Going Home

( Originally Published 1921 )

WE travelled slowly to Southampton and from there embarked for home. The sea was gentler with us in July than it had been in early March, 1889, and the fine weather gave us pleasure for once, in our nautical experience. We were carrying back to America many agreeable memories. Besides Austria, my parents had been to Hungary on a short stay for the twenty-fifth anniversary celebrations of the King's coronation. They had seemed to think those fêtes more splendid than anything Vienna produced. They had also been to Rome, received there by both the Pope and the King of Italy; and, finally, they had spent a few days in Paris with Mr. and Mrs. Reid, who had given them an opportunity of meeting numbers of interesting French people, among whom the Reids had taken a fine position.

Besides these social trips made together they had taken us children over much of western Europe. My father personally planned every journey so we should get all that was educational from our wanderings. His own earlier travels, his knowledge of history, architecture, and art, with his intensely alive mind, made everything vivid and interesting to us. He drew our attention to all that was worth while, whether in light vein or of serious nature. My mother was generally anxious to rest during our trips as much as possible, and my brother was still very young to go sightseeing continuously, so I found myself often my father's only companion on the expeditions we undertook. I was as strong as he, and my absorption in his favorite interests pleased him extremely. I was just of an age to understand and follow him blissfully. Once we went to Naples, where, as my brother had been ill, we spent a month sunning our-selves, though the wind even there seemed cold that winter. We visited all the delightful points about the city, and I had a horrid fright in climbing Vesuvius, at that time in eruption. Our little invalid soon regained his strength, and we returned slowly to Vienna by way of Rome and Florence, making a lovely tour.

Still another time we journeyed through Styria and Bohemia, stopping off at Ischl and at Prague, and from there going into Bavaria. As we wandered on toward the north we visited a number of the picturesque small German cities so rich in old buildings, history, and museums. Augsburg, with its streets of the Middle Ages; Nuremberg, a still more perfect example of that same period; the small German rococo courts; Weimar, with its Goethe traditions; the Wartburg, with memories of Saint Elizabeth and the famous singing contest; Coburg and Hanover, with English and German influences notice-able; Potsdam, with its stories of Frederick and Voltaire, and its later evidences of imperial residence; Berlin, Kiel, and Hamburg; Lubeck and Bremen, the free cities—all these we saw. Then on by boat we went to Copenhagen, looked on scenes where Hamlet had lived, and from there into Holland and Belgium, with their spic-and-span little cities, their quaint beauty of architecture, and their art treasures. Finally we travelled up the Rhine, stopping off at numerous cities, visiting castles, museums, churches, palaces, and battle-fields with enthusiasm, which never knew fatigue.

I loved it, and the stories my father had to tell were thrilling. He knew all the primitive legends, as well as statistics he absorbed from guide-books, and he passed on his lore to us children : tales of Hans Sachs and of Lorelei, equally those of battle-grounds near Metz. He was indifferent to what small discomforts we faced when off the beaten track and taught us to be so. We found we liked the varied hotels and fare as much as he, and we occupied some amusing quarters in vague German towns, where people were unused to foreigners. Even if some-times our food seemed very queer, the beds were of fine old mahogany and the rooms were scrupulously clean, with gay cretonnes and neat pillow-cases, trimmed with typical crocheted or bobbin lace. It was hard to say just what we most enjoyed : the beautiful Schwarzwald and the Thüringerwald, the fine Gothic cathedrals' architecture, the treasures in the Green Rooms of Dresden's huge museum, the primitive paintings of Memling, Darer, Holbein, or Ten Eyck, the later glories of Rubens, Rembrandt, and Vandyke, or the market-places, with their small carts and gay colors. Old Dutch and German façades made one fancy that among the picturesquely dressed good-natured people Faust and Marguerite or Hans Sachs and his guild's members might step out. It seemed as if it would be easy to meet Lohengrin and Elsa, or Tannhâuser, or Elizabeth on any of those green hills with castles, as my father brought them to life in his tales.

It was before the day of motors, before the time when ancient walls and fortifications had been thrown down to make room for modern boulevards. Tourists went on foot then or in whatever was the national horse conveyance, and were easily content with the meals and comforts of each country, even when one candle lighted them to bed. So we learned to drink beer and eat Schinkenbrod with perfect satisfaction; and even to take "compote" with our meat. I never learned, though, to like the Germans' table-manners. It sounded, at some of the long "tables d'hôte," as if a lot of animals were feeding from a trough, and where there was the possibility of doing it, we tried to eat before or after the natives did.

On one of our trips we stopped over at Ostend for a few hours between trains, and went strolling along the broad beach walk among the gay throng there. Coming from the opposite direction toward us we saw the tall figure of King Leopold, surrounded by several gentle-men. He advanced with long, slow strides, towering above other people, and these all turned and stood making way and bowing as he passed. His roving eye stopped on our small group of four, to which his attention was probably attracted by the fact that while every one else was in light summer clothes, we were just off the train and wore dark costumes. He glanced keenly at my father, stopped instantly, holding out, his hand, and then said, calling him by name, "What a pleasant meeting ! "—with a very amiable smile. "How long are you to be here ? Will you introduce me to Mrs. Grant ? And are these your children ?" He spoke with each of us a little; said his daughter had written him of my parents, and how much they were liked in Vienna, and he asked a few questions about our trip. He was so extremely tall that he leaned a little over us as he talked. His manner was very democratic. He had magnetism and was very clever-looking and thoroughbred, but not hand-some as to face. His size made him majestic, however, and he was not ungraceful or clumsy. After a few minutes of conversation His Majesty straightened up.

