dge Mountains, for a great distance
along the banks of the romantic French Broad my grandfathers,
"Scotch-Irish Presbyterians," James Stevenson and Adlai Ewing, with
their immediate families and others of their kindred, had in the
early days of the century, after a long and perilous journey,
finally reached the famous Spring already mentioned. Near by,
their tents were pitched, and in time permanent homes established in
the then wilderness of southwestern Kentucky.

The first public building constructed was of logs, with puncheon
floor, and set apart to the double purpose of school-house and
church for the use of all denominations. Its site was near the
spot where the speaker's stand was now erected for the barbecue
which I have mentioned.

From the pulpit of this rude building, the early settlers had more
than once listened spell-bound to the eloquence of Peter Cartwright,
Henry B. Bascom, Nathan L. Rice, Finis Ewing, and Alexander
Campbell.

In this old church the time-honored custom was for some one of its
officers to line out the hymn, two lines at a time, and then lead the
singing, in which the congregation joined. Among my earliest
recollections is that of my uncle, Squire McKenzie, one of the best
of men, standing immediately in front of the pulpit, and faithfully
discharging this important duty after the hymn had been read in
full by the minister. I distinctly recall the solemn tones in
which, upon communion occasions, he lined out, in measured and
mellow cadence, the good old hymn beginning:

"'T was on that dark, that doleful night,
When powers of earth and hell arose."

Mr. Sawyer, too, the old-time singing-school teacher, has honored place
in my memory. Once a month, in the old church, the singing-school
class of which we were all members regularly assembled. The school
was in four divisions, Bass, Tenor, Counter, and Treble; each member
was provided with a copy of the "Missouri Harmony," with "fa,"
"sol," "la," "mi," appearing in mysterious characters upon every
page; the master, magnifying his office, as with tuning-fork in
hand he stood proudly in the midst, raised the tune, and as it
progressed smiled or deeply frowned upon each of the divisions
as occasion seemed to require. His voice has long been hushed,
but I seem again to hear his cheery command, "Attention, class!
Utopia, page one hundred!"

Looking back through the long vista of years, it is my honest belief
that such singing