Childhood Impressions

( Originally Published 1921 )

I READ recently the first chapter of his memoirs, written by a small boy friend of mine. He described with enthusiasm the day he was born; how well he remembered his sister and mother were walking in the garden of his beautiful home when the father came out of the house and announced to them the safe arrival of the new member of the family—himself !

My memory does not run back so far as his, and it is from the many tellings of my favorite story in very early youth that I learned of a brave and handsome boy who when he was twelve or thirteen ran away from school three times. The first time he went to his father on the battle-field. The latter promptly returned him to his teachers; so a second time he joined the soldiers of his father's army and was found among them by a staff officer, who brought him to the general's camp. There the boy was reprimanded and again sent to his studies, only to leave them and reach the army a third time, just before Vicksburg. Finally the father, won by his son's intense sportiness and his adoration for the general him-self, kept this young soldier with him, let him fit himself into the stress and strain and hardship of the camp with a commander who lived more uncomfortably than any one about him. A pony was found and an extra cot. At night father and son slept side by side in the general's tent ; or the boy lay half-asleep, vaguely conscious of the silent man who walked up and down, pondered over maps, planning coming battles and campaigns, and then sat clown to write his orders for the morrow's action.

By day father and son rode forth for inspections, or to some point from which the general was to watch and guide the fighting. Always they were together. Seemingly this big-hearted, devoted boy was never in the way of the commander, and the latter late in life told with delight of the courage under fire and the cheerful acceptance of discomfort shown by his younger partner in the game of war.

"Fred never knew what it was to be afraid," my grandfather would say with a tone of quiet triumph, when he had finished telling some little incident his memory retained of Vicksburg's siege and the months after it. "Fred" didn't like my grandfather's table, though, and he used to go off and mess with the troops by way of variety sometimes. Among these men he gained a popularity which he kept through all his life. On his side he learned to love our soldiers with an affection which never changed.

By his father's side he entered Vicksburg, on the 4th of July, 1863. From then on he remained at the front, and when in 1865 peace came, the boy of fifteen had two years of steady campaigning to his credit, with a fund of experience which aged him, but also was of great service through his later career. After the war followed a year of hard preparatory study, and the young veteran entered West Point. Discipline at the academy was hard, doubtless, on any one who had roamed over battle-fields, and his high spirits kept this particular cadet in hot water; but his excellence at mathematics with a talent for all that concerned horses and drill, shooting, or other military work, helped him to win his pardon always, and he finally came through West Point all right.

As General Sherman's aide-de-camp a trip to 'Europe gave the full-fledged second lieutenant his first view of foreign lands, and he had the interesting experience of being in France just after the Franco-Prussian War, of visiting the Near East, and from there going into the Caucasus, where he stayed at Tiflis with the then viceroy —the Grand Duke Michael, son of Emperor Nicholas I and younger brother of Alexander II. From Tiflis his host sent my father north with one of his own aides-de-camp, who was to make the trip as a special messenger, carrying reports to the Emperor. Together the two young officers hurried across Russia's vast steppes toward Moscow. My father fell in love with the mysterious beauty of the plains stretching out on each side of his travelling-carriage—plains where the only noises were the beating hoofs of troika horses and the music of their bells. Nights passed when our travellers slept in post-houses by the wayside, or they accepted the gentle hospitality of amiable Russians, anxious to help and welcome strangers. Weeks of ever-changing impressions these, too picturesque to be fatiguing. Then came a stay in Moscow, whence Russia's one and only railroad took them to St. Petersburg.

Here again the good-looking young officer received a warm welcome. Grand Duke Michael had warned his wife, and the Grand Duchess Olga Feodorowna (born a princess of Baden) received the stranger with kindly hospitality, making him at home in her palace on the quay. Her guest never forgot the delight of this visit and the charm of those who were so good to him in his youth.

Returning home in 1872, he actively fought Indians in our Far West, took part in the work of our government's surveying parties in Montana and out in the dry Arizona deserts, where he lived for a time the adventurous poetic life of the opening Far West.

As the next step in his career, my father became attached to the staff of General Sheridan, who was stationed in Chicago. There, in 1874, he met a very pretty young girl, fresh from her graduation at the convent at Georgetown, where she had carried off first honors. Rapidly a romance developed. He was twenty-four, she twenty, when they were married in October, 1874. The country home of Mr. and Mrs. Honoré was the frame of a brilliant scene. The bride's parents were among Chicago's most attractive and constructive people, while the bride and her sister were both of rare individual beauty and charm. General Sheridan and his whole staff in gala uniform were present, and the bridegroom was surrounded by a family group consisting of the President of the United States and many of the latter's distinguished followers and friends, all come to see the happy officer married. The sun shone and music played for the simple ceremony, which was most informal in spite of its brave show of historic names and beautiful faces.

Then the bridal couple went to live at the White House, from where young Colonel Grant made his long expeditions westward as before. In the capital, as in Chicago, the bride was a much-admired favorite. Two winters passed, and in June, 1876, in a quiet room, its windows looking out under the great portico of the President's mansion, a first child was born, an unusually large girl, thirteen pounds of chubby health myself.

Many years later I returned to the White House for the first time since my babyhood, and President McKinley was kind enough to escort me upstairs, so I might see the room which had been my first home. I found the simple dignity of undecorated walls and high ceilings attractive, and the view out into the shady garden a delight. I was lucky to start life so well. A first child of much-loved parents, and a first grandchild of such grandparents as were Ulysses S. Grant and his wife, was bound to be much petted. Many were the tales told me of my baptism, when named Julia for my Grant grand-mother, and with Mrs. Honoré and the President for godparents, I was christened in the great East Room by Doctor John P. Newman, pastor of the Methodist church which my grandfather Grant attended. A small party—the family, a few intimate friends, and the cabinet stood about. It was my début in official life and it seems I behaved well.

