 Joult came down to Lucy's grave one 
 evening, when Nancy was weeping by it and 
 sat down beside her to offer consolation. 
 
 " Nancy," said she, '' youah mamy's grave 
 look monstus purty sence you done put de 
 flowers on hit. En I tell you whut ! she gwine 
 sleep jes' es well right dah — undah dat tree — 
 es ef she hab a great big mountment on 'er — 
 en she gwine hear Gable when he blow jis es 
 well en git out betteh den ef de stones hat- 
 tah fly when she wake up. I feels fur you, 
 honey, I rally does, chile." 
 
The Sorrows of Nancy. 4.7 
 
 PART II. 
 
 How old Nancy and little Nancy came to 
 Kentucky, and with whom is not known. 
 Certain it is, however, that in the year 18 — 
 they were living, with other women, in a cabin 
 on the line that divides Clark county from 
 Bourbon. After living in sight of the Blue 
 Ridge, no scenery would ever be complete to 
 Nancy without mountains in the distance. 
 Standing in the cabin door, she might see as 
 fair a prospect as the earth holds — rolling 
 meadow lands, covered with the richest blue 
 grass, shaded by trees of oak, maple, beech, 
 and elm that had taken centuries to mature, 
 and along Strode's Creek towered, then, as 
 
^8 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 
 
 now, the giant sycamore. There were no farm 
 houses in the near vista, but on the air 
 was borne the hum of the water-mill, 
 whose wheel the waters of Strode's Creek 
 turn from sunup till sundown. It is built of 
 stone, and its quaint structure adorned, and 
 still adorns, a scene of surpassing loveliness. 
 This mill was named Thatcher's Mill in honor 
 of its builder and owner. 
 
 If Strode's Creek — often Strode's River — 
 could speak, it could throw light upon a cer- 
 tain story that will now always remain a 
 mystery. But it does not speak : it murmurs — 
 murmurs through the pleasant lands, as it had 
 done hundreds and hundreds of years before 
 the white man appeared on its banks to plant 
 the standards of civilization and freedom. It 
 murmurs and complains and runs its way to 
 
The Sorrows of Nancy. 4^ 
 
 meet other streams that flow onward to the 
 sea, and are swallowed up in the greater mys- 
 teries of its unfathomable depths that shall 
 keep their secrets till the sea and the grave 
 give up their dead. 
 
 One morning in October of the year 18 — 
 the winds were shrill and rustled the leaves 
 as if they were tired of their clinging to their 
 friends, the trees, and making a pretence of 
 living, and sent them whirling and eddying to 
 the ground, as if they bade them get into 
 their graves and make way for the new, young 
 kings of spring that were soon to reign in 
 their stead. 
 
 Old Nancy helped little Nancy with a 
 bundle of soiled clothes and a great iron kettle 
 down to Strode's Creek, near the mill. Old 
 Nancy, it was apparent, was getting infirm, 
 
50 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 
 
 and her devotion to little Nancy seemed the 
 one link that still bound her to life. The old 
 woman put a stone under each leg of the 
 kettle, and, while little Nancy was gone to the 
 cabin for live coals to start a fire under it, she 
 filled it with water from the creek. Young 
 Nancy started the fire, drew her lythe form 
 to its full height, and looked to the East, and 
 the scene before her faded away, and in its 
 stead the cabin on the mountain side w^as 
 before her, and the mists of a spring morning 
 were rolling aw^ay from the distant peaks of 
 the Blue Ridge. She could see her mother's 
 grave and could hear the birds sing as she 
 had heard them in spring times long past. 
 Old Nancy regarded her with doting fondness, 
 then approached her, and took her in her em- 
 brace, saying : " You look like your poor 
 
Tlie Sorrozvs of Nancy. 51 
 
 mother, Nancy, but more like your father to- 
 day than I ever saw you look before. Some- 
 thing's going to happen." Old Nancy hob- 
 bled off to the cabin, and young Nancy stood 
 where she had left her, still with her face in 
 the direction of Virginia, and thinking of her 
 mother's grave at the foot of the mountains. 
 When the fire began to crackle and burn, it 
 seemed to recall Nancy to a sense of her duty, 
 and the day's work before her, and she took up 
 a bucket and went to Strode's Creek. As she 
 stooped over the stream, her brown, curling 
 hair fell down and swept the water, and in 
 that attitude she v/as struck motionless with 
 her eyes fixed on an upper window of 
 Thatcher's Mill. She had heard Andrew's 
 voice, and knew it after years of separation. 
 She listened, and, without filling her bucket, 
 
^2 The Sorrozi's of Nancy. 
 
 she rose to flee. As she stood up, Andrew's 
 face appeared at the window. Nancy's dress 
 was ragged and worn, but Andrew knew the 
 fair face and form, that nothing, not even 
 death, could disguise from his recognition, 
 and he was beside her in a moment, had 
 clasped her hand, and looked into her eyes 
 with something very like love, and with un- 
 mistakable admiration in his own dark eyes. 
 
