ifp-NRLF LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. Deceived JAN 1895 .',/*._.'. ^Accessions M).^T^^. class No. if <( PEOPLE I HAVE MET SHORT SKETCHES OF MANY PROMINENT PERSONS. BI MARY WATSON. WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. He that writes, Or makes a feast, more certainly invites His judges, than his friends; there's not a guest But will find something wanting or ill-drest. SAN FRANCISCO, 1890. SAN FRANCISCO: Francis, Valentine & Co., Printers, 517 Clay 189C. TO MR. GEORGE HEAZELTON, THE ACCOMPLISHED EDITOR " EVENING POST," OF SAN FRANCISCO. PREFACE. It has been my good fortune or my fate, to travel not like the majority of tourists without rest but with occa- sional quiet hours "at home ' c^o $ite enjoyment of the pleasant thoughts and sentiments awakened by contact with the many cultured and famous people it has been my destiny to meet. There is always a charm in little home sketches of those whose writings have pleased or instructed us like, when after the glamor of stage effect, we are favored, as it were, with glimpses behind the scenes. The pleasing incidents and anecdotes portraying the inner life, thoughts and acts of those we love, admire or venerate, have for us not only a tender interest, but often serve as a key to unlock for us those palaces of enchant- ment where poets and authors have delighted to dwell. Some of the following sketches have from time to time 4 PREFACE. appeared in news and literary journals of the day, while others are here published for the first time. I hope that my personal, and in some cases intimate acquaintance with those of whom I have written, has enabled me to give an added and peculiar interest to each individual delineation. THE AUTHOR. CONTENTS. MRS. WATSON'S PICTURE, 8 Miss M. E. BRADDON, - 9 JOHN G. SAXE, 16 STEPHEN MASSETT (picture), - 21 MADAME GEORGE SAND 26 J. Ross BROWNE - - 33 PHILIP JAMES BAILEY - 36 ROSA BONHEUR, (picture), - 41 OSCAR WILDE - 48 MRS. HUMPHREY MOORE - 53 KISG LEOPOLD (picture), 61 LADY DUFFUS HARDY 67 M. LOZE (picture), - 73 MRS. TINSDALE 76 ANTHONY TROLLOPE (picture) - 83 MRS. MARY WATSON. (Journalist and Correspondent. 5I7BRSITY MISS M. E. BRADDON. IN all ages the writers who have become most popular have been those who held up to the world the mirror of national character, and to day, when novel-reading has its most devoted vot tries, why should nob the novelist's art be the means of instilling into the minds of readers the good and evil of a people as of a nation 1 Certainly no writer of to-day can boast of a more characteristic fame than Miss M. E. Braddon. Look at her earlier works, and then note how gradually the same power is used, but refined and toned down to meet the exigencies of this more exacting age of novel-readers. From " Aurora Floyd " to the later works, the same subtle genius, but how differently used one, the writing of a most powerful imagination, rough in places, yet true to national character; the other totally different, yet with the same force and peculiar interest that drew the attention of readers years ago. Who has not read at least one novel of Miss Braddon'? The most famous being " Au- rora Floyd," " Henry Dunbar," " Lady Audley's Secret," "Dead Men's Shoes," "Joshua Haggard's Daughter,' " Publicans and Sinners," " Weavers and Weft," and " The Trail of the Serpent," the latter named being the most pow- erfully written of them all, and oue of her very first produc- 2 IO PEOPLE I HAVE MET. tions. The first two have been dramatized, and, as is well known, were wonderfully successful. But next to the charm of reading Miss Braddon's books is to discuss them with her; a happy opportunity which was given me during one of my visits to England. Miss Brad don is the daughter of a surgeon, E. A. Brad- don, now deceased, and the wife of Mr. John Maxwell, publisher of the popular English magazine Belgravia. One day in June, with the sun streaming down and dis- persing the thick fog which seems to hang around London like a dismal shroud, I crossed the Victoria bridge and took the train for Richmond, a ride of about half an hour through a lovely country, passing gentlemen's villas and beautifully laid-out grounds, which line almost the whole road on either side. On alighting from the train at the station, I was met by a charming gentleman, who proved to be young Mr. Max- well. He asked me which I preferred, walking along the lawn to the house or by going through an allie of trees with the carriage? " Walking?' 