Shortly after this my beautiful maternal grandmother-godmother made me with her own fair hands a soft long dress of mull and old Valenciennes laces, set together in quaint patterns imagined by herself, embroidered and hemstitched in the doing. For gala occasions a pair of bracelets, soft woven ribbons of gold with tiny blue hearts hanging from them, and a wee ring with a diamond like a pin-point, given me by my father's brother, Ulysses Grant, Jr., completed the list of presents which my first Christmas brought me.

I was decked out in these for the event of the season —the President's New Year's reception, 1877. I sat in my nurse's arms and behaved with calm dignity, I heard years afterward, while diplomats and legislative officers with their wives passed by, saluting the President, Mrs. Grant, and then touching gently the White House baby, admiring my rosy cheeks and all my fine clothes. Some of the foreigners even kissed my fat hand in courtly fashion, before they passed on to mix with the other ladies and gentlemen, who completed the family and cabinet circle in the receiving line.

I. am sorry not to remember what must have vastly pleased me—the beauty of the surroundings that day and the soft, glimmering lights, the pretty gowns and jewels, and the uniforms and decorations of that great throng; also the interesting faces of many Civil War heroes, or of men who with my grandfather had done the work of reconstruction in the days following the fight. But I only know all this by hearsay, and the first scenes I remember myself are quite different ones.

My personal recollections begin in a room which I could with effort walk across. It was white with a blue carpet, some vague toys stood around, and a fire burned on the hearth, with a wire screen between it and me, impossible to get through. There was a clock on the chimney-shelf which ticked, and from which others could judge it was my bedtime. On each side of the clock stood a straight turquoise-blue vase, glass or china, shiny, rather broad, and with a pink rose painted on its centre space. It was a matter of supreme interest to me to know what was inside those vases. I always looked up at them from below, and I wanted to look down from above. I think I couldn't clearly explain my desire about them; anyhow, no one ever understood till finally one day my maternal grandfather came to see me. He and I stood in front of the fireplace hand in hand, and I expressed as best I could my urgent curiosity.

With joy I heard him say: "Why, Lord bless me, honey, do you want grandpa to lift you up and let you touch the jars ?"

Up I was swung to his shoulder, and there held above the blue vases. I gazed down at last in deep astonishment into their depths, and there was nothing but the flat white bottom to be seen. It was a great disappointment, though I don't know what I had expected to find.

Another important event I recall during that same period occurred one day when my mother caught her finger in the nursery doorway and gave a little cry. My father came in hurriedly, kissed her and the finger, and helped to put a wet handkerchief on it, while I stood by and watched with interest. I hadn't known before that grown-ups ever hurt themselves.

Later we moved into another house, about which I re-member more. First of all, the move itself was of vast interest, and the discussions as to where my bed and where my toys would stand and how the pet canary and my favorite doll would travel across Chicago gave me a feeling of adventure. Soon after this change, came my third birthday, with the first cake I can recall, and a party, consisting of my young uncle—afterward Judge Lockwood Honoré—and my two cousins, Honoré and Potter Palmer. Then memories pile up rapidly. Trips up and down stairs alone gave me opportunities for new discoveries, till one day one of my cousins and I rolled down a flight together. My nose was injured and had to wear splints and plasters for a time, and negotiating stairs without help was forbidden me.

My nursery windows looked into the yard of an orphan asylum, and Nurse Bridget threatened me with bringing in a poor child to replace me, when I was naughty. I went to table soon with my parents and took part in the conversation—and I watched and admired my mother's embroidery and the water-colors which my father painted in the evenings. For many years, till the Russian Revolution brought about its destruction in our home, a little picture of a green field with a brown rock, occupied by three vague white-and-reddish cows, hung on my sitting-room wall, recalling those old days of my childish plea-sure in my father's play-hour productions. My contribution to the family circle's life was reciting " Mother Goose " and kindred poems, and I felt extremely important in the encouragement and praise my efforts drew from my select audience.

Once my father went away for quite a time, to go around the world, and mama and I kept house by our-selves, with frequent visits to my cousins or my grand-mother. A Christmas-tree, an excursion and picnics on the sandy beach of Lake Michigan during those months, stay fast in my mind even now.

Then we left for the West. I recall suddenly being waked up and dressed in the night on a train which moved slowly amid shouting crowds. It stopped, and I was picked up and carried out in some one's arms from our car to a large open carriage. On the back seat were already installed Grandfather and Grandmother Grant, freshly arrived from their journey round the world, and all about us was a great sea of faces—men's and women's. Torches, quantities of them, burned, flared up and smoked, then flickered down, throwing changing lights on faces which to my child's imagination looked wild with excitement. As a matter of fact, the owners were just then receiving a national hero with all the enthusiasm they could display. Every mouth was open, and hurrah after hurrah filled the air about as completely as the illuminated faces filled my horizon. "Grant ! Grant ! Welcome Grant !" "Hurrah for Grant !" "Hurrah ! Grant ! Grant !"

My grandfather sat absolutely quiet in his place, amid bedlam let loose, but for the first time I remember the depth and power of his eyes, and how dark they seemed, though they shone. Grandmama, on the contrary, waved her hand and bowed and smiled. She was de-lighted and expressed her delight to her husband, to my mother, to every one, in fact. Just as I was handed in to my mother, very frightened by the noise, the vast crowd lurched forward and seemed to be upon us. Hats and hands were waved wildly. If possible, the cheering increased, and shouts of "Move on ! Start !" "Unspan those horses ! We'll draw the carriage ! Wait !" "Hurrah, hurrah for Grant ! Grant ! Grant!" rent the air again and again. More and more panic-stricken, I hid my head on my mother's lap, and it took some encouragement to make me feel brave again. But I was just regaining my nerve when a sympathetic person in the crowd, which was. closer than ever to us, stretched out a hand and touched me. With a shriek I collapsed in my mother's arms, and after that saw nothing more. I was reproached, and my eyes were wiped and my nose blown, and though I hadn't the bravery to look about, by the time we reached our destination I had recovered, and could calmly stand being taken out of the carriage and into the hotel lobby. We had arrived and my torture was over, but for a long time I felt ashamed, and it was a considerable relief to find that most of the grown people did not seem to hold my bad behavior up against me.