 The guardian angel of the outcast is tardy 
 in his duty, and often forgetful of it entirely. 
 Death is the only thing in the universe that is 
 as strong as love. Why did he not do battle 
 for Nancy on that fatal day, when she met 
 Andrew, and claim her for his own, and save 
 her from what followed? 
 
 Nothing in the slumberous air of that 
 October dav warned Nancy. She did as 
 
The Sorrozvs of Nancy. S3 
 
 women have ever done, since the beginning 
 of time — loved her affinity, no matter in what 
 station she found him. 
 
 Washington Irving says : " A w^oman's 
 whole life is a history of the affections." If 
 that be a woman's life, what is a man's? Is the 
 first half of it a history of unbridled passion, 
 and the last half a record of unavailing regret 
 and remorse? 
 
 If life were not such a serious puzzle, it 
 would be enough to make one smile to read 
 the discussions between man and woman as 
 to the superiority of the mental powers in man 
 to those in woman. Men and women, intel- 
 lectually, are not alike, and, therefore, may 
 not be compared; as things dissimilar differ, 
 not in degree, but in kind. A man has reason, 
 which is the power that enables him to ratioci- 
 
S4- The Sorrows of Nancy. 
 
 nate : a woman has intuition, that stands side 
 by side with inspiration. A man toils to a 
 conclusion, and when he gets there, he can 
 point out step by step the road he came, and 
 prides himself on the mental strength he has 
 wasted and the way he has marked with his 
 blood-stained footprints. He exults over 
 woman, because he is stronger than she, and 
 because he has traveled where she can never 
 follow. Has he? Has he really walked where 
 she can never tread? Yes — when he hews and 
 builds and exerts his physical strength, only. 
 But the empire of mind is woman's sphere. A 
 woman's mind flies to a conclusion, and the 
 path by which she arrives at it is like the way 
 of a bird in the trackless air that is lost for- 
 ever, but her deductions are as infallible as 
 man's. Man, with his attribute of reason, and 
 
The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 55 
 
 woman, with her swift intuitions, when joined 
 together, after being drawn together by 
 mutual affinity, make a complete spiritual cir- 
 cle, as God intended they should do, and each 
 is the complement of the other, neither the 
 superior. 
 
 Nancy washed the clothes and hung them 
 to dry on the bushes; then went to a spring, 
 which has since been called '' Nancy's Well," 
 and sat down to rest, leaning against a tree. 
 She was never able in after life to tell whether 
 she cognized what appeared to her with her 
 waking or her sleeping vision. 
 
 She was thinking of Andrew, and of how 
 handsome he looked as he rode away to 
 Winchester, and smiled as she remembered his 
 earnest promise to return, when all at once 
 there shown out of the shadows of twilight, 
 
^6 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 
 
 that were gathering", the face of a man. The 
 face looked hke Andrew's, but not so striking 
 as his, except in expression. The eyes were 
 tender and infinitely sad and prophetic. Then 
 she saw, or thought she saw, a sea of human 
 faces, all turned one way, and the man lay 
 dead, his loving eyes closed forever by the 
 hand of an assassin. 
 
 At that time, Winchester and Clark county 
 were infants in their swadling clothes, but 
 they were being trained and educated in the 
 way they should go by Robert Elkin and the 
 Traveling Baptist Church. How few men, in 
 this world, have literally gone about doing 
 good as did Robert Elkin — who rests now 
 forever from his labors. His grave is in an 
 open field, and soon the traces of it will be 
 lost. 
 
The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 57 
 
 One night late in this same fall there was 
 preaching at Thatchers Mill, and the old 
 divine, Robert Elkin, conducted the services. 
 A preacher, in that early day, always drew 
 large, if not attentive, audiences. There were 
 no places of amusement in Clark county at 
 that time, and men and women flocked to 
 every place that promised excitement or 
 recreation. Since civilization has spread its 
 wings over Clark county the young citizens 
 and citizenesses still long after the diversion 
 w^hich change of place may bring, and a party 
 of young people will pay large sums of money 
 to get away from civilized life and to play 
 the savage in tents — make-believe wigwams — 
 on the Kanawha River, in Virginia — proving, 
 clearly, that a streak of savage blood still 
 lingers in the veins of all the children of men. 
 
^8 The Sorroivs of Nancy. 
 
 Robert Elkin's text that night was this 
 sentence : " Christ was a man of sorrows and 
 acquainted with grief." The truths of the 
 Gospel of peace on earth and good will to man 
 are not perceived by the same vision that 
 takes in the material things of this life. In- 
 tuition is the eyes of the soul, and faith is 
 purely subjective. Robert Elkin's spiritual 
 eyes had been opened. He had never heard of 
 Confucius, who taught a religion similar to 
 the Christian religion, five hundred years be- 
 fore Christ was born — " The Light of Asia " 
 was nothing to him. He told the simple story 
 of Christ's birth, life, death, and resurrection, 
 and the people were moved to tears. Nancy 
 heard him and wept for joy — that she should 
 see her mother again. Andrew was there, 
 but his spiritual eyes were closed, that he 
 
The Sorrozvs of^ Nancy. ^g 
 
 might not see. When the sermon was done, 
 and a stirring song began, in which the whole 
 congregation united in singing, an old negro 
 woman rose up in a corner of the mill, clap- 
 ped her hands, and cried in a loud voice : 
 " Gawd bless the whole world." Then Nancy 
 saw Joult, the friend and comforter of her 
 childhood. 
 