"Well, I am very sorry you do not think our Ostend attractive enough to linger here for a little longer. I should have enjoyed seeing more of you, but this meeting has been a pleasure to me, Mrs. Grant, and I trust you will come again. Good-by and bon voyage !

He raised his hat and passed on up the street in his casual, easy way, while we turned, to find ourselves the centre of a large number of idlers, gathered to hear the King and see the odd-looking foreigners who knew His Majesty. We were soon lost in the moving ranks of people again and went on to find our train and continue our journey.

I think, perhaps, though four years in Europe broke up the regular schooling which composed an American education, it gave me other things quite as well worth while, and to my brother it gave these without spoiling his home studies, for at the time of our return to America he was still under twelve years old, and able to take up his work in the proper atmosphere at the right moment.

When we landed in New York we went at once to old Cranston's Hotel on the Hudson, where my grandmother was stopping. She was well, seemed delighted to see us and to have our long sojourn abroad ended. My parents had made a delightful plan, which we were to carry out immediately. We were to go to Chicago and pay a lengthy visit to my mother's family. The World's Fair was in full swing, and my beautiful aunt, Mrs. Palmer, was president of the woman's division. At a time when American women were new to the game of civic work they had obtained recognition in connection with the World's Fair, and were on their mettle to do their best. My aunt had accepted the presidency after some hesitation. It meant heavy physical labor in the organization and carrying out of the great movement, much entertaining, long office hours, crowds, meetings, possible strained relations, and many other things uncongenial to her; but, on the other hand, to carry the effort through to a successful finish meant real glory to the women of the country, and no one had more qualifications, mental, physical, or material, to offer. So Mrs. Palmer was elected, and the Woman's Building was made one of the most artistic in the White City on the Lake, while the celebrations held there and at the lady president's splendid home were things the board was proud of.

When we reached Chicago, in late July, the exposition was already in full swing, and my aunt, though tremendously occupied, was accustomed to her rôle, and played it easily, gracefully, and without for an instant being flurried or ever showing fatigue. She was forty-two then, and radiant, with fresh skin and brilliant eyes, in the prime of her great beauty. Calm, amiable, quick, and capable, she managed her heavy duties with a gentle manner and sweet smile which bewitched her aids and made them doubly willing and enthusiastic. She was seconded by a number of distinguished women, too numerous to name, but who ably represented Chicago and many other cities in America. There were women who had come from abroad as well, bringing exhibitions from their far-away countries. It was a totally new departure, this woman's movement, and every one was watching it with deep interest.

That summer left none but pleasant memories, both of the affections of the family circle, still complete, and of the excitement and interest of the World's Fair. When it was over we left Chicago with regret, and I had discovered somehow that life at home was much better even than it had been in Vienna !

Early in October we went to New York. We were very poor, my mother told me, and it would be a painful experience, after all the comforts of our Vienna life, to settle down as modestly as we now must. Grandmama had sold her New York home and moved to Washington, established for her old age, so we were to live alone, and my parents chose the big metropolis because of a business opportunity my father hoped for, and because my mother liked that city. She decided it was where she wanted me to make my début, and my brother to get his schooling.

We found a tiny three-story house in West 73d Street, and my parents took it for the winter. It was new and, though so small, somehow our furniture, which had come from Vienna, was crowded into it. We spent a pleasant season there. My brother was settled at school, and though I was to have neither a coming-out tea nor a ball, I was to be allowed to accept parties to which I was invited. I greatly looked forward to an experience so different from what I had seen of the official world in Europe during the previous winter.

Our life was not anything like what I had known of New York before. In the old times my interests had been confined to the two rooms we occupied, where we slept, studied, and played the days away, our only change being meal hours with the family or a walk in Central Park, with a dancing-class once or twice each week, and an excursion to the shopping district of the city two or three times a year. Now, with slow horse-cars changed to cable on the main lines, 73d Street did not seem nearly so far from the centre of movement as had my grandparents' home in earlier days. Then instead of the quiet I had known before, we now led an agitated life, more so even than had been those last gay months in Vienna.

I found it did not much matter our being poor, except that one could not give big parties or have many fine clothes, and that street-cars replaced the legation carriage. But others gave so many entertainments it would have been difficult to fit any more into the season, any-how, and my lovely aunt sent me two pretty gowns. When one is seventeen and overflowing with the joy of life, money is of no special importance ! College friends took me with parties to football games and college proms or to cadet hops, and by the time our tiny house was settled, there were callers enough to make the rooms seem even smaller than they were. These Americans were my own people, and in spite of the four years and more spent abroad, I found they felt the same way I did about everything. I had no cause to regret or miss Vienna.