Nearly forty years afterward, at the time of the Bolshevik uprisings in Russia, I saw enormous mobs which strained every one's nerves, and I was then as much frightened as anybody; but even in 1917 I was less routed than I felt myself to be when that great hearty American crowd shouted its welcome to my quiet grand-father at Colorado Springs on his return from his triumphant trip around the world.

We stayed there awhile, and in the hotel grown-ups and babies led much the same life. I made friends with these grandparents whom I did not remember, and attached myself to both. Grandmama was delightful; she let me come to see her dress, allowed me to touch all her dainty clothes, and even to try on a ribbon now and then—while in a special corner I found there was a little box or jar kept always half-hidden. Only she and I knew this secret, she said, and somehow the supply of goodies to be found there was inexhaustible and varied—cookies, dried prunes, small apples, peppermints, and so on, followed one another, each better than the last, and always leaving me eager for to-morrow's surprise. Grand mama was gay, knew poetry and stories, and was a human, sunny friend, and a sympathizer to little people about, most of all to her small namesake, the first—and then the only one of the new generation.

With my grandfather my relations were quite different. He wasn't exactly gay, and I do not remember his laughing ever, but the talk between us was very interesting. He always took me seriously. I felt promoted and inclined to live up to my new position as his companion. Sometimes he would pinch my ear or my cheek and say softly, "Julianna Johnson, don't you cry," and it rather teased me. But generally he held my pudgy dimpled hand on the palm of his, and we learned to count the fingers and dimples together; sometimes I made a mistake and sometimes he did so, letting me correct him. And he taught me "cat-cradle" with a string. We walked together hand in hand, silent, frequently, but at other moments talking of our surroundings, and he called me habitually "my pet " or "my big pet," which made me very proud. I was not at all afraid of him, for he had a charming, gentle way of acting always, and though his face was generally grave, now and then a sudden gleam lighted up the eyes and made them seem to smile in answer to my chatter.

After the little stay at Colorado Springs we all travelled together up to Galena, and I finally overcame my fear of the crowds which were at every station, shouting their welcome to us, hurrahing and waving. The people would surround my window and give me flowers, or ask me for one of those which I had; "for a souvenir," they said. They made me tell them things and then they would laugh and applaud, and I grew to feel I was very important to the party, and that my small private reception was part of the general ovation to Grant. I heard afterward, though I have no memory of the occurrence, that some one asked me if I was a little American or a little foreigner, and I answered emphatically : "I am a Gwant !" I remember being teased about this pretentious remark for many years after it was made.

At Galena we stayed with the grandparents, who re-turned to their wee cottage there, where they had lived before the outbreak of the war. Grandmama offered me the garden, and I gave up everything else and went in for mud pies, while all the world passed by me in and out of the garden-gate and cottage-door. Handsome big men and many an elegant woman in her best frills came to the modest cottage. After four years on battle-fields and eight in the White House, with their tour of European and Asiatic palaces thrown in, it spoke well for this prominent couple that they contentedly returned to their old place to settle down. We soon left them, and went back to our own house in Chicago.

There I remember many faces vaguely among my mother's friends, but all these were dominated by the personality most in view, General Philip H. Sheridan. Very different from my grandfather he was, but also with qualities which won and held the devotion of those who served with him, and which made him a social favorite always. I remember him well, for his daughter and I were playmates, and her father would drop in to her nursery, and speak with us on his way in or out. He had a low-pitched but rather loud voice, an easy, merry laugh or chuckle, and a warm, strong way of shaking hands. I believe he was short, but to our small figures he seemed tall enough to be impressive, and he moved rather quickly. He did not have much hair, whether because of baldness or because the head was close-clipped, I don't recall; a round face with fine lines, however, a good nose, and large blue, expressive eyes. These changed constantly in expression—beamed with fun or looked suddenly tender and sad. All warmth and sympathy and Celtic charm as he passed through his children's rooms was the general who led cavalry with such genius.

My father, on this commander's staff, was more in Chicago and less in the Far West, and once he and my mother both went away, leaving me with my lovely aunt—my mother's sister, Mrs. Palmer—during their trip. It was a new experience for me to be visiting and alone, without my own parents, and I had several impressive experiences, one being the family Christmas-tree, the only really large, fine one I had ever seen. Arranged in the evening, it took on great importance in my sight by that fact. Besides, I fancy I was allowed a little more candy, and was given an extra amount of spoiling because I was a visitor. Certainly I enjoyed extremely the excitement of my position in their absence, though I hailed my parents' return with delight. They had been to Mexico, they told me—an official visit which my grandfather made to President Diaz. General Sheridan had accompanied my grandfather, and my father went as aide-de-camp to Sheridan, while there were several important civilians in the party also. Grandmama went, and all the other wives as well—a gay, clever group round the great central figure. They brought back tales which thrilled me for years, and are still told now by my mother to my interested little daughters. The party had had much attention naturally; a splendid ovation was given to my grandfather, and in Mexico City there were fêtes, receptions, and illuminations on the pattern of those Europe and Asia had offered him a few years earlier. I fancy he did not especially enjoy these, but the ladies did. They loved the "daumont" carriages, the parades and pretty clothes, Spanish fans, silver and gold filigree work, willing young Spanish aides-de-camp, and the new and unexpected customs governing life in the large stone palaces where Diaz's will was supreme law. The latter was in the heyday of his power and talent then, and he and my grandfather held many a serious conference which influenced American relations with Mexico through the decades which followed, and helped on friendly understanding and constructive work between the two countries.