 When the people began to disperse, some 
 one took a candle to light the preacher to his 
 horse, and Joult saw and recognized Andrew 
 hiding in the shadow^ of the mill, as if waiting 
 for some one. She paused to watch him. 
 Wlien the people were all gone, she saw him 
 leave his hiding place, and swiftly follow 
 Nancy. 
 
 " Dah, now^ ! " said Joult, ''look at dat 
 snake in de grass. I gwine 'prove Nancy 
 when I sees her — dat I is." 
 
6o The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 
 
 The next morning little Nancy found 
 Joult and after greetings were over, Joult 
 sat down and began to talk: "Yes, indeed, 
 honey, I git along monstus poly attah Ole 
 Moss die. I hattah be sole, long ob de yuttah 
 niggahs, en den de man whut buy de cows en 
 sheep whut I tuck kure ob — he lef me in de 
 cabin by my lone lorn sef — dout es much 
 es a cat er a dog fuh to keep me comply. 
 Peared to me when de night ud come down 
 on de Blue Ridge dat de whole worle wur 
 open befo' me. I do declah, when de win' 
 chase de mist up en down de valley, hit look 
 lek de dead done got outen de graves en come 
 to judgemint. Youah mamy's grave wur a 
 heap ob companv fur me, too. De las' time I 
 seed hit wur in de fall — befo' I came to Kain- 
 tuck — en hit wur covered wid leaves red en 
 
TJic Sorrozvs of Nancy. 6i 
 
 brown en gole; de sun wur goin' down behind 
 de mountains en peared fur to kiss whur de 
 po' gal slep. But, Nancy, I gwine tell you; I 
 seed dat Ander a sneakin' en a hidin' roun' de 
 mill las' night till attah de people all git away, 
 en den tek out attah you. You mine whut I 
 tells you bouten a nasty, brute beas' ob a man 
 wha' am feared en shamed fur to be long ob 
 a gal 'fore uddah folks. 'Omen folks — more 
 obspecially." 
 
 ;!< j!; jI: 5|i ;;< ;jc ^ ^ 
 
 Inlow, the miller, and Andrew sat under a 
 tree not far from the mill, on a fallen log, and 
 whittled sticks and meditated, while all about 
 them floated the incense of spring, and in the 
 tree-tops the birds sang fragments from the 
 Oratorio of the Resurrection. 
 
 Inlow had something on his mind; but, as 
 
62 The Sorrovos of Nancy. 
 
 he looked at the young patrician beside him, 
 he hesitated to make his thoughts an entity 
 by embodying them in words. He sat in 
 silence and, unconsciously, perhaps, shaped 
 the stick he was cutting into a dagger, and, 
 holding it up before Andrew, said : " If this 
 wood were steel, you had better plunge it into 
 Nancy's heart than stay here longer; if your 
 intention is not to marry her. She loves you, 
 and is beneath you. I hope that you are a 
 man of honor." Andrew gave Inlow a 
 searching look, and continued the use of his 
 knife, in silence. 
 
 Why did Andrew linger in Kentucky? He 
 rode past the few cabins, that composed 
 Winchester, and bright eyes were gladdened 
 at sight of the gallant, handsome youth. 
 Many of the first settlers of Winchester were 
 
The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 6j 
 
 educated, refined people, and Andrew enjoyed 
 their society; but, if Winchester had been 
 wiped out of existence, what then? He would 
 still have lingered around Thatcher's Mill, as 
 he had done for months. 
 
 Young men are not wicked an fond; they 
 seldom, however, do more than skim over the 
 surface of their motives — seldom or never 
 dive to their depths to learn if truth be at the 
 bottom. 
 
 Andrew rose at length, and walked in the 
 opposite direction to Nancy's cabin, and sat 
 down. He could hear his horse pawing the 
 ground under the tree to which he had hitched 
 him; he could hear the doves coo, coo, as they 
 built their nests — he was restless and unhappy. 
 He saw old Nancy and the women who lived 
 with her ride off in the direction of Win- 
 
6^ The Sorrows of Nancy. 
 
 Chester, and then (Hd what he had often 
 done before — went to the cabin, and found 
 young Nancy sitting in the door looking in 
 the direction of Virginia. As he sat down on 
 the grass — not far from her — he thought that 
 few^ young girls could bear the close inspec- 
 tion to which he subjected her as he sat there. 
 She smiled and her teeth shone milk white; 
 her cheek w^as dappled with red, like a ripe 
 peach; but her hair w^as her glory — long, 
 luxuriant, and of the richest brown. 
 