1 said I. " Yes; this is Litchfield house," he replied, pointing directly ahead at an nclosure about fifty yards from the station. " Then let us walk, by all means," I said, and we proceeded along the most beautiful liwn, close shaven, as all English lawns are. Shrubs and rare old trees, ornamental vases, and here and there parterre upon parterre of the most brilliant-hued flowers ni3t my gaze. The various shades of green under the wide-spreading oaks, as the sun shone through the leaves, was a sight which would arrest the attention of anyone. When about half way along the path I noticed coming to- ward us a tall, portly man, the true type of an English MISS M. E. BRADDON. I I gentleman. He came up to us, and my companion intro- duced me, saying: " This is my father, Mr. Maxwell." I shall not try to describe him, except as a hearty, whole- souled gentleman, who welcomed me with both hands, im- parting a feeling of pleasure which far exceeded the mere polite welcome generally extended to strangers. The differ- ent aspects of the place were pointed out to me as he offered his arm and lei me to the house, and a more beautiful place it has rarely been my pleasure to see. Litchfield house is a mansion of the Elizabethan style, modernized roses climbing on the walls, over the verandas, along the sides of the windows, and in fact, wherever there is room for a rose to bloom. No words can describe the gay appearance the roses give to the gray house and old, spacious windows. All looked so bright, so cheerful and in- viting, that, with the courtesy which Mr. Maxwell had wel- comed me, I felt in the best of humors. But what can I say in praise of the very warm manner I was received by the great authoress herself] I lost sight of all her fame at the very womanly and unaffected manner of my reception. Standing in or rather leaning against the door was Miss Braddon, a tall lady, somewhat thin, attired in a rich black silk dress, with white lace around her throat. A coquettish Dolly Varden cap completed her toilet. What an expressive face is hers ! Gray eyes, sparkling with fun, bright and well opened. I am sure nothing escapes her gaze. But the charm of her whole being is the thorough, home-like cor- diality and unafFectedness of the woman. I was asked into the house, escorted to her own apartment, and with her own hands assisted in divesting myself of my outer garments. 12 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. Her kindness of manner so attracted me that any trepida- tion which I might have felt in the presence of so famous a personage vanished. I suppose the very unfamiliarity of hearing her addressed as Mrs. Maxwell made me forget to whom I was indebted for so much hospitality. After many questions about California, I said to her : " Mrs. Maxwell, I know you so well through your books, will you not allow me to call you by the name I am most familiar with Miss Braddon 1 " "Certainly," said she. " I frequently have callers on business who never think of addressing me by any other then the one you prefer; so you see it will not sound at all strange to me." We then went together to the drawing-room, where we were met by several other guests who had arrived in the meantime. The drawing- room is on the east side of the house, and contains three large windows one opening on the lawn, another on the walk which approaches the front of the house on the east side of the room, and a bay window, forming an alcove almost the whole length of the room, overlooking the mag- nificent grounds laid out in terraces and belonging to the famous Star and Garter Inn. The ceiling is frescoed in the modern Italian style, and the oak carvings of the wall, win- dows and mantel-pieces are very old and very rare. The walls are literally covered with paintings in both oil and water colors, most of them genre subjects, which Miss Brad- don assured me were her peculiar fancy. Some of the fur. niture is old and quaintly carved, and some rich and of most modern design. As in all English households, there was a cheerful blaze in the fire-place, although the sun shone warm and pleasantly outside. MISS M. E. BRADDON. 13 The sons and daughters all looked toward the authoress as the great home attraction for the family. Soon after my entrance into the drawing-room, luncheon was announced. Mr. Maxwell offered me his arm, and consequently at table I was placed at his right. The table looked tempting enough to brighten the veriest non-content. Mr. and Mrs. Max- well have several children; the youngest, when T paid my first well-remembered visit, which was a little over ten years ago, was a boy, about four years old. All took their places at the board. The conversation was chatty and lively, and the talk was on ordinary subjects. Among the topics of course California was mentioned. Miss Braddon expressed herself favorably regarding our Golden State, as she termed it, and said if it were possible, how much she would like to visit California as well as other parts of the United States. She was attracted the moot, however, to the Yosemite. She assured me that she had at one time been more deeply inter- ested in California, as she had intended to write a novel in which some scenes of California life were to have been laid. In my honor, a bottle of sparkling Moselle was opened, remarkable for its age, having been in the cellar for twenty years. We drank to the good health of our host and hostess. Miss Braddon thanked me and responded by wishing all success to California and Californians. We discussed our mutual friends, and then the ladies, at a sign from the hostess, left the gentlemen to their