My parents, too, had many friends who were glad of their return to New York. They were much invited, while I got more than a pleasant share of invitations through the same kind sources. I had imagined, and so had my mother, that having been away so long would make coming out in New York extremely difficult, but if anything it was just the opposite. We found American society rather liked European traditions. It was still in the phase where people composing it were limited in number and where leaders were acknowledged who bore names distinguished in colonial or revolutionary history.

Ward McAllister, an important figure locally, was not yet too old in years to lead at dances or to decide arbitrarily upon the invitations to the Patriarchs' Ball at old Delmonico's. Every one knew every one else. The same orchestra had been playing for a generation, and its programme was fixed, while the entry of guests and the opening of the Patriarchs' Ball was a very stately affair. Middle-aged women wore stiff silks, fine jewels, and old laces, and younger guests felt anxious for invitations, grateful when they came, and worried over the fit of their gowns. There were certain reigning belles or beauties of New York whose reputations were established, while the ambitious from other cities came to be presented at "a Patriarchs' much as abroad they went to court. The Carnival's queen from New Orleans, or a new beauty from Richmond or Baltimore, was always received and examined by the dowagers and critics quite seriously, was passed upon as having good manners and bearing—or not—as well as fine feathers and complexion ! When approved she was invited to further assemblies and private balls, and she often returned and stayed permanently in New York. But the Patriarchs' was the crisis in her career.

A group of men—not boys, but club-men of age and standing—had much to do with placing a girl. If they approved her looks, were introduced promptly, called on her and danced with her, the youngsters followed suit ; and provided she could hold her beaux she found herself an established success, with every cotillion and supper engaged months beforehand, with bouquets galore, which she carried to dinners, operas, or balls—daily boxes of violets and avalanches of flowers when the holidays came round. Every girl on Sunday afternoons, throughout the season, if things were going well, considered twenty to thirty young men callers but a proper number.

Besides these acquaintances, there formed a group of more intimate friends, who, however poor one was and however little one entertained, dropped in to lunch or dinner, took one walking on Fifth Avenue, made long evening visits in the off-season, and seemed to enjoy a cup of tea late of an afternoon, even when the carnival was at its height.

To me, after Europe, there seemed a delightful in-formality about all this, and I fitted into customs which -compared with those of present New York—seem of another age. I had a kind protectress in Mrs. Rhinelander, who was a great power in the city. Hers were the quaint looks and attitude of an earlier generation, and she could boast the blood of ancient colonists, of course. It was she who saw to it that I was invited to my first Patriarchs' and to two or three other of the ultra-smart functions in the early season. At her high tea on Sunday evenings I met and made my first intimate friends. Her sons and their comrades were of the all-powerful club set, while the younger women of their group were distinguished both for looks and for fine breeding. A background of ancient family portraits and old silver brought from Dutch or English homes by ancestors added their charm to these gatherings, where conversation never flagged. The company bore names of generals who fought for liberty, of signers of the Declaration of Independence, or of those who had shown themselves statesmen or administrators of mark through history. Because "noblesse oblige," these guests had both manners and culture, and with tolerance toward others they combined some severity toward themselves.

There were many people even then in New York who had great fortunes—as money counted in those days-and these lived in large houses within easy reach of one another, many of them about Washington Square. Younger couples were moving up-town, and it caused almost distress and much criticism to see them branching out, doing new things. Various old ladies threw up their hands, shaking their bangles and wondering what society was coming to, with scandal being talked, and the drinking of cocktails at the clubs, and so much flirting.

Yet New York was extremely attractive. On Sunday mornings, especially on Easter Sunday, every young and pretty girl or woman walked a few blocks on the Avenue in her best bonnet, violets or roses pinned to her gown and a prayer-book in her hands. She was invariably accompanied by one or more admirers, making conversation.

High place in society was duly given the general in command at Governor's Island and the admiral who commanded at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, and they, with their staffs, were the central figures of official entertainments. Mrs. Vanderbilt, senior, a widow, living in retirement, left her sons and daughters, each with a fine house, the duty of entertaining. Old Mrs. Astor received much and with great dignity and splendor. There were a number of others, also, to hold tradition's fort, making any newly rich strangers, who were candidates for recognition in New York, feel they had a thorny path to tread before they reached the pinnacle of their ambition and became members of the Four Hundred.

It was just the end of the era of ancient ways, and I saw the beginnings of the new invasion, both as to ideas and people. Fine old ladies with smooth bandeaux, or hair scalloped on their foreheads still wore loose gowns of taffeta, satin, or velvet and old lace, because their age permitted nothing more frivolous. White stockings, with black, flat-heeled, and silver-buckled slippers, clad their comfortable feet, and they were served by retainers who knew the foibles of the household, in which each servant took a personal pride, since usually they had been in their places many years.

New York in the early nineties was really a very quaint place, where one had time of an afternoon to talk and visit for pleasure ! In early spring, after business hours, many a young man could be seen driving good horses in Central Park, with one of the season's belles seated beside him, in a smartly turned-out runabout, while dowagers in handsome victorias would nod amiably in passing, and then turn to look again and gossip, all from sheer interest as to whether an engagement would be announced soon or not.