 Are there inherited traits — inate kjiowl- 
 edge of the properties? Who shall say? An- 
 drews while looking at Nancy, said abruptly, 
 watching the effect of his words : '' I must re- 
 turn to Virginia soon." Nancy turned pale, 
 and the light died in her dark eyes, but she 
 struggled hard to keep the tears back and sue- 
 
The Sorrows of Nancy. 6§ 
 
 ceeded. Nancy had a proud old ancestress, 
 whom she might not claim, from whom, per- 
 haps, she had inherited self-control and un- 
 conquerable pride, for she said in a voice as 
 indifferent as Andrew's ow^n : " When do you 
 leave?" ''Soon," he replied, "my departure 
 depends on the surveyors." 
 
 That man never lived who, if he heard a 
 girl loved him, and were convinced of the fact 
 before he heard it from another, did not seek 
 the girl and prove it again and again, to the 
 satisfaction of his own inordinate vanity. 
 " Vanitas vanitatis " should be written above 
 the story of every man's love — which is a mix- 
 ture of passion and egotism. There are many 
 very honorable exceptions, but the rest are 
 a lot, and all named Abelard. 
 
 Nancy said, as if to change the subject, " I 
 
66 The Sorrows of Nancy. 
 
 should give half my life for one sight of the 
 Blue Ridge. Is it memory that brings back 
 the scenes I love so well before me in dreams? 
 I seem to be there. I can feci the winds blow 
 and hear the birds sing. Awake, I can shut 
 my eyes and see the red-bud-tree and its taller 
 friends bowing to one another as they used 
 to do in spring times long passed." She 
 paused and resumed, after a silence : '' I shall 
 never see the place again — not even my 
 mother's grave." She wept bitterly. Did 
 Nancy weep for a sight of her mother's grave? 
 Andrew did not know, but he was determined 
 to find out. 
 
 " Should you be glad to go to Virginia 
 with me, Nancy? I am going soon; my busi- 
 ness here is almost ended." 
 
 As Andrew said this, he watched her cheek 
 
TJic Sorroz^'s of Nancy. 6y 
 
 glow, and the light leap into her sad eyes. The 
 blood of her haughty, old ancestors, that ran 
 like fire in her veins, prompted her reply — " I 
 do not understand you. Hou) should I go zvitli 
 you? " The boy was abashed and puzzled by 
 the proud look Nancy gave him, and he smiled 
 to himself angrily as he thought : " She would 
 hide her heart from me — even she — when I 
 might have any girl for the asking." 
 
 A woman is braver than a man while ex- 
 citement lasts, and could lead a forlorn hope 
 or storm a citadel; but she could not beleaguer 
 one — it takes a man to do that. 
 
 Andrew rose to go. '' Good-bye, Nancy; 
 I may not see you again." '' Good-bye," said 
 Nancy, simply, and then sat down in the door- 
 way — unable to stand up or keep the tears 
 back. At sight of Nancy's tears, Andrew re- 
 
68 The Sorrozi's of Nancy. 
 
 seated himself, took off his hat, pushed the 
 Ijlack curls from his forehead, and smiled 
 triumphantl}'. He was so rejoiced that he had 
 gained a sure knowledge of Nancy's love for 
 him that he told her that he loved her de- 
 votedly, and that she was beautiful, and sealed 
 his statements with a kiss that was divine, 
 Nancy thought, for it was the first kiss of her 
 first love. 
 
 Late that evening Andrew came to the 
 cabin again, and, finding the women returned, 
 he proposed a walk with Nancy. They 
 walked by Strode's Creek, that knows, but 
 keeps its own secrets and sends them to 
 their grave in the ocean. They sat long by 
 " Nancy's Well " — so long that the moon 
 made her image in the water to warn them 
 that the hour was late. The owl wailed from 
 
TJic Sorrozvs of Nancy. 6g 
 
 his solitary watch-tower in the distant wood, 
 and mourned to the spirit of darkness that all 
 was not well under the solemn stars. The 
 guardian angel of Nancy was fast asleep. 
 
 Weeks went by after this, and Andrew did 
 not return to Thatcher's Mill. Nancy went, 
 as in a dream, about the duties she was com- 
 pelled to perform, her whole being lost in the 
 yearning to see her lover once again. She 
 could bear the suspence his absence caused 
 no longer, and determined to go to Winches- 
 ter. She persuaded old Nancy to borrow two 
 horses from Abraham Inlow, the miller, and 
 to accompany her. 
 