All the party shopped, and came home laden with quaint old or modern creations of Spanish hands and brains. Even my grandfather made a purchase; grand-mama had a string of quite large pearls, somewhat irregular but of lovely sheen and color, which he had bought her in Mexico City. She was delighted with them and he was pleased, too, I remember. I was deeply impressed with the necklace, because I was taken on her lap and allowed to feel its weight and beauty. She told me that when I should be grown up the pearls would be mine, because I was her namesake; and my grandfather added : "Those are pearls I bought for Julia Grant, and you are Julia Grant, my pet." Through the years there-after, whenever I was near, I was allowed to fasten the necklace on grandmama, and always as he looked on, smiling, my grandfather would say : "My pet, your grandmama is wearing your pearls again. Do you like her to wear them ?" And I did.

When I was five years old a new experience came in my small life. We spent a summer with my mother's sister and my uncle Palmer at their country place just outside of Chicago ; and no one who has lived in the country, always taking its pleasures for granted, can realize the joys which a small city girl finds in her first prolonged stay among trees and birds, with a garden-patch to work in for her very own, and lawns to sit and roll on; two boy cousins, also, as daily companions. It seemed a garden of paradise we lived in during the summer of 1881. I had a slight illness, caused perhaps by too many strawberries or cherries, but I was getting well rapidly. I lay in bed still one evening in a little room off my mother's, and was to be allowed up definitely next day when suddenly my lovely aunty came in and took me in her arms, carrying me into her own room, "to pay me a little visit," she said. She tucked me into her own big bed, where I fell asleep.

Early the next morning I was awakened by what I thought was a cat mewing, only it seemed rather loud. Then nurse came in and told me to dress quickly like a good girl, because there was to be a surprise for the two cousins and me as soon as we were ready. I asked about that cat ; maybe there was one lost in the house some-where, the nurse said. She was distracted and uncommunicative. She got through with me rapidly and sent me into my aunt's dressing-room, where the latter was doing her hair while talking to my two cousins, who were there before me, and who looked impressed. I joined them with a beating heart, and heard that a brand-new baby boy had arrived in the house, and that because I had no brother, while the two cousins had one another, this baby was to be mine.

I grew old, with swollen importance, as I listened. It was, indeed, great news ! One of the cousins took it quietly, while from the other came a storm of protest and tears. He didn't think it fair; the baby was born in their house and ought to be theirs ; I was a girl and always was given everything, anyhow; and, besides, he was the eldest, and this first baby should by right go to him. I trembled with anxiety that my acquisition should slip from me, but I kept a dignified silence while the question was thrashed out. I felt all my cousin's arguments to be both just and good, but, nevertheless, I wanted to keep this exceptional possession which kind fortune had brought me ; and in the end I triumphed through my aunt's decision and diplomacy. We had a rapid breakfast, eaten under the strain of intense excitement and impatience. Then we were marshalled into an expectant procession, with my aunt's instructions to walk into my mother's room on tiptoe, sit down in three chairs which we should find there by the door, and await the baby. We might look at him but in silence, and at a signal from our guide we must then march out.

We carried out our orders, and soon after our entrance there appeared from my own old room a nurse holding a bundle. She brought it over, showed a tiny sleeping face 'first to the eldest, then to my second cousin, who both stared with interest. Finally she came on to me.

"Here is your little brother, dear. Would you like to hold him ? " she asked. Nearly exploding with pride and joy, I nodded silently as hard as I could, and she put the bundle into my arms without quite letting it go herself. "In a few days you can help me bathe him," she said, and I felt I had discovered a new heaven and a new earth. Soon my father appeared, and he said: "Well, pet, do you like our baby brother ? He is yours, you know."

The poor disappointed cousin was then given a turn at holding the baby, which consoled him a little. I imagine he didn't mind losing him when he saw the new boy was too small to do much playing yet. We were all turned out into the garden shortly after I had been told to kiss my mother quietly, as she had a headache. She smiled and said how nice it was the little brother had come. She looked very pretty but seemed tired, and they told me she wouldn't get up that day.

After that great event I was called a "big girl," and was supposed always to put on and button my own clothes, and do various other small things for myself. Mama was not quite strong for a long time. The baby was named Ulysses, for my grandfather, and I took great delight in helping with his toilet. He wore my White House finery, and he was big for his age, every one said, and very pink and white and strong, and he made a great racket when he cried. My mother was anxious about him often and held him a great deal in her arms, and sometimes when he wouldn't be quiet my father would pick him up, and with the baby's head on his broad shoulder he would croon an Indian refrain learned out on the plains long ago. Apparently it was an irresistible invitation to sleep. I heard it said the baby loved it.

My mother's health continued fragile still, and my father, who had resigned from the army, brought us all on to New York, where we went to a new house, 3 East 66th Street—a very big dark house, it seemed to me: I heard with great interest the grown-ups say it was given my grandfather by the citizens of Philadelphia. Then for a time my life was most exciting. I was very much my own mistress, as our nurse was constantly occupied by the baby, and my mother was not strong enough to do more than attend to him. Various Grant uncles and aunts came to stay in the house, and one aunt I had not known before came from England to visit my grandparents. She was Aunt Nelly—Mrs. Sartoris—and she brought with her three children, who spoke awfully funny English. They had a nurse and a governess who were very severe and almost incomprehensible to me in their talk. I found Aunt Nelly most sympathetic, with lovely eyes and smile and a gentle voice and very caressing manner, and she always wore soft clothes. I never saw much of her through the years which followed, but this impression renewed itself always when we met.