after-dinner cigars, while we re- paired to the drawing-room. A little later we saw the gentlemen strolling out over the lawn, and the hostess, looking out, said : " Just look at those foolish men shivering and shaking with the cold, and trying 14 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. to make themselves think they are having such a nice time." Miss Braddon's works were not once alluded to by herself. If any questions were asked regarding her writings, she an- swered in a plain, straightforward manner. I said, " Miss Braddon, will you allow me to ask you about your books ? " " Why, certainly," said she, "if that will interest you." Then I asked her what part of the day most of her literary work was done 1 " At any time," she answered, " but I find my brain clearer in the early morning. I rise at seven o'clock, walk in the grounds for half an hour, then write for an hour; by that time I generally feel ready for a good, hearty breakfast. During the day if an opportunity occurs or if I feel in the humor, I write, never longer then an hour, or two at the very most. I am like a good many people, and do not like to commence, although I have thought out my work beforehand. However, I find, when I set myself down to real work, that my thoughts find vent and my pen will not write fast enough." " Does it not tire you 1 " " No, I never tire of writing. At one time when I first began, I did not know what I was going to say, but now I learn that, like everything else, thoughts will be more completely ex- pressed by having one's plan perfected beforehand." " Can you foresee your strongest characters ? " " I seem to know which they will be, and find when I get into the story deeper that I am more interested in my characters then any of my readers can ever be. For the time being I see them, hear them speak, and note the manner in which they express themselves. In fact, to me they are living, breathing per- sonages, my familiar spirits." Again I pursued my questions by, u How do you plan the end ? This always seems to me, MISS M. E. BRADDON. 15 the most difficult part of them." " I do not plan them; I follow up my story as if I were reading some one's writings. The characters and the manner in which they have figured lead me to the end; and, indeed, I feel a real regret at being compelled to part with them." " What a pity you let Cyn- thia die," I said, "she was a character I admired so much." " How could I help it 1 She was just meant for that ending. How could Joshua Haggard himself have been brought to confess the murder, except through the sorrow of losing her 1 " " You never write stories after the French fashion ]" " No," was the reply. " I ain an Englishwoman, and write about women whose type I see around me every day." One after another the rest of her books were discussed, until four o'clock tea was announced. Again we entered the dining- room, and I felt that the time was approaching when I must say adieu. I asked Miss Braddon which one of her books she considered the best, and was answered: " My earliest one, ' The Trail of the Serpent,' " which at that time had been recently revised. I thanked her for her cordial manner and the patience with which she had answered my questions. Young Mr. Max- well a gentleman about twenty-one or two stood hat in hand waiting to escort me to the train, and with sincere re- gret on my side, we parted that evening, and I felt that never had I been so agreeably entertained as on that first day I spent with Miss Braddon. JOHN G. SAXE. MORE than twenty years have passed since I first met the subject of this sketch, who was one of the most popular and fascinating of American wits and poets. He was not only an entertaining writer, but a charming companion. Mr. Saxe was at the very height of his fame that summer I spsnt with him in Jackson, Michigan. I s\w much of him, for we were both visiting at the home of a mutual friend. He was sought after and lionized wher- ever he went, and ho was the very life of whatever circle he was in. How well I remember his gallantry, his grace- ful, winning way, and his ready and well-selected poetical quotations. His stay in Jackson was spent in a round of gayeties, made up of all sorts of out-door sports. One day would be spent in rowing, another in fishing or frog- catching; while driving, riding and picnics came thick and fast. But there was one sport which he enjoyed a^ove all others, and that was frog-spearing at night, by the aid of candles and bits of red flannel. As I think of him one of his verses comes to me : "Ah! well I remember the halcyon years, Too earnest for laughter, too pleasant for tears; When life was a boon in classical court, Though lessons were long, and though commons were short. " JOHN G. SAXE. 17 Alas! what a change came to him in a few years after shadows followed the sunshine of his life, and the bright, joyous laugh was seldom heard, and soon it vanished altogether. His wife and three daughters were laid away to sleep in Greenwood Cemetery, while a son was buried in Albany, N. Y. And the