 Nancy dressed herself in a gown Joult had 
 given her, and which had belonged to Joult's 
 former mistress. It was made of fine material, 
 in a fashion long by passed; but it fitted her 
 
yo The Sorrozi's of Nancy. 
 
 slender form to perfection, and its dark folds 
 1)roiight out the rich tints of her beautiful 
 complexion. Old Nancy brought out a bon- 
 net of immense size — made of Leghorn, and 
 yellow as gold from age. This bonnet was a 
 relic from old Nancy's wardrobe in better 
 days. Little Nancy put it on, and her young- 
 face looked all the prettier from its great 
 depths. Dressed, she ran to " Nancy's Well," 
 and as she saw her image in the pellucid 
 water, she was surprised at the transformation 
 fine clothes had wrought. As she stood by the 
 s]:>ring, she might have been painted as the 
 ]:)ersonification of beautiful youth. She should 
 ha\'e l)een ])ainted then, for she never looked 
 like that again in all the world — her heart 
 was broken that day. 
 
 Old Nancy and young Nancy hitched their 
 
The Sorrozvs of Nancy. yi 
 
 horses on the outskirts of the hamlet 
 of Winchester, and old Nancy sat down under 
 a tree to smoke, and young Nancy began 
 walking about the streets of the village, so 
 lately laid ofT and named. More than one man 
 looked, and turned to look again, at the beau- 
 tiful face — radiant in the depths of that old 
 bonnet. Just as she passed the log court- 
 house she saw Andrew approaching her with 
 a lady on his arm — a real lady, as Nancy knew. 
 Andrew passed her without a word; but not 
 without a sign, for his face was as pale as 
 death \\'ould ever make it. " What lovely 
 barbarian is that? " Nancy heard the lady ask. 
 Andrew's answer was lost to her, but not the 
 meaning of his manner as he passed her. No; 
 it was as clear to her as it was to God. It 
 taught her that she was an alien, and an out- 
 
y2 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 
 
 cast forever from society. It whispered an- 
 other truth to Nancy in two words, these — 
 fallen! forsaken! Oh! angels of mercy, look 
 down on this deluded girl. 
 
 When young Nancy returned to old Nancy 
 and said: '' Come; take me home; I am sick 
 unto death," her white face — from which the 
 light of youth had forever fled — confirmed her 
 words. 
 
 Smile, if you will, you human beings of 
 coarse nature, who do not believe that love — 
 unrequited — as surely kills the sensitive girl, 
 whom it wounds as the plowshare does the 
 tender violet it upturns to the frosts of early 
 spring. 
 
 Arrived at Thatcher's Mill, a young man — 
 whom Nancy had never seen before — assisted 
 her from her horse, and, although her face was 
 
The Sorrows of Nancy. /j 
 
 white as marble, its beauty led him captive 
 ever afterwards. Nancy saw and saw him not. 
 She walked as one in a dream. Between her 
 and all things of this life there was a hand- 
 some young face — pale as death and almost as 
 cold and stern of expression. She hastened to 
 the cabin, took to her bed, and lay there until 
 midnight. When all were asleep, she stole to 
 " Nancy's Well," and sat down by it, the 
 image of despair — she who early that morning 
 might have been painted as the personifica- 
 tion of beautiful youth. 
 
 Two years went by, and all that time 
 Nancy's new lover pressed his suit through 
 Abraham Inlow. Nancy had ceased to live — 
 only drifted with the tide of time. She con- 
 sented to become the wife of Thomas Lincoln. 
 Thev were not married in Clark count v, but 
 
74 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 
 
 in . When they left Thatcher's Mill 
 
 to be married, there sat between them a child, 
 whose name was Abraham. He was a remark- 
 able-looking child, even at his tender age. 
 In after years his face had a rugged, melan- 
 choly grandeur, that once seen could never 
 be forgotten. His eyes had an expression 
 that was '* infinitely sad and prophetic," as if 
 they looked on Death. Taken as a whole, his 
 face looked like the Sphinx, that might be an 
 image of death in its most sublime majesty — 
 waiting for all the generations of men to pass 
 before him, that he might wither them into 
 nothingness by a look. 
 
 Nancy died young, and her soul has long 
 since confronted the soul of the man, without 
 whom Abraham would never have been. She 
 died and was buried in Indiana. She was so 
 
The Sorrozvs of Nancy. JS 
 
 far honored above her mother — in her death — 
 that Robert Elkin read above her resting- 
 place this most subUme passage ever written . 
 " I am the resurrection and the hfe, saith 
 the Lord : he that beHeveth in me, though he 
 were dead, yet shall he live : and whosoever 
 liveth and believeth on Me shall never die." 
 Nancy Lived and Believed. 
 
Affidavits. 77 
 
 AFFIDAVITS. 
 
 The affiant, L. Boyd, states that a few days 
 after the assassination of President Lincohi, 
 her father, Rev. Samuel Rogers, born near 
 Charlotte Courthouse, Va., in the year 
 1789 (a soldier in the war of 181 2, and minister 
 of the Christian Church in Kentucky and 
 other States from the time, or shortly after 
 the time, when Alexander Campbell founded 
 the Disciples' Church, until 1877, when he 
 died), said to her: "The grandmother of 
 Al^raham Lincoln was called by the several 
 names of Lucy Hanks, Hornback, and 
 Sparrow. Nancy, Lincoln's mother, was the 
 child of Lucy Hanks, Hornback, or Spar- 
 row and a son of Judge John Marshall, of 
 
j8 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 
 
 Virginia. Nancy Hanks, Hornback, or Spar- 
 row was l)orn near Lynchburg, Va., and in 
 sight of the Bkie Ridge Mountains, and at 
 the foot of them her mother, Lucy, hes buried. 
 