Our home life was quiet and modest to a degree, but full of contentment. My father was busy with some writing, preparing a new popular edition of my grand-father's book, with annotations of his own, also with more maps and pictures than the original volumes had held. This soon had a large sale, and the work was of a kind my father most enjoyed. My brother loved the American ways, and had plunged with zest into his school life at Cutler's. He was doing well in his studies and was becoming a great, tall fellow. His health gave my mother some anxiety, as she felt he was perhaps out-growing his strength, and she spent much time devising new means of building him up, and did so with marked success. She rather dreaded the strain of West Point for him, and said all she could to persuade him to take a classical course in college and then go into law. But the boy himself wanted to be a soldier, and stuck to his ideal, while my father, I think, was content to have the third generation follow in his own and my grandfather's foot-steps, choosing a career for which by nature my brother seemed well qualified. Finally, having finished at Cutler's at sixteen, the boy took one year at Columbia College, and then entered West Point. His appointment was given him in rather an interesting manner.

Once during that last winter of my grandfather's life, when we lived with him in New York, my father, to distract the invalid from his terrible suffering, had talked of his boy's future, saying he hoped the youngster would go through the Military Academy and then into the army, as they both—the elders—had done. With a sudden inspiration he added he would like the boy to go, not from any single district of the United States to West Point, since they of the army belonged to all the country, but that he wanted very much the boy's appointment to come to him from the President, as a matter of sentiment. He continued: "Father, I've never asked you to do me a favor, but I think if you will write it, I . would like a letter from you to the then President of the United States, asking him to appoint my boy a cadet." I heard my grandfather was greatly pleased, and the following day he prepared a letter and gave it to his son for use when the sturdy four-year-old toddler should need it. It was short and simple and contained this request :

"May I ask you to favor the appointment of Ulysses S. Grant—the son of my son, Frederick Grant—as a cadet at West Point, upon his application ? In doing so you will gratify the wishes of U. S. GRANT."

By chance General Sherman was present when the note was finished, and my father read it to him. General Sherman exclaimed over it, and my father said : "Why don't you sit down, general, and indorse this ? My youngster will be very proud of such a paper some day." Sherman was pleased to do so, as follows:

"It seems superfluous that any addition should be necessary to the above, but I cheerfully add my name in the full belief that the child of such parents will be most worthy the appointment solicited.

W. T. SHERMAN."

When my brother was ready for West Point, this double petition went to President McKinley, and the latter not only complied with the request it conveyed, but, adding a little note, he returned the precious letter to my brother, who treasures it to this day.

The boy, with his strong character and fine brain, developed well and did credit, both at West Point and afterward, to his name and bringing up. Graduating among the first of his class, popular with his comrades and those under his orders as well as with his commanders, he has always filled difficult posts and filled them well. My father was vastly proud of him, and took immense comfort in the very words "my son"; and though the active work of each in their common profession kept them far apart, my brother repaid his parents for the care and devotion the latter had offered him in their time. Especially gratifying to my father and my mother was my brother's marriage with Miss Edith Root, the only daughter of an old friend admired and loved by our elders.

We were all much together during my girlhood, and our home circle had a warmth which drew relatives and friends into its sunny atmosphere. I danced and dined, and was taken to opera or play, or to drive, with kindly people, and I enjoyed myself more and more as months and years flew by. I grew in experience, and in spite of the lack of money, I had as many worth-while things as those girls of means among whom I went, for I enjoyed all their pleasures and carried no responsibility.

I went to Washington and made my début there, too, at a ball given for me by Mrs. John McLean, a chum of my mother's. After her, others of my mother's friends followed suit in entertaining me, and at the capital, as in New York, I was much spoiled. Before the first of these big functions I had gone to show myself in my best evening dress to grandmama, who said she wanted to see me. She received me in her parlor, where she was sitting after her dinner, and on a little table by her lay a box.

"Well, dear, you look very nice," she said. "I'm glad to have my pretty granddaughter going out. It makes me feel young again myself. Now I want you to wear your pearls with that white gown, so they will bring you luck as they did me. Grandpapa always said they were yours—my namesake's—after me, and I am too old and wear mourning too deep to use them ever again. If I kept them they would be just in the bank, and I would rather have you enjoy them and wear them on your young neck while I can see them there, than to have them lie all closed up where no one gets any pleasure from them, and with you waiting for me to die."

So she opened the box and took out the string of beautiful pearls I had so often handled in my childhood, and which I remembered putting on her neck.

"They are Julia Grant's pearls and will bring you luck, and they look very pretty. Do they feel nice ?" she asked with a smile as the clasp snapped.

I loved them, and I was vastly proud of their size and sheen and of the fact that they were mine. I had never owned anything so grand, and I naturally prized them doubly for the memories connected with them and for the fact that grandmama had given them to me herself for my first big American ball.