The big new house had many rooms. All the lower floors had very interesting things in them, about which grandmama told stories. For instance, the library's books were a gift to my grandfather from the city of Boston, and the beautiful bindings, richly tooled in gold, were a joy to look upon in their ebony bookcases. A great fire constantly burned in the library grate, and the flames' light played on the black-and-gold brocade of the furniture, which was a gift from the Mikado of Japan. In the front parlor gold, red, orange, green, and white were woven into another brocade from the same source, and a wonderful gold-lacquer cabinet, eleven hundred years old or more, stood as a further testimony of the Mikado's enthusiasm. Some modern lacquer furniture, duplicate of a set used by the Empress in the imperial palace in Tokio, had been given grandmama. Teak-wood cabinets stood about, covered with jade or porcelain gifts from the Chinese Emperor and from Li Hung Chang, his wise old adviser. Malachite and enamels there were from Russia, with fine gifts from England and from France. Also precious documents, the freedom of various cities abroad laid in gold-wrought or bejewelled caskets, with medals given by our Congress, swords of honor, and many more souvenirs of a wonderful life filled the large, quiet rooms. Little by little I learned of their meaning, and of that of some of the fine portraits—Sheridan's on his famous ride, and several pictures of my grandfather in one rôle or another. He and my father were now going into a banking business in which one of my uncles was interested; the firm was called Grant & Ward. It was a flourishing concern, and into it my grandfather as well as my father cheerfully put what they had saved, by careful economy from their army pay. In my grandfather's case, even the fund was invested which was given him by New York City to express appreciation of his patriotic service.

My mother was still delicate, and to strengthen her we moved for the winter to a pretty cottage at Morristown, N. J. She and my father were delighted with the place, and I remember very well how interested they were in furnishing their new home, and how attractive they made it, even to my inattentive childish eyes. My mother was looking quite radiant at this time—very young still, she dressed always in charming and becoming clothes. She was much admired and fêted, and my father was enthusiastic in surrounding her with all the luxury his new business profits could offer, thus making a frame for her beauty. Our home was gay with visitors coming and going. My great delight was in our horses, especially one pair, which my father drove himself in a high phaeton, or which my mother drove harnessed to a low trap which he gave her. She had always been an accomplished and graceful horsewoman in her youth, and it was a keen delight to her to handle the ribbons again. There was a wonderful sleigh, too, low, on Russian or Swedish lines, with floating red horsehair plumes and tinkling bells. It had warm, furry robes. Some-times I was allowed to drive out with my mother, and I was delighted then.

Morristown was a very attractive place to live, and from there occasionally we visited the grandparents again for a few weeks, either in New York or at their seashore cottage at Elberon, N. J. The latter was paradise to us children. On one corner of the large lawn a group of pine-trees sheltered us from the sun and made an ideal playground, and grandmama had had "the woods" fitted up with a swing and other arrangements dear to our hearts. Besides, each child had a tiny garden-patch, where flowers and vegetables were rivals for our care; my brother, grown a healthy toddler, had planted a melon-vine in his patch. Every time he reported, in saying good night to grandmama, that a flower bloomed on his melon-plant, he could be sure, next morning when he ran into the garden, of finding that in the blossom's place lay a ripe watermelon or a canteloupe. He immediately carried the fruit back to the house and sold it to his grandmother for ten cents. His miraculous vine became a family classic ! There were big, shady balconies with hammocks at Elberon, and on one of these, just by the stairway leading to our nurseries, stood a small barrel, kept full always of home-made cookies, prepared especially for the benefit of weary, hungry children. Best of all, there was the beach, and the blue ocean to paddle and bathe in. And all these pastimes were allowed us through long, busy, happy days.

Grandmama still let me go in and help her dress. Besides, there was an offer on her part to us children, a secret arrangement which was ideal, according to which if we were any of us in trouble, or were not permitted to do one thing or another as we wanted, we were to come to her, and she would see what she could do to remedy the situation.

My grandfather evidently enjoyed us very much. He continued to call me his pet, also sometimes to sing me the old Julianna Johnson song, and he kept me with him and talked to me a great deal. A wonderful experience was when he let me go out to drive in his buggy with the fast trotters, which were his single luxury. I stood between his knees, which steadied me, and held the reins out in front of his hands, and found skimming over the good hard road as great a joy as he did. He introduced me to his two intimate friends, who spent a great deal of time at the house. One of these was Mr. George W. Childs, the other Mr. Childs's inseparable and devoted comrade, Mr. A. J. Drexel, and both old gentlemen were very nice to me. Mr. Childs often brought me gifts, which I loved. My first gold watch and a little ring which I wore all through my girlhood came from him. We had long talks when he called, and I enjoyed immensely his tales of his early struggle as a poor boy, and how Mr. Drexel and he had built up their great fortunes in Philadelphia, one in the banking business and the other through his newspaper. Both these men spent much time with my grandfather.

A person who at Elberon counted himself almost one of the family was General Horace Porter. He had been on my grandfather's staff, was handsome, dashing, with a charming manner and keen wit, and seemed an acquisition to any group. He was developing rapidly at that time into a fine business man, and making a reputation as a public speaker, also. Another one of my grandfather's circle at Elberon was Mr. George M. Pullman, already at the head of his great business—a strong, grim personality, with a glint of humor sometimes in his eye; a very different type from the gentle one of Mr. Childs, and the ' artistic, quiet temperament of Mr. Drexel. Often I watched the group gather round grandmama at the corner of the piazza which commanded the best ocean view and breeze. She and my mother talked gaily, and the men joined in. My grandfather would sit quietly, his face relaxed, an amused or interested look in his expressive eyes. He talked little, but now and then he would take the cigar from his lips and place a few words, asking a pointed question, making a comment or even telling some anecdote, always with the simple manner and voice habitual to him. Politics and other serious subjects came up, too, and were fully discussed, but I was too little to care for or understand these.

We had returned to Morristown, and the spring of 1884 was on. One day, when my father had gone as usual to town and my mother drove to meet the train by which he ordinarily returned, he did not arrive. A friend, coming from town, seemed surprised to see her there waiting in her victoria, and approached her, asking if she had not had a telegram. He thought perhaps my father might be kept late, he said, all night even, but he was confused in his explanations—with evident intention. Anxious, my mother returned to' our pretty cottage, dined alone and went to bed, after receiving a strange wire which told her almost nothing and only created vague alarm.

The following day passed, and with the evening my father came home looking very weary, pale, and troubled. He hugged me as always, and passed on with my mother to their up-stairs sitting-room. Her cry of surprise and distress rang out, and then loud questions and quiet replies floated to the hall below, where we children sat, frightened. When they came down my mother's eyes were red, and she told me to go to bed quickly—so I went, wondering what had happened.