 Nancy's father — son of Judge IMarshah — 
 was kihed in " border warfare." 
 
 Lincohi's father was the adopted son 
 (whether by law or not, I do not know) of the 
 same Judge Marshall, of Virginia, mentioned 
 above, and was the son of an Englishman, 
 who fought and was killed in the same battle 
 in which the said Nancy's father perished. 
 Abraham (afterwards called Abraham Lin- 
 coln) was born near Thatcher's Alill, on or 
 near the line that divides Clark county from 
 Bourbon county, Ky., and was born out 
 of wedlock. I have often seen the place where 
 he was born. 
 
Amdavits. 79 
 
 Rev. Samuel Rogers is dead, as above 
 stated, but in his life he knew Kentucky and 
 Virginia well, and was among the first men 
 who preached the new religion in those two 
 States. 
 
 When I was called to Winchester, Ky., 
 April, 1894, to wTite the history of Winchester 
 and Clark county, the present of Win- 
 chester, Ky., John — . , said to me: 
 
 '' Did you know that Abraham Lincoln w^as 
 born in Clark county, near Thatcher's Alill?" 
 " No," said I, " but I have heard it." Mayor 
 
 continued : "' When Hay and Nicholay 
 
 l)egan writing the history of Mr. Lincoln, some 
 
 one wTote to Mat. , in their interest, 
 
 asking him ( ) to write what he knew 
 
 concerning Mr. Lincoln's birth-place. 
 
 came to me and told me that Mr. Lincoln was 
 
8o The Sorrows of Nancy. 
 
 born near Thatcher's Mill, out of wedlock, and 
 said : " Shall I tell zvhat I know? " " No," said 
 I, " keep it to yourself. You might get into 
 
 trouble." did not write what he knew 
 
 in response to the inquiries of Hay and 
 Nicholay. 
 
 Mayor John — . repeated the above 
 
 statement to me before Mr. John 
 
 , formerly editor of the Winchester 
 
 Sun (Republican newspaper), and candidate 
 
 for Congress against W. M. in the 
 
 election to fill the unexpired term in Congress 
 
 of Hon. Marcus , deceased, , 1894. 
 
 Judge W. M. , M. C, met me 
 
 before the Citizens' Bank of Winchester, and 
 I said to him : " Judge, I suppose that you — 
 like all old residents of Clark — have heard that 
 Mr. Lincoln was born near Thatcher's Mill, 
 
Affidavits. 8i 
 and born out of wedlock? " " Oh, yes," re- 
 plied Judge ; " Senator told me 
 
 all about it." " Will you give me your written 
 statement to that effect? " said L " Oh, yes; 
 at any time," he said, very pleasantly. 
 
 In a few weeks after this meeting I went 
 to him after his written statement. He put 
 me off on one trifling pretext or another, until 
 I followed him up and said to him : " Judge 
 
 ^ didn't you tell me that Senator 
 
 told you that Mr. Lincoln was born out of 
 wedlock, near Thatchers Mill?" "Yes," 
 
 said Judge ; ''I told you that; but, 
 
 after thinking about the matter, I do not want 
 to be in it." 
 
 Colonel R. N. , James , son 
 
 of Chief-Justice , and many others— 
 
 as responsible as they — confirmed the state- 
 
82 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 
 
 ments made in the three affidavits of Dr. H. 
 
 , Wilham , and Daniel 
 
 . I think I could get a thousand affi- 
 davits in Kentucky to prove the statements in 
 those I now possess. ""''^* ^ u^lyrt^ J 
 ^'"^ LUCINDA BOYD. 
 
 State of Kentucky, \ 
 
 c- 
 Si 
 
 Fayette County. 
 
 Subscribed and sworn to before me by 
 Lucinda Boyd, this September 25, 1895. 
 [SEAL.] CLAUDE CHINN, 
 
 Clerk Fayette County Court, Kentucky. 
 
 Exact copy of affidavit of Judge B. J. 
 — , who for sixteen years was Chief Jus- 
 
 tice of Kentucky: 
 
 I am ninety years old. I was Judge of 
 
Affidavits. 8j 
 
 the Court of Appeals of Kentucky for sixteen 
 years, and then retired on account of ad- 
 vancing years. 
 
 I was graduated from Transylvania Uni- 
 versity, Kentucky, in 1825. I read law with 
 John , Chief Justice of Kentucky; ob- 
 tained license to practice law in 1827. My 
 legal and professional career has extended over 
 a period of sixty years. In all that time I have 
 never heard, among my legal friends (and I 
 know nearly all the lawyers, old and young,_ -jo- 
 in the State) the fact of Abraham Lincoln's 
 illegitimacy disputed. 
 