Washington, though the capital, had little in common with Vienna, but I liked society there just as much or even more than abroad. I visited the White House several times, and was impressed with its dignified style and sober beauty. It was a building to me typical of our American ideals, exactly the place where our first magistrate should be housed. It had such a simple, homelike atmosphere, with enough of space and grandeur in the proportions of rooms and porticoes to make one feel the good quality of the people who had built it. The gardens were enchanting, and suggested a repose no other city palace I had seen possessed. I was glad to have come into the world in such a nice place, and I thought the whole city of Washington exceptionally attractive.

My grandmother lived there in an agreeable, sunny home—comfortable and content through her last years, surrounded by friends of other times, visited frequently by her sons and keeping her daughter with her always, for Aunt Nelly was a widow and had returned from England with her children to live again in her native land. Something of an invalid she was, yet able to move about and enjoy the Indian summer of what had been a difficult existence bravely faced. It made grandmama very happy to have her. She seemed glad, also, that we were in the United States again.

Each spring and fall she stayed with us in our little New York home, going and coming from her cottage at Coburg, for which Elberon and its damp climate had been exchanged. We always loved grandmama's visits, for she was a cheery person, keenly interested in every-thing, childishly intense, and, though her eyes were failing, she still had many resources. She lived much in the past, and the family persuaded her to dictate her memoirs. She began with enthusiasm, putting intense frankness into them. She would say to my father: "Now, Fred, I'm doing this, and I'm enjoying saying just what I think about every one since 'way back. Later it will be interesting, because it will show what people were, but I don't want all this published for several generations. Some one might get mad, because I'm telling how they really felt and acted."

Grandmama was visited by large numbers of persons in her last years, and she kept her charm of conversation. No occasion was more worth witnessing than when one day Li Hung Chang, the viceroy, passing through New York, expressed a desire to see her. She was with us at the time in our house in East 62d Street, where we had moved during my second season. Everything was arranged for the great man to come with his numerous suite and pay his respects. The Chinese Bismarck was tall and gorgeous to behold, surrounded with secretaries and interpreters. He and they were all dressed in the most vivid silks. He had been to my grandfather's tomb to plant in tribute two trees from his native land, for my grandfather had met him in China several times. They had had long conferences, and the old gentleman had then said with simplicity to his visitor : "You and I, General Grant, are the greatest men in the world ! " Now his tribute to my grandfather's memory and his call of respect to the latter's widow seemed very touching.

In spite of his eighty years or so, and his fragile health, the statesman was still of fine presence. He came into our parlor and sat with Oriental calm as his attendants brought in bales and. packages : the gifts he offered. Some wonderful ancient statuettes in ivory and wood, some cups of rare old porcelain, and some jades were for my mother and father; .several rolls of beautiful rich silks, appropriate both for dress and furniture, splendid brocades, and several admirable embroideries were for us—things not to be found in modern shops.

These were distributed about, with a flowery word of compliment from the donor, carefully translated by the interpreter to each recipient in turn.

Then with equal care a large covered piece of furniture was brought into the room and unpacked. It turned out to be a wheeled chair with every mechanical device for putting an invalid at ease, and arranged so the occupant could run the chair herself. Our visitor was obviously delighted with the hideous ultramodern capacities of these appliances, and had them all exhibited. He turned to grandmama with all solemnity at last and had the interpreter explain he had seen this marvellous machine, thought of the poor widow of his friend, and had immediately purchased it to offer it to her in her old age ; he hoped she would enjoy and use it ! Grandmama, who in spite of her seventy odd years and heavy weight was very spry and never thought of infirmities, was surprised and even indignant at being called old or thought of as decrepit. Yet she was much touched by Li Hung Chang's attention. Between gratitude, amusement, and annoyance, her face made a queer study, but she rose to the occasion and thanked him charmingly. They talked lengthily of their mutual memories, of China, of my grandfather's illness, of actual politics. Several times Li Hung Chang brought up the subject of age, and would say, "You and I are very old"; and afterward grandmama spoke of it with mixed heat and fun. "He is at least ten years older than I am," she would repeat.

He spent the whole afternoon with us, and the visit was most enjoyable. The polite Chinese—both he and his suite—drank tea they probably thought horrid compared with the amber brew they knew, and ate light refreshments they also probably hated. But their faces and manners never betrayed anything but the suave politeness of the Far East, and long after their departure that highly colored group was pleasantly referred to in our talk, while their beautiful gifts were much enjoyed. I received as my share of them a box of perfumed flower tea and a roll of silk the color of spring green, possessing a sheen of moonlight. No Western hands could produce such quality and dye. In my Russian home, where I used the material, it was much admired, and was only rivalled by another material I had also from the Far East. This other was of wonderful Japanese weave—coral red, deep violet, and white flowers on a ground of dull gold. It had been a present from the Mikado to the White House baby at her birth, and was sent to make me a court robe ! I could not cut up or wear such splendor, but had had a frame constructed, and I used it as a screen in my salon, where it glittered and glimmered softly in the midst of treasures of old Europe. The work of deft Oriental fingers and looms more than held its own in such company, and won the praise of connoisseurs. One hates to think such beauty has been wantonly ruined by the hands of Bolshevik destroyers !

