But I am writing this in the new house that we have builded in place of our old one.  It is far more beautiful and convenient and valuable than the old one, but I doubt if it will be any more useful.  And a railroad has been laid out, and before summer is passed the shriek of a locomotive will awaken all the Rip Van Winkles that have been slumbering here since before the first almanac was printed.

The task of remembering the best of one’s life is a pleasant one.  Under date of December 20, 1893, I find another recollection in my note-book that is worth amplifying.

“This morning, passing through Frankfort, Kentucky, on my way from Lexington, at the close of a preaching and lecturing tour of nearly three weeks, I am reminded of a most royal visit that I had here at Frankfort as the guest of Governor Blackburn, at the gubernatorial mansion about ten years ago.

“I had made an engagement to preach twice at High Bridge, Ky., a famous camp meeting.  Governor Blackburn telegraphed me to Brooklyn asking when and where I would enter Kentucky, as he wished to meet me on the border of the State and conduct me to the High Bridge services.  We met at Cincinnati.  Crossing the Ohio River, we found the Governor’s especial car with its luxurious appointments and group of servants to spread the table and wait on every want.  The Governor, a most fascinating and splendid man, with a warmth of cordiality that glows in me every time I recall his memory, entertained me with the story of his life which had been a romance of mercy in the healing art, he having been elected to his high office in appreciation of his heroic services as physician in time of yellow fever.

“At Lexington a brusque man got on our car, and we entered with him into vigorous conversation.  I did not hear his name on introduction, and I felt rather sorry that the Governor should have invited him into our charming seclusion.  But the stranger became such an entertainer as a colloquialist, and demonstrated such extraordinary intellectuality, I began to wonder who he was, and I addressed him, saying, “Sir, I did not hear your name when you were introduced.”  He replied, ’My name is Beck—­Senator Beck.’  Then and there began one of the most entertaining friendships of my life.  Great Scotch soul!  Beck came a poor boy from Scotland to America, hired himself out for farm work in Kentucky, discovered to his employer a fondness for reading, was offered free access to his employer’s large library, and marched right up into education and the legal profession and the Senate of the United States.”

That day we got out of the train at High Bridge.  My sermon was on “The Divinity of the Scriptures.”  Directly in front of me, and with most intense look, whether of disapprobation or approval I knew not, sat the Senator.  On the train back to Lexington, where he took me in his carriage on a long ride amid the scenes of Clayiana, he told me the sermon had re-established his faith in Christianity, for he had been brought up to believe the Bible as most of the people in Scotland believe it.  But I did not know all that transpired that day at High Bridge until after the Senator was dead, and I was in Lexington, and visited his grave at the cemetery where he sleeps amid the mighty Kentuckians who have adorned their State.