 The late Colonel , a prominent man 
 
 in the Kentucky Legislature, said to me : '' I 
 
 heard , then a resident of Harrods- 
 
 burg, Ky., say that he had married Nancy 
 Hornback, Hanks, or Sparrow in Washington 
 
8^ The Sorrows of Nancy. 
 
 county, Ky., to Thomas Lincoln, and that at 
 the time of the marriage of the said Nancy 
 Hornl^ack, Hanks, or Sparrow and Thomas 
 Lincohi that Nancy's son Abraham (after- 
 wards called Lincoln) was a boy large enough 
 to run around." 
 
 A lady, who said her maiden name was 
 Hanks* and place of residence Massachusetts 
 (T think), came to me last summer and asked 
 nie if 1 had not heard the Hankses, of Mont- 
 gomery, say that Abraham Lincoln's mother 
 was named Hanks. I told her no, that T never 
 had, l»iil had always heard that her name was 
 Hornback. She is the only one I ever heard 
 express a doubt of Abraham Lincoln's 
 
 illegitimacy. 
 
 B. J. , 
 
 Ex-Chief Justice of Kentucky. 
 
 * Mrs. Tarl)an who wrote tlie history of Mr. Ivincoln 
 in McClure's Magazine. 
 
Amdavits. Sj 
 
 I am willing to make oath to the fore- 
 going statement before any officer authorized 
 
 to administer oaths. 
 
 B. J. . 
 
 Subscribed to and sworn to before me by 
 B. J. , this 24th day of January, 1896. 
 
 [SEAL.] DOUGLAS DAY, 
 
 Notary Public. 
 
 In Herndon's book, now almost out of 
 print, entitled " A History of Abraham Lin- 
 coln," this passage is to be found: 
 
 (Air. Herndon was the law partner of Mr. 
 Lincoln in Springfield, 111.) 
 
 '' We were driving together one day, and 
 Mr. Lincoln said to me : ' God bless my 
 mother— all I am I owe to her— she was 
 
86 The Sorrows of Nancy. 
 
 illegitimate, but the best blood of Virginia 
 ran in her veins. ^ " 
 
 From telling that truth Mr. Herndon's 
 book was scorned and tabooed. 
 
 Mt. Sterling, Ky., January 23, 1896. 
 To Whom It May Concern: 
 
 I am thirty-nine years old, have been an 
 attorney at law since 1881, engaged in the 
 practice of law at Mt. Sterling; have been 
 Prosecuting Attorney for Montgomery 
 county, Ky., and am now Special Judge of 
 Montgomery Circuit Court. Have been 
 several years associated in the same office with 
 
 Ex-Chief Justice B. J. , and have known 
 
 him well since 1880. He was for sixteen years 
 Judge of the Kentucky Court of Appeals, and, 
 
Affidavits. 87 
 
 until now, or very recently, he has been in 
 active practice of the law, and is now in the 
 full possession of all his faculties, and won- 
 derfully and remarkably well preserved, both 
 in mind and body. He was, until the last few 
 m.onths, president of the Exchange Bank of 
 Mt. Sterling, Ky., which is in good condition, 
 this 23d of January, 1896. 
 
 H. M. , 
 
 Special Judge Montgomery Circuit Court. 
 
 I regard Judge B. J. as a man of 
 
 sound mind, and that he is of remarkable 
 vigor, both mentally and physically, for a man 
 
 of his years. 
 
 H. P. , 
 
 Cashier Exchange Bank. 
 
88 The Sorroics of Nancy. 
 
 The affiant, Thomas , states that he 
 
 was born May ii, 1802, in Bourbon county, 
 Ky., near North Middleton, and near 
 Thatcher's Mill, which is on the line which 
 separates Clark county from Bourbon county, 
 in the said State aforesaid. 
 
 He further states that he has heard re- 
 sponsible persons say, and that it was the cur- 
 rent and generally accepted belief, and familiar 
 to him ever since boyhood, that a certain male 
 child named Abraham, and called Abraham 
 Lincoln, was born near said Thatcher's ]\Iill, 
 in Bourbon county, and that he was the child 
 of Xancy Hanks, Hornback, or Sparrow, and a 
 young man who came from Virginia. IMany 
 persons have told me that they saw the said 
 Nancy and Thomas Lincoln leave Thatcher's 
 Mill with the said child Abraham sitting be- 
 
Affidavits. 8g 
 
 tween them, and they were said to be start- 
 ing- for another county in Kentucky to get 
 married and reside. 
 
 Witness my mark, this October 7, 1895. 
 
 His 
 
 THOMAS (X) . 
 
 Witness : Mark. 
 
 H. G. Brattom. 
 John I. Fisher. 
 
 Subscribed and sworn to by Thomas 
 , October 7, 1895, in the presence of 
 
 H. G. Bratton and John I. Fisher. 
 
 [seal.] ED. P. BEAN, Jr., 
 
 Notary Pubhc. 
 