As the months flew by, my father's time was more and more crowded with useful work. The new edition of my grandfather's book finished, he did some writing on his own account—war articles for various magazines. Then he found himself becoming intensely absorbed by the local political situation, both in New York and nationally. He was associated with many of the eminent men of the day, renewed old or made new friend-ships which were both interesting and useful. Among these the veteran Roscoe Conkling, who died soon after; Senator Root, whose talents and character already placed him in the forefront of the great ; Joseph Choate, Senator William Evarts, General Sherman, and General Porter, ex-President Harrison, President McKinley, and the political bosses Senator Platt and Mark Hanna, passed through our parlor, dined at our table informally, or came to talk with my father about the interests of the country, state, or city, and the aims and work of the Republican party.

The effervescent Roosevelt was daily gaining more prominence in the midst of many other men of mark, and one felt his remarkable talents and magnetism. Amusing, interesting, with a quick, warm sympathy and a charm innate, Roosevelt was the keenest, the most in-tense and urgent personality imaginable. He and my father were quite intimately thrown together, for they were made co-workers in the Police Department when a reform wave swept New York. They often disagreed as they discussed the reorganization of the police force and the cleaning up of New York's tragic and criminal districts. Roosevelt talked a great deal, always rapidly and persuasively. He was much more of a politician than my father. The latter would listen with sincere enjoyment to his brilliant partner. Then after some time he would say in a very quiet voice : "Well, that is one way of putting it, but did you notice this ? Or suppose we just think of this other side a minute "—and in a few concise phrases my father would lay out his own views. Frequently Roosevelt would say cordially: "Now, that's true ! I think that, too ! You go ahead and do that just as you say, and I agree ! "

He had unlimited enthusiasm and energy, and my father, less loudly expressive, had the latter quality, combined with patience his colleague was glad to depend on for carrying out their plans.

My father was fond of the men under him—was sympathetic to the dangers incurred in their work and to their needs, and he won great affection from them in return. He eliminated pitilessly elements which were bad. Both graft and lack of courage were largely sup-pressed, and for some time after his term of office New York's police system was a model. The men's standards were raised to a point that made the force a credit and drew into the service a type of American who was an honor to the city.

Years later I remember a conversation between Roosevelt and my father which typified the former's best qualities as I recall them. He had become President, and Mr. Elihu Root was Secretary of War, while my father had an important away command. When in New York the President stopped across the street from us, and he occasionally dropped in to see us with the informality of earlier years. We were at dinner when the door-bell rang and he joined us. As of old, he was soon arguing with my father, this time about some military measure. His animated phrases rapidly followed one another, yet my father differed.

Finally the latter said: "Well, Mr. President, why don't you consult your Secretary of War ? Perhaps I am prejudiced, but I really don't agree with your point."

"I have," said Roosevelt with impatience, "and he thinks just as you do; that is why I came to you."

"I'm poor comfort, then, for I don't see my way to changing my view either." "Well, I'm sorry," said the President. Then he added with a mixture of admiration and discouragement all his own : "The trouble is that Elihu Root is always disagreeing with me, and he is always right ! I suppose now I will have to go and do this as you. and he wish."

Roosevelt had great enough talents to be honest in admitting those of others, and he seemed always ready to act on information from people who were expert advisers. It was one of his biggest traits, and did much, I think, to add to his reputation. Also, he was never sulky or obstinate if contradicted, and he was quick to praise others. He won friendship and co-operation by this attitude. Altogether, he was a most interesting personality.

My father's work became more and more serious, and he was obliged to stay in the city even through the summer months. My mother remained with him, keeping our house open and fairly comfortable even in hot weather. I went visiting friends in the environs, where there were many pleasant house-parties. Also I went much to West Point. There my father loved, with my mother, to join his old comrades as often as he could. My Aunt and Uncle Palmer had a cottage for two summers at Bar Harbor, and they took me there. I thought I had never seen any scenery more lovely than Mount Desert in its setting of blue sea and sky, and I loved the life. After these seasons the same kind relations invited me to join them at Newport, and I made my début in that gay, smart resort, where I had a lot of friends al-ready among the New York group of merrymakers. Habits then were simpler than they became later at Newport, and we were a crowd of carefree youths, who rode and picnicked, or went out crabbing and catboating, who danced and dined, played golf or tennis, as the spirit moved us. We prided ourselves on being the jolliest group Newport had ever seen, and we loved the place and our healthful life.

I remember only one year with a shadow—cast on our spirits by the Spanish-American War. Already in the spring, with the promise of war, my father had volunteered his services. He was in doubt as to how he would be used, for a few weeks while he waited--meantime he prepared his uniform and kit. Our house was full of paraphernalia—saddle and harness, uniforms, arms, and such—and constantly men came and went who wanted my father to join one or another of the volunteer groups going to the front. He refused all these positions, though he helped several to organize, putting his old army experience and wisdom at their service.