Next morning I learned. We hadn't any more money at all, and were to go to live at grandmama's, who seemed to have enough, for some unknown reason, to keep her home, while we must give up ours. To me it was compensation enough for any trouble to go and visit grand-mama, but as the days passed I grew to feel the drama of the Grant & Ward failure and to see how much my father suffered from it. He went to town earlier and returned later. Our horses and carriages had been driven away the first day and sold. This left the stable empty, and my father drove to and from his trains on the box seat of the village grocer's wagon. To show his sympathy the kindly man had offered to carry my father. Every day packers came to pack and move some of our furniture. It would have been fun to watch this were it not that my mother spoke so sadly of each thing which went into barrel, crate, or box, and wondered when she would have a home again. Each day my father came back to ask how nearly ready we were. I packed and unpacked my toys and little treasures in a fever of excitement and of desire to help. After a few days, perhaps a week, we had finished.

The house stood empty as we left it, starting to Elberon. It was only years later I realized the heroism of my elders at that time. How on that first dreadful morning when my father and grandfather had reached the city they had been sent for by my uncle, Ulysses, Jr., who was Ward's partner in the bank. How he had told them Ward had run away with all the funds and that the firm had failed. Practically all my father had was in this company, and what little was outside he turned at once into the common till to pay the small investors. My grandfather, in the same position, acted likewise. His house in town, long before this, at his request had been put in grandmama's name by the citizens of Philadelphia, and he had given her the Elberon cottage during his presidency, so he decided she should keep those for the moment and take the whole family in. As a last resort these, too, might be sold, however, to pay the debts of a bank which bore his name, and where poor people had invested savings because of the confidence that name inspired. All his outside funds were placed in the till drawer, and then to make up the rest of what was lacking he set out to sell what he personally possessed.

I have often heard grandmama tell the story through the years which followed, and if I remember it rightly it was this : On the second morning, after their liabilities were ascertained, my grandfather, going down-town as usual, proceeded straight to the office of old Mr. William H. Vanderbilt. There he sat down in the crowded ante-room, awaiting his turn to see the great financier. Some one coming out recognized him, and told the attendant of his presence. The latter went into the private office and warned Mr. Vanderbilt that my grandfather was in the group outside. Instantly the old gentleman came out.

"Why, general, what is this ? You waiting here for anything ? Come right in with me."

And my grandfather answered, hesitating: "I come with a petition, like the rest."

"Never mind, just come right into my office and tell me what I can do for you."

Once inside, he added that he had heard the bad news, and again asked how he could serve my grandfather, and the latter, greatly touched, was as brief as Mr. Vanderbilt.

"It is true, all that you heard. The firm my boy was in has failed, and though he was not the thief, his and my name were connected with it and perhaps inspired depositors to put in their money. I feel responsible, there-fore, and I must pay these debts at once. I have come to you, thinking perhaps you would lend me the necessary sum, and accept the security I can offer—my gifts from various cities and the sovereigns of Europe, my swords and medals, and such other personal property as I own."

Mr. Vanderbilt replied : "I am touched that your good feeling and confidence in me brought you here to-day, General Grant. I shall consider it an honor to lend you this small sum, and I will accept no security whatever—especially not the trophies and honors which mark the record of your life."

But my grandfather was obdurate; he said he knew the security he offered was not intrinsically equal to what he was borrowing, but that as the things had to him a sentimental value, he would feel anxious to redeem them quickly. They argued for some time, till finally the rich creditor gave in to his determined debtor. My grand-father took the check, paid the liabilities of the firm for which he felt responsible, and within a day or two all the treasures from our house cabinets were sent off. Mr. Vanderbilt did not like taking them or keeping them, and he again protested, but in vain. Finally he returned them to grandmama; I think during my grandfather's last illness or just after his death. Grandmama considered she should not keep them, and with the consent of the whole family—and Mr. Vanderbilt also acquiescing, I believe—the things touching my grandfather's public life went to the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, while the swords he had actually used, his shirt-studs, and so on, were kept by- the family. The loan was finally repaid from the money my grandfather's memoirs brought in.

I have no documents to go by, and I was very young when all this happened, but I heard the story often told by grandmama, and I repeat it as it returns to my mind after thirty-six years.

It was the Grant & Ward failure which took us definitely into my grandparents' household to live. There we remained inmates during four or five years. My father went on working in New York, and in his spare hours he helped my grandfather in looking up war records or documents among the latter's old papers. These were to be used for some articles my grandfather promised to a magazine, which offered him an unheard-of price, $500, for a series of several. My grandfather was greatly pleased to feel his power to support his home undiminished, in spite of the loss of his small fortune.

So the household, though augmented by additional members, leading a simpler life, perhaps, and run with greater economy, was still a contented one, courageous and busy, each doing some share toward the general comfort. A new and terrible trouble cloud, however, gathered gradually over our heads.

In the spring of 1884 my grandfather, in crossing the sidewalk from his house to his carriage one morning, had slipped on a bit of orange or banana peel, had fallen heavily, and had done his hip and leg an injury. Helped back into the house, a few days of care had prevented any serious developments, but he was left with a slight limp and a slowness of motion in rising or seating himself, and this trouble caused him always afterward to use a cane. The loss of his small fortune, with his consequent anxiety as to the obtaining of means to keep his home and family going, preyed on his mind. The difficulty of paying off personally all the small creditors of the fun was a still greater problem for his keen sense of honor to solve, and when the funds were provided by the loan from Mr. Vanderbilt—he nevertheless continued to feel he must redeem that obligation immediately.

The hip trouble gave him some pain, and held him to a sedentary life, barring him practically from all exercise. This and his weight of care aged him greatly. The buggy and fast trotters of earlier days became an impossible luxury, and my grandfather grew gray of face as well as of hair and beard.