 Affidavit of the late Hubbard , M. D. : 
 
 I have heard from reHable sources ever 
 
go The Sorrozi'S of Xaiicy. 
 
 since I was a boy that Abraham (^afterwards 
 cahed Abraham Lincohi) was born at 
 Thatcher's ]\lill ont of wedlock, and that he 
 was the son of Xancy Hanks. Hornback. or 
 Sparrow, who Hved with other women, near 
 Thatcher's ^^lilL and of a young man from 
 \'irginia. 1 have seen persons, after I was 
 grown, who had seen Thomas Lincohi and 
 Xancy. the aforesaid, leave Thatcher's ]\Iill 
 with Abraham sitting between them, on their 
 way to be married elsewhere. 
 
 Abraham Inlow and one Roberts paid 
 Thomas Lincoln to many the aforesaid 
 Xancv. because of her poverty and youth, and 
 their pity for X'ancy on account of them. I 
 am eighty-three years old. I have been a 
 practicing physician in ^^'inchester and Clark 
 county. Ky.. and in other places for more 
 
Affidavits. gi 
 
 than 50 (fifty) years, and have heard the story 
 a hundred times. 
 
 HUBBARD , M. D. 
 
 Subscribed to and sworn to before me, this 
 the 24th day of September, 1895. 
 
 F. B. HODGKINS, 
 Examiner for Clark County, Ky. 
 
 Affidavit of WilHam 
 
 William , born in Winchester 
 
 sixty-nine years ago of parents who had lived 
 there since their youth, said to me, in the 
 presence of witnesses : 
 
 " Daniel Thatcher, owner of Thatcher's 
 Alill, built al)out the year 1800, said to me in 
 presence Abraham Lincoln (so 
 
g2 The Sorrozvs of Nancy. 
 
 called) was born near Thatcher's Mill, not in 
 the stone house, as many suppose^ but in a log 
 cabin long since destroyed. His mother's 
 name was Nancy Hanks, Hornback, or Spar- 
 row, I don't know^ wdiich, and his father was a 
 young man from the State of Virginia. 
 
 Mat. , who lived there (at Thatcher's 
 
 Mill), also said: " Yes; I have letters to prove 
 this statement, but I intend to burn them." 
 Hundreds of persons now alive in Clark 
 county, Ky., remember to have heard re- 
 sponsible persons say that they had seen 
 Thomas Lincoln and Nancy Hanks, Horn- 
 back, or Sparrow, leave Thatcher's Mill with 
 Abraham between them on their way to b'e 
 married elsewhere. 
 
 Abraham Inlow, Portuguese Miller, of 
 Thatcher's Mill, felt verv sorrv for vounsr 
 
Affidavits. pj 
 
 Nancy Hanks, Hornback, or Sparrow, who 
 lived in the cabin aforesaid, and especially for 
 Nancy and her child Abraham, who was 
 named for him (Abraham Inlow), and he and 
 a man by the name of Roberts paid Thomas 
 Lincoln, stonemason of Clark (county), and 
 native of Virginia, to marry Nancy. He con- 
 sented, and they (Nancy the aforesaid and 
 Thomas Lincoln) left Thatcher's Mill with 
 Abraham betziJeen them^ to be married else- 
 where. 
 
 WILLL4M . 
 
 Subscribed and sworn to before me, the 
 J4th day of September, 1895. 
 
 J. M. HODGKIN, 
 
 Notary Public. 
 
 My name is Daniel . I was born in 
 
 1833, the 13th day of August, near and in 
 
g/j. The Sorrozcs of Naiicy. 
 
 sight of Thatcher's Mill, in Bourbon county, 
 near the line between Clark and Bourbon 
 counties, Ky. When Abraham Lincoln made 
 the race for President of the United States I 
 heard that Abraham Lincoln was born near 
 Thatcher's Mill, out of wedlock. During and 
 at the time of Mr. Lincoln's race for the 
 presidency I heard the above-named facts. 
 
 DANIEL . 
 
 Subscribed and sworn to before me by 
 
 Daniel , this September 24, 1895. 
 
 G. F. BURNER, 
 Ex. C. C. Ky. 
 (Resident of Winchester, Ky.) 
 
 Mt. Sterling, Ky., January 23, 1896. 
 My Dear Madam: 
 
 I have known Mr. Abraham Lincoln quite 
 
3^. 
 
 Affidavits. P5 
 
 sixty years by tradition. About thirty years 
 or more I knew him personally. 
 
 He was born near Thatcher's Mill, in the 
 county of Bourbon, and State of Kentucky. 
 His mother's name was Nancy Hornback. 
 His father's name was Abraham Inlow. Mr. 
 A. Lincoln was born out of wedlock. This is 
 in brief the tradition of my father and mother, 
 and of the entire Inlow family for seventy 
 years at least. His father was my mother's 
 uncle, and my grandfather's brother. As to 
 his birth, the above are the traditional facts in 
 the family — and all the early settlers of Bour- 
 bon county at the time of his birth. 
 Very truly, etc., 
 
 M. M. — , 
 
 Ex-Tud2:e. 
 

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