much-loved poet ended his sorrows and suffering apart from the world, a broken- hearted man. Mr. Saxe was a native of Franklin county, Vermont. He received a fine college education, and graduated bachelor of arts from Middlebury College. He then read law at Lockport, N. Y., and at St. Albans, Vt., where he was admitted to the bar. As a lawyer he met with more than average success. His fondness for literature and love for writing led him into the field of journalism, and he became editor and proprietor of the Vermont Sentinel. Although a graduate of Middlebury, Saxe was initiated into the Psi Upsilon fraternity, at Harvard. He lived at one time in Brooklyn, but later went to Albany, where he ended his days. One of his earliest productions was " Progress, a Satire." After this he wrote " A New Rape of the Lock, " The Proud Miss MacBride," " Humorous and Satirical Poems," (in book form) " The Money King," " The Flying Dutch- man," " The Masquerade," and very many others. Of his ballads the best remembered are, "The Ghost Player," "The Briefless Barrister," "How Cyrus Laid the Cable," and " The Cold Water Man." His writings were not all of the humorous character, however; he wrote many poems showing pathos and deeper 1 8 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. thought* His " Bereavement " is considered a companion piece to Longfellow's "Resignation." And the most beau- tiful of all, to my mind, at least, is his " Miserere Donrine." But his pen has now been laid aside, and the world will read nothing new from my much-admired and lamented acquaintance, John G. Saxe. STEPHEN MASSETT. TJ5IV3 T STEPHEN MASSETT. . STEPHEN MASSETT, or "Colonel Jeemes Pipes of Pipesville," once of San Francisco, has had a very extraordinary and eventful career, and, in his way, is a genius, if one ever was created; and I have the greatest pleasure in not only giving him a place in these memories, but also of presenting my readers and his California friends and a Imirers with his handsome portrait and with one of his most dramatic poems. Mr. Masse tt has given, single-handed, the most varied enter- tainment, in the shape of a " monologue," I have ever listened to, and in almost every portion of the habitable globe. He gave the very first entertainment in the Alcalde Building, Portsmouth Square, in June, 1849, when quite a youngster, and at the time was a clerk in Colonel Jonathan D. Stevenson's office; he then turned auctioneer, and, in 1851, the firm of Massett & Brewster, in Sacramento city, did a roaring business. Then he, with Judge K. II. Taylor, edited the Marysville Herald, and made money out of it. But our restless hero longed again for the glitter of the footlights and for European travel, and went to the antipodes, giving his " Ballad Concerts and Readings " in Sydney, Melbourne, South Australia, Sandwich Islands, 22 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. Bombay, Calcutta, Madras, Singapore, through British India, China, Japan and England, and I believe his latest tour has been through South Africa, where, from the Cape of Good Hope to the Diamond Fields, he has been received most cordially. The press always speak of his wonderful talents and versatile impersonations. I understand he is making his arrangements to take another trip around the world. One of the most critical of New York editors speaks in the following eulogistic manner of his latest poem, " The Lost Ship " (in which I agree with him entirely), as a really wonderful dramatic sketch: "I wonder whether anybody who knows him ever gives Stephen Massett credit for being anything but a brilliant butterfly of the drawing-room or a merry humming-bird that wings its willful way around the world whenever it fe3ls like changing its location. It seems to me that I have met ' James Pipes of Pipesville ' about everywhere on the surface of the globe, except at the north and south poles. Possibly, if I had visited those boreal regions, which having a fancy for comfort I have not, I might have found him entertaining walruses and polar bears with the same effect that he has entertained me and many men like me, not to mention any number of charming women, in more civilized regions. Perhaps I have done Mr. Massett an involuntary injustice by always regarding him as a man after my own light heart; but I find in Harper's Weekly, over his signa- ture, a bit of epic verse that gives a new complexion to uiy estimation of him, and that transforms, in my estimation, this amiable and facile rhymer into a true poet. It is called ' The Lost Ship/ and reads: STEPHEN MASSETT. 