When we moved to his house to live, I was for the first time conscious he was an old man in looks. The hair was still very thick and it waved, his face was not much wrinkled, but it showed a few marked lines and a certain thinness, with less color than before. The strength of the nose was more apparent than ever; long, aquiline, well shaped and distinguished, its character emphasized by the fine brow with rather shaggy eyebrows.

My grandfather often wore a slight frown in those days, which grandmama would smooth out in passing with her tiny, beautiful hand. He always gave her a smile then, and the cloud of trouble for the moment was raised. I remember his smile as rather out of the ordinary, more in the eyes than in the mouth, for I do not ever recall seeing much change in the strong, straight line of the lips and jaw. Only the eyes glowed or grew deep with humor and intensity. Without analyzing them, for I was not old enough to do that, the impression remains with me of immense reserve power for action, for enjoyment, or for suffering—behind a mask which, without being agitated, reflected all sorts of sentiments and responded instantly with sympathetic light to what was going on round him.

He was small, growing old with his lameness and his load of sadness, yet one felt his face and figure to be the centre of decision, of intellect and character, in a group where there were many people out of the ordinary. Simplest of them all, he was their master both in greatness and in perfect command of himself.

He never thought of ordering any one to do anything, never raised his voice or asserted himself ; but one saw the respect, almost awe, he inspired, and the devotion given him by all who were near.

I was just eight years old, and my baby brother had grown to be a sturdy toddler of three. He was still with our nurse constantly, and I felt immediately independent by comparison. I had not lost my place with the grandparents by the fact that we had been living away from them in Morristown. While there I had begun to take lessons, including drawing, and once I had made a picture of some fruit in a basket, which I sent my grandfather as a birthday gift. This very bad drawing brought me a delightful letter from him, and I had also previously received another letter. I was so proud of them and read them so often, I think I could almost repeat them by heart, even now after thirty-six overcrowded years have passed. Each covered the whole of a note-paper sheet and began: "My dear big pet."

One was written to ask me how my lessons were getting on and to encourage me at them. "You and grandpa will have to read together when you come here to stay." "Grandpa expects his pet to know how to read better than any one else after this year's work." "Have you forgotten with all your lessons how to sing Julianna Johnson ?" "The buggy and fast trotters will be waiting to take us driving as soon as vacation time begins." All this in the first letter, which said in its last paragraph that I must write and tell him what I thought would be nice for my Christmas presents, "so grandpa and grandma would have time to shop for them."

The second letter said at the beginning: "Your mother and father have come to pay us a visit, and we are very sorry they didn't bring you. They brought me instead the beautiful picture you made me for my birthday, and I hasten to thank my big pet for all the trouble she took to give her grandpa such a fine surprise. Grandpa hung the present up where he can see it all the time, and I hope when next they come to us, your father and mother will bring you too. Love from grandma and thanks again from grandpa."

I quote these passages from memory, because the letters, which had been preserved through years in my Russian home, stayed in Petrograd, and have doubtless, with all the other small treasures of family life, fallen into Bolshevist hands to be destroyed.

So I had kept in touch with the kind grandparents, and was glad that loss of fortune drew us back into their home again. We children, took up a care-free life on beach and lawn, and though our food was perhaps ordinary, and various small luxuries were suppressed, I sup pose, I remember nothing of privation, save that I wore my last year's summer gowns—which to me was entirely satisfactory—and that the fast horses did not exist for my grandfather to drive, with me between his knees. These tête-à-tête parties were a feature of our life I did miss, at any rate in the beginning, but the days were short and full of pleasant games, and we loved the Elberon cottage, anyhow.

All through the early summer my father travelled morning and evening to and from New York, busy with some work for which he was paid enough to make a contribution to the general expenses of the household. But my grandfather no longer went to town. A little room, shady and cool, furnished in simple wicker furniture, which had been called his sitting-room before, was re-named his office now, and we children were told to make our trips upstairs and down by the outside balcony-stairs, "as grandpa was working." Several times grave gentlemen with impressive manners came to the cottage and transacted business with my grandfather. Once or twice they stayed to lunch, and though every one was very polite and talked constantly, I had a feeling that these were solemn parties. However, after each visit grandmama was very cheerful and triumphant, and though I do not remember any expression of opinion from my grandfather, I know now how relieved and satisfied he must have been that his articles were a vast success, were clamored for, and brought him large checks. I heard also he was being begged to write his memoirs in book form, and had received very flattering propositions.

My father, General Porter, Mr. Drexel, and Mr. Childs were always conversing about "the book." It was to be begun at once, and grandpapa was to give his own personal record of the Civil War. It would make him rich, every one said, and they all would help him to look up any data he needed to refresh his memory. My grandfather consented readily, glad to be busy and useful still.

This was the state of things when I remember occasional remarks among various members of the family, or from the old servants, to the effect that he was not feeling quite well. Some one said he had taken cold and had a slight sore throat, and one scrap of gossip told us that he hadn't a cold but had felt his throat hurting when he had swallowed a small bit of peach skin one day; probably something was on the peach skin which scratched the delicate throat tissues. The doctor who was called in said "smoker's throat" and gave a medicine to gargle with. I assisted at the gargling often, and thought the whole thing interesting; only I was sorry my grandfather was not quite well. He was the first grown-up I had heard of as being ill ; and as he moved about, away quite dressed, while he kept his usual gentle smile and kindly word for me, I was not anxious. I do not think any others of the family circle were so, at that time.

We children ate at a small table in the corner of the dining-room, an hour or so before our parents had their meals. The nurses served my cousins and me to dishes which were brought us by Charley, a young son of grandmama's old colored butler, Harrison. Charley was a friend and comrade to us, and our meals were very gay; also, we were deeply interested in Charley's future, for if his father and he made enough by the time he was eighteen he was to go to college, "and not just be a-servin' round a house," old Harrison said.

