Among the hostels of Christendom the Galt House, of Louisville, for a long
time occupied a foremost place and held its own. It was burned to the
ground fifty years ago and a new Galt House was erected, not upon the
original site, but upon the same street, a block above, and, although one
of the most imposing buildings in the world, it could never be made to
thrive. It stands now a rather useless encumbrance--a whited sepulchre--a
marble memorial of the Solid South and the Kentucky that was, on whose
portal might truthfully appear the legend:
"_A jolly place it was in days of old,
But something ails it now_"
Aris Throckmorton, its manager in the Thirties, the Forties and the
Fifties, was a personality and a personage. The handsomest of men and the
most illiterate, he exemplified the characteristics and peculiarities of
the days of the river steamer and the stage coach, when "mine host" felt it
his duty to make the individual acquaintance of his patrons and each
and severally to look after their comfort. Many stories are told at his
expense; of how he made a formal call upon Dickens--it was, in point of
fact, Marryatt--in his apartment, to be coolly told that when its occupant
wanted him he would ring for him; and of how, investigating a strange box
which had newly arrived from Florida, the prevailing opinion being that the
live animal within was an alligator, he exclaimed, "Alligator, hell; it's
a scorponicum." He died at length, to be succeeded by his son John, a very
different character. And thereby hangs a tale.
John Throckmorton, like Aris, his father, was one of the handsomest of men.
Perhaps because he was so he became the victim of one of the strangest of
feminine whimsies and human freaks. There was a young girl in Louisville,
named Ellen Godwin. Meeting him at a public ball she fell violently in love
with him. As Throckmorton did not reciprocate this, and refused to pursue
the acquaintance, she began to dog his footsteps. She dressed herself in
deep black and took up a position in front of the Galt House, and when
he came out and wherever he went she followed him. No matter how long he
stayed, when he reappeared she was on the spot and watch. He took himself
away to San Francisco. It was but the matter of a few weeks when she was
there, too. He hied him thence to Liverpool, and as he stepped upon the
dock there she was. She had got wind of his going and, having caught an
earlier steamer, preceded him.
Finally the War of Sections arrived. John Throckmorton hecame a Confederate
officer, and, being able to keep her out of the lines, he had a rest of
four years. But, when after the war he returned to Louisville, the quarry
began again.
He was wont to call her "Old Hell's Delight." Finally, one night, as he was
passing the market, she rushed out and rained upon him blow after blow with
a frozen rabbit.
Then the authorities took a hand. She was arraigned for disorderly conduct
and brought before the Court of Police. Then the town, which knew nothing
of the case and accepted her goings on as proof of wrong, rose; and she had
a veritable ovation, coming away with flying colors. This, however, served
to satisfy her. Thenceforward she desisted and left poor John Throckmorton
in peace.
I knew her well. She used once in a while to come and see me, having some
story or other to tell. On one occasion I said to her: "Ellen, why do you
pursue this man in this cruel way? What possible good can it do you?" She
looked me straight in the eye and slowly replied: "Because I love him."
I investigated the case closely and thoroughly and was assured, as he had
assured me, that he had never done her the slightest wrong. She had, on
occasion, told me the same thing, and this I fully believed.
He was a man, every inch of him, and a gentleman through and through--the
very soul of honor in his transactions of every sort--most highly respected
and esteemed wherever he was known--yet his life was made half a failure
and wholly unhappy by this "crazy Jane," the general public taking
appearances for granted and willing to believe nothing good of one who,
albeit proud and honorable, held defiantly aloof, disdaining self-defense.
On the whole I have not known many men more unfortunate than John
Throckmorton, who, but for "Old Hell's Delight," would have encountered
little obstacle to the pursuit of prosperity and happiness.