me that I did once hear an old preacher say something about a young man named Dan who was handsome and strong, but he got into a pretty dangerous place one time among some lions, but he came out all right, the preacher said, because he would never drink beer or wine or whiskey or anything that would make a man drunk. I do not think the examiner ever heard that story before, so he quit asking such irrelevant questions and got to business, asking about vowels and consonants, and accent and emphasis, curves and loops, Tories and Whigs, order and discipline, etc. etc. until he said that will do, and wrote me out a certificate to teach. That county examiner was my oldest brother, hence the fun. From then on, I was a public school teacher for about 15 years. I stood the test many times in Indiana, Missouri and Kansas, to secure a teacher's certificate, but never failed to get the first grade. Of course, I, in the meantime, spent about three more years at school. My popularity as a successful teacher came at once, even at the first term, so much so that they sent for me to come and teach for them in a place called Tophet. Boys, if you do not know what that means look it up in the dictionary. The place was so bad, that teachers for several years had not been able to teach to the end of the term. The bad boys and girls would run the teacher off. I knew all this. And instead of going with a rod, as other teachers had I went with love and firmness determined to win right in the start the respect and confidence of the big boys and girls. I succeeded.

The first death to occur in my father's family was the death of my father himself. In the early fall of 1854 father's health began to fail. The disease was dropsy. Dr. Sam Elmore, the resident physician of Clarksburg did all he could, faithfully attending father all the fall and winter up to the day of his death. But about one week before death, the doctor requested that we send for Dr. McDonald, who lived in Newberry, a town about eight miles away. This we did, and Dr McDonald, a skillful and learned physician, came to see father twice that week. The last time was on the day before Christmas. When he left to go home, he requested us to let him know father's condition the next day after noon. The next day was Christmas. Father seemed much better all afternoon. Many friends and neighbors came in to see him. He talked more than usual. The day was a cold, dark, drizzly one. We had no telephones then, so on horse back in the afternoon, through cold and sleet, I made my way to tell the doctor how father was. The errand was not hard for me, because I loved my father and he was better, I thought, and I wanted to tell the doctor. As soon as I entered the doctor's office, I said, "Father is better." The doctor asked me several questions about him which I answered. He then turned to get some medicine and as he turned I saw him shake his head negatively. He gave me a little phial filled with medicine and told me to give father two or three drops every two or three hours and added, "If your father is better in the morning, let me know." I went home with a sadder heart than I had when I came to the doctor's, for I do not think the doctor thought that father was better. And so it proved for when I returned Mother said father had seemed better all afternoon, so much so that his friends, and even my oldest brother and sister, (who were now married, and lived, the one three miles distant, the other one mile), had returned home to take rest.

But now, (it was about dark when I returned) said mother, "he seems to be much worse, you would better go for your brother and sister." So I went at once the one mile and the three miles, and sister and her husband, Mr. Chas. R. Reyton, went at once and not long afterwards brother and his wife and their two little children and I returned, and we all stood around the bed of death. Father said but little, but finally said to all. "Come near." We did so, and he said, "Good bye, it is but a little distance between me and my eternal home, and I can soon step that off." He closed his eyes and was dead.

It was almost midnight, Christmas day, 1854. He went at the early age of 49 years, 7 months 23 days. I was a little more than sixteen years old. My youngest brother, and the youngest child of the family, Rufus Wiley, was a little over five years old. Youngest sister, Charlotte Ann a little over thirteen.

Father was a quiet, peaceable, Christian man, with a good many of the
Quaker ways about him.

The spirit-rappings, which originated with the Fox family of N.Y. eight or ten years before, were still exciting the people in southern Indiana. It so happened that a Mr. Wilson, a learned justice of the peace, lived in Tophet, at the time I taught school there, and was a medium. I boarded and lodged at his house a part of the time. Let me state a few facts and these occurred in my experience while there. That rapping kept up, especially if you paid any attention to it, more or less, day and night. Every afternoon and evening after school, when I returned to my boarding place, I could hear the rapping on my chair, or desk, or somewhere in the room. Or, if out of doors, on some object near me. If out after dark that rapping was sure to get directly between me and the door. Was it good or evil, saint or sinner, I knew not. I could explain nothing. I could believe nothing. I could lay hold of nothing. I could let go of nothing. I only heard rapping. And it made no difference whether Mr. Wilson, the medium, was at home or not, the rapping went on all the same.

One long afternoon as I was sitting at a window reading a book, Mrs. Wilson was sitting across the room at another window, busy at work and at the same time humming a tune. All at once, that rapping commenced, on a cupboard standing in the corner, in a clear, distinct musical way, so much so that it attracted my attention from my reading and Mrs. Wilson saw me looking towards the cupboard. She said, "Lizzie, is that you?" There came a loud, distinct rap. As much as to say yes. Then Mrs. Wilson said, "Can you beat (play) that tune I was humming." I suspect Mr. Hastings would like to hear it." At once the beating (rapping) commenced and continued for quite a while. It sounded very much like the tapping of a drum. It played the tune. I do not think that I ever listened to any music with so much interest and curiosity as I listened to that rapping.

One embarrassing and annoying part of the rapping was every night, when I would retire to my bed that rapping would keep up its rapping upon the head board of my bed, both before and after I would blow out the light. When I found out they called it Lizzie I would say, "Please Lizzie, let me o to sleep." And it would cease, and I would sleep. To confess, boys, I often felt a little scared, especially when out of doors in the dark and that—what shall I call it?— thing got to rapping upon something between me and the door.

I could tell you other stories about these rappings but they are too incredulous to believe. As I said before, I could explain nothing nor can I yet. I simply heard the rappings, under the circumstances as I have related.

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C H A P T E R F O U R

Leaves Home. In St. Louis. On the Mississippi River. From
Lagrange to Lindley.

Few boys live through their teens who do not want to take a wild goose chase to see the world. I was no exception. So after bidding my mother, brothers, sisters, farewell on my 19th birthday, with mother's blessing, in the company with Dr. Sam Elmore, his wife and little boy, I started for north Missouri. The first night we spent at Washington, Ind. This was the first time I ever stopped as a guest at a hotel. The next day we secured passenger tickets on the Ohio and Mississippi Rail Road