One day the usual conversation was being carried out under the usual conditions—our French Louise urging us to hurry and finish our noon beef and potatoes, "so when all the ladies and gentlemen came to their luncheon we should not be found still sitting there and be ignominiously chased away"; and we children, as usual, were dawdling. Quite suddenly a great rumbling like thunder began, to our amazement, since the weather was clear and fine; then the most curious thing occurred : the whole room—floor, tables, chairs, and cupboards—heaved and rolled. On the table things slid or rocked, and some of the glasses containing our milk were over-turned. I recall the swinging chandelier, and that some glasses and plates which stood in a glass-doored cupboard opposite me rang out one against another as they fell. Louise pulled my brother from his high chair.

My mother burst into the room, seized the boy from his nurse's arms, and rushed toward the door, which opened on the balcony, calling me to follow quickly, and to get out of the house before it fell. It was an earth-quake ! I found my legs easily and at once, and joined my mother. Fright lent wings to my obedience. I had not realized what the matter was, having never known an earthquake before; and as I had never been at sea, either, I had no point of comparison for this queer new sensation of a tottering universe. I had sat petrified, holding my milk glass with both hands to keep it straight, wondering at and scarcely fearing the amazing experience—till my mother's voice gave the enemy a name and told of danger.

On the lawn, where we stepped from the low balcony, we were at first the only members of the household. Just as the moving and rumbling stopped, various people appeared—Louise with our baby's sunbonnet; grand-mama with an exclamation that it reminded her of Japan and Mexico, and probably there would immediately be another shock. My grandfather, cane in hand, and my father at his side came from the office, and I remember my father saying laughingly to my mother as she and I turned back toward them : "What were you going to do about saving me from the earthquake ? I was just as much in danger as the children." And she answered him he was such a big, strong man she thought he would be able to take care of himself. Whereupon the group accused her of having forgotten her husband, and so on, and I lost track of their conversation. While they went back to the house we children ran off to see how angry and choppy the sea had become. It did look very dark and heavy, with whitecaps all over the surface, which we had left so placid when at noon we had gone in to our dinner.

It seemed as if my grandfather was ever growing more quiet, and as autumn came he occasionally mentioned that his throat was no better, and must be treated after the family moved to town. Also, now and then, some member of the family would say to another that my grandfather had a headache. They attributed it to his present sedentary life, the trouble to which his hip put him in walking, or the concentration needed in writing the book. The talk always ended in remarks about how fine the book was as an occupation for him—his deep interest in it, and the satisfaction it would be to him in his old age to see himself and his family more comfortably fixed than ever before by the work of his own brain.

I was allowed once in a while to go into the office. A large new white deal kitchen-table stood against one wall, on which lay various books and documents. Several people—my father, General Porter, a secretary, and my grandfather himself—talked of these and looked at them from time to time; then they discussed a date or a movement of troops. Opposite this table was a fire-place, and on one side stood a small sofa, on the other a wicker armchair. In the latter my grandfather sat when he did not sit at his large desk, which had its place in the centre of the room. Between the windows stood another smaller desk, where a secretary, a personage new to me, sat always. Sometimes my grandfather was writing, or he would take a pencil and draw a small diagram or make a note. To do this he occupied the middle desk's chair. Sometimes from the deep armchair he would dictate to the secretary instead. One wall of the room was occupied by many books standing in lines on plain pine shelves. A clock and more papers were on the mantel and a white matting covering the floor completed the furnishings, while two windows thrown wide open showed a shady balcony, vine-covered, and a glimpse of Mr. Childs's cottage with the blue sea—a very attractive frame for work hours.

My grandfather would always draw me to him when I went in, with his habitual gentle manner, and would say, "Good morning, my pet. It was nice you thought of paying grandpa a little visit "; and he would add in answer to my question, "Grandpa is well to-day," or "better to-day"; and with a kiss and a quiet stroking of my cheek or hair he would let me go. The secretary was very nice, too, and he showed me how he took down shorthand or typed with a machine, which would probably make a self-respecting stenographer to-day feel discouraged at sight. The secretary and I had several talks, and I gathered he felt it a great honor to be placed with my grandfather, which pleased me very much. I was used to my grandfather's being considered above other men; but because I only knew him personally as so quiet and modest, I was always somewhat dazed by any fuss outsiders made round him. It was difficult to realize at my age much about his being a general or a President.

I remember sitting on the lower step on the stairs one day, near his office entrance from the hall. His door opened, and my grandfather came out, crossed the hall, and took his hat from the table. He saw me and said : "Well, my pet, I'm glad to see you; what are you doing there ? " I returned both his compliment and the query, to which he replied : "I'm going out for a little walk." Then I inquired : "Well, have you told grandmama you were thinking of going out, grandpapa ?" "Why, no, my pet, I don't really believe I have. Now you mention it, I will, though, at once." He went up the little flight of steps to their bedroom hall, and, knocking on grandmama's door, he went in and shut it. His eyes had their most amused smile as he passed me. Inside the room I heard his gentle, cheerful voice address my grandmother.

"Mrs. G., things have come to a pretty pass; even our little granddaughter seems to have learned who really is the boss, and she has just advised me quite seriously to come and ask your permission to go for a walk." And they both laughed and said other things, farther away from the door, so I could no longer hear. He came out soon, and telling me grandmama allowed him to go, he invited me to accompany him. After that I heard the story of our conversation retailed all over the house, always with more gaiety than I could understand, as I had thought it quite a simple matter.

Soon, for some reason, my father gave up going to town for his work, and he became a constant inmate of my grandfather's office. I did not entirely comprehend why this change occurred, but heard that with his hip injured it was hard for the elderly author to move' about after documents, maps, and books, while dictating was fatiguing his voice and throat. The latter, if anything, pained him more than ever. Therefore, now, my father, who had lived through those war experiences with the general, was going to take off the latter's hands all the necessary research work and give his entire time to this congenial task of helping the book forward, thus saving his father fatigue and strain, whether in explaining what the latter wanted to a stranger, who knew nothing of the necessary references, or in hunting up each date and map himself.