Then came a call which appealed to him. A hard-working infantry regiment of the National Guard, modest of pretension and comparatively poor. of pocket, sent him a delegation. The members were offering them-selves in a unit to our government, for service under fire. They decided they must have a commander who was of Regular Army training, and they knew my father's life. At a meeting, the day before, they had chosen him—would he accept ? He did at once, and for a few days we lived in a turmoil of excitement, for no sooner had they volunteered than the government ordered them out to camp on Long Island, saying that after two weeks they would go to the front.

My father had everything he needed for this sudden departure except his horse. But he was so impatient to start and to be with his regiment from the first moment, that he would not think of waiting for a mount.

"If the men can walk, I can," he said, "and these early days are the time for us to learn to know one an-other and work together. They aren't experienced yet, and would not have asked me to command them if they didn't want me now."

So early one morning, only three days after his acceptance of this call, we found ourselves in Brooklyn at the armory where the 14th Regiment was assembled, ready to march forth.

I had heard much of war and fighting. In our family circle the subject was among those most frequently discussed, but this was my first experience of the bustle of departure, of running messengers and quick orders silently obeyed. It was also the first I had seen of weeping women and girls, of children held close for consolation after a last good-by kiss. Though that day's trip was to be but a few miles long, and we had hopes of meeting again before the troops sailed for serious work, hearts were heavy in the crowd of little family groups. The men were stepping out into the street putting their feet on a road of which the end was invisible.

A command or two rang out. I did not recognize my father's voice. I had never heard him use those clear, ringing tones before ; and then he walked slowly up and down the lines, glancing over the rows of clean-looking young chaps, who hardly looked like amateur soldiers. It was a fine regiment of men, many of Scandinavian blood, and I could tell from my father's pleased expression how much he liked them. He, himself, had not been in uniform for about fifteen years. I was surprised it be-came him so well, and how he seemed to throw off the weight of time. He stood trim and straight, looking his best, alert and keen, not at all showing his forty-eight years. It was the beginning of a new career—not at all, as he thought, a military incident—this answering to the call of patriotism.

Two weeks my father spent with these men. It was hard work for them and their commander, who became very proud of their rapid progress. Then he was ordered off by the War Department to a training-camp in the South, where through sizzling summer weather, he fought malaria and dysentery and trained raw young recruits. They moved on rapidly to the front, where he, the camp's commander, longed to go. He suffered a short, sharp attack of the prevailing malady, but, refusing to give up his work for a trifle like ill health, he continued his duties till he could hardly stand and the doctors said he was all but dying. My mother was wired for. Then, after a week of nursing, my father's magnificent physique answered to her care, and he was back in camp again. At last, late in the summer, came the much-desired orders sending him to the front. He was promoted to the rank of brigadier-general, transferred with the same rank to the regular army, and named military commander on the island of Porto Rico.

There, interesting occupations and many curious experiences were my father's lot. Propaganda had been made against Americans by the Spanish, and he had some difficulty in persuading the natives they would not be punished or ill treated by him. When good feeling was established after the fighting, many natives of all classes came to see the commander, and in good faith offered him bribes for this or that advantage over a neighbor, or to effect the loosening of various rules which he had made. They were amazed at his invariable refusal either to meddle in their relations among them-selves or to change any of the new regulations, so one man should be more favored than another.

When his peculiarities as compared with the former administrators on the island were finally understood, my father suddenly found himself very much appreciated for his honesty and loyal ways, and was frankly complimented on them. He brought my mother down to the Porto Rican capital, when things became settled, and her talents for entertaining completely won the natives' hearts. Both my parents always spoke of their stay on the island as one of great pleasure, where their interests were manifold and their efforts well worth while. In spite of the dreadfully hot climate and the insect life and snakes which had to be fought as daily enemies, they loved their home there, it seemed.

At Newport through that summer I think we scarcely felt the war, though sometimes a weary man would come up from Washington with a face strained by sleeplessness and fatigue. He generally could only stay twenty-four hours to rest and breathe the fine air. Certain of our ballroom partners were missing, we noticed—gone with the Rough Riders generally.

The time between July, 1893, and September, 1898, had passed very quickly, and my girlhood had been gay with the sunshine, which health and youth and a family circle without serious troubles made. Except the cloud of the short war, none rose on my horizon, and there were only problems such as any girl must face who is comparatively poor in a circle very rich. My clothes were simpler than those round me, and fewer in variety, but they were pretty, and the necessary economy about them and in my habits made me perhaps enjoy my pleasures more. I was greatly spoiled, and had many warm friends among my contemporaries of both sexes. I had rather a broader life than most of these young people, for while they were kept in one small circle, I had acquaintances of a wider range both of age and fame. I knew and met my father's friends quite often in our own home and outside, and these men were of intense interest to me, as was the work they were doing in civic and political spheres.

My father held that in a government of the people, such as ours was, all must take a share of responsibility and effort. He set an example in this matter. He was greatly distressed at the way the strong, fine elements of the country, and especially those of Anglo-Saxon blood who had originated its ideals, were standing back, letting less worthy men hold power. He thought those who had come recently to our shores, though ill prepared and needing education, were unduly allowed to influence our laws.

He hated the vice and sluggishness which had crept into public life, poisoning the nation, and he had a deep contempt for those who—thinking only of material gain—left all national affairs to men lacking in patriotism. Never did he lose faith or patience, and, all devotion to his country, he never felt able to go into anything merely for his own advantage. A fortune decidedly modest satisfied my father, but though he preached economy and industry to his children, he was always glad to give us any simple healthful pleasure, and was our best educator and adviser.

We lived much for one another. My mother was greatly pleased that I had a good time in society, where the first year she took me about herself, and watched my every act with greatest care. Keeping me to European ways by her constant criticism and advice, she pre-vented my being too much spoiled by American freedom. Afterward, as I became more used to local customs, she allowed me to attend various parties where only young people were invited. I even paid some visits quite alone. I think I never abused my liberty, and it was far from that of other American girls anyhow, for until I was engaged I never received a note or letter or wrote one which my mother did not read. She and my father never allowed me to go swimming with the gay free groups of boys and girls I knew, or to ride a bicycle. Even in those days this was considered exceptionally severe, and in modern times it sounds impossible. But I was so used to giving my parents absolute obedience that it never occurred to me to question their wishes in such matters.

I was allowed occasionally to drive or walk with certain men by special permission, and to ride horseback with some young cavalier when a horse was available, but I was never permitted to invite a man to be my companion at any sport or even to call, as mama thought that pushing, and I never sat out a dance. All this seemed not to matter, though, and I had a beautiful time in New York, Washington, and Chicago. I renewed my visits to my aunt in the latter place frequently and with great happiness.

Being the only girl of my generation in our family, I was greatly petted. My two favorite cousins were like dear brothers, my four bachelor uncles, all young, gay, handsome, and fond ,f society, made a delightful group —half beaux, half chaperons, ready always to bring their friends or to enjoy anything with me. My uncle and lovely aunt put all possible pleasure into my girlhood, too, and gave me much, which otherwise our own limited means would not have offered. It was they who gave me, as one man said, all the advantages and fun of riches without the disadvantages, and took me to New-port or Bar Harbor each summer. My uncle, grown delicate with advancing years, in spite of many aches and ailments, was most patient with my frivolities, and even pretended to get fun from them. Often he teased me over my beaux. He called them by amusing names which he invented to suit the peculiarity of each, and he constantly made fun of me and my never-ceasing enjoyment. But he was all kindness and generosity, and he liked, apparently, to see us youngsters have a good time. I loved to talk to him and get his keen-witted opinions. He had a terse intelligence and a warm appreciation of all that was strong and fine, honest or beautiful under the foam and froth of the summer colony's occupations, and his judgment of men was admirable and always thoroughly to be trusted.

My aunt, slim and graceful, with hair grown silvery white, had kept her freshness and seemed more beautiful than ever. She went about a great deal, and was the acknowledged centre of any gathering where she appeared, while her wonderful brain and gentle nature won her exceptional admiration. Her expression was always so serene and gay, that I instinctively felt the quality of her nobility of soul and character. To be with her was a joy and a great privilege to me, and I was always happy in a companionship which began then in earnest and stretched on through my life. She had no daughter, and gave me something of the affection she could have lavished on one. Besides, she had a talent of comrade-ship both in silence and in talk, which made her presence an ideal one. I never saw her cross, selfish, or hard, yet she inspired one to do right, through suggestion more felt than heard, and her own mind was so quick, brilliant, and unpretentious with it all, that unconsciously one flashed the light back and was at one's best. A rare woman, whose influence carried with such as met and knew her, even long after she died. I felt a deep devotion for her, and always found her ready sympathy and understanding a great comfort.

Whenever the question of my marrying came up, I found in her a true friend whose advice was easy to follow, as it coincided with my own ideas of what was right. I was grateful that in spite of our small means I was not pushed into a "brilliant match," so called.

My father said to me on one occasion: "Little sweet-heart, I don't want you to get married at all. If some day there is a really fine man, and you feel you can't do without him, then I'll be resigned to lose my little girl and let him take care of her; but remember, life is a complicated problem at best, and often a constant struggle. So one ought at least to be armed for it, and to feel that whatever comes, even if health and wealth should blow away, one is tied to a man whose personality is enough to fill one's horizon with real values which are worth while. If you don't find a man like that, keep your liberty, and stay with your old father, who loves you, too, and will take care of you always."

So I had no weight on my mind, and only felt joy in going about in society. I felt no interest in my men friends other than their intrinsic value drew. There was an advantage in keeping a worth-while lot of hard-working young fellows and older men about me who were not shy about joining a circle where their feelings were never otherwise interpreted than as they were meant. Poor men were received at our house with the same enthusiasm as were richer ones, and brought their gifts of conversation or their modest prides and ambitions, always sure of a cordial understanding and of an atmosphere of recognition for their quality.

My mother and father generally liked my friends, and cultivated them with pleasure, and father enjoyed immensely talking with what he called nice youngsters, who always wanted to spread their plans out and ask his advice, whether they were in the army or in business. They were all fond of my parents, and often in the years which followed, whenever I returned to America, I found many agreeable faces of men I had known in youth still gathered about my old home.