23 " The great ship flew With its living freight, Right in the trough of the sea! The dense fog came like a pall so thick Oh, where can the helmsman be ? For if at his post, With his hands on the wheel, He can neither hear nor see. The blinding rain Comes hissing down, And the winds howl so that he Is deaf to all; For the captain's call And the passengers' shrieks Are all lost on him; For the icicles dim His sleepless eyes, and paralyze Both hand and limb; So he stands there, stiff and cold and still, Dead! at! the Master's will. " Ah! what avail are the cries and prayers Of the voices of those doomed ones there, With their maniac shoutings filling the air ? No eye can see none ever know The agony of those hemmed in, With hatches battened down below; Covered with fog and sleet and snow, And blinding hailstones rattling so, As if laughing at their woe. Still, still the doomed ship staggers on, Right through the hissing waves alone. No human eye will ever see One of that great ship's company; For, shrouded in her storm-clad pall, The ship went down went down with all! " This is fine dramatic poetry. To an old wanderer, cradled by the billows of deep seas in many a tempest, it 24 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. has the rhythmic swing of the sullen surge and the bitter bluster of the bullying wind all through it. ' .Teems ' may tune his pipe to our lightest moods after this. He may babble his bon-mots, and chant his pretty tuneful madrigals amid the perfumes of the gay world he loves as the young lark loves the sun. But I shall always hear, behind the lightest jest he flings out, the story he has told so well of the lost ship in mid-ocean, and have ringing in my ears the infernal symphony of night and storm to which I have listened more than once when Death and I might have shaken hands without my stirring from my post upon the groaning deck." It is dramatic enough to thrill everyone, and it will give people a glimpse of the side of a popular entertainer that they are not often privileged to see. Stephen Massett, author, composer, lecturer, singer and reciter, has lately composed the words and music of a song that will make him famous. It is called " My Darling's Face," and I take pleasure in quoting it here: MY DARLING'S FACE. I. When day is done and night comes on, And stars shine forth on land and sea; There comes an hour the only hour, More than all others dear to me; The hour I wait thy coming, love! For then my darling's face I see! II. When night is o'er and the bright sun Sheds its soft beams, dear one, on thee, If by its light it leads me, love, STEPHEN MASSETT. 25 To hear thy voice, so sweet to me, That is the hour the only hour, For then my darling's face I see! ill. No other face in all the world Can with this lovely one compare; My eyes I strain, and look in vain For one that is to me so fair! I see it now! it looks at me! It is my darling's face I see! It has been my good fortune to claim Mr. Massett as one of my acquaintances for many years. I first met him in Marysville, where the ladies were fairly raving over him, and I have always foun4 him the same polished gentleman, true and obliging friend. GEORGE SAND. IT was while dining at the famous Cafe Anglaise, on the Boulevard des Italiens, in Paris, that I became acquainted with George Sand (Madame Ptidevant). Sitting at a table opposite us was a gay party; among them an elderly lady, dressed in the height of fashion, and with unusual good taste, even for Paris. She seemed to be the most animated of the party ; in person rather short and stout, with small hands which she used in gesticulation very gracefully and effectively. Upon being informed by a gentleman of our party that the lady was Madame Dude- vant, a bouquet was purchased and sent to her, with compliments from her American admirers. She received the bouquet in a composed manner, and without the betrayal of a particle of astonishment, but arose and fol- lowed the bearer of the nosegay to our table, and thanked us for the attention. In her charming manner she complied when we invited her to take a glass of wine with us ; and, after a short conversation, I was asked to meet her at the opera the following evening. The occasion was the initial performance of Ambroise Thomas's "Hamlet," with Nillsoii and Foure in the principal parts; and, the next evening I found myself seated next to ^the great GEORGE SAND. 2 7 novelist. It is here that all the famous literati of Paris meet. The building (Les Italiens) which has since been burned down, stood on the Rue Marsellein. It was in one of the boxes, amid the fashion and pomp of a Parisian audience, that I studied the character of the woman. But we were interrupted frequently by the many friends who came to see her between the acts ; for in the opera-house the gentle- men enter the boxes of their acquaintances, the same as though they were making a call at their residences. A few sentences are exchanged, and one caller makes way for another. Amatine Lucille Aurore Dupin, born in Paris, July, 1801:, was the daughter of Maurice Dupin, of whom very little is known. He died when his daughter was but four years old, leaving her in the care of her grandmother, the Countess de Horn, the illegitimate daughter of the Marshal Saxe, who was the illegitimate son of Augustus II., King of Poland, and Aurore de Konigsmark. The child lived at first with the Countess de Horn, at the Chateau of Nahaut, near La Chatre ; but was educated in Paris, and for some time was an inmate of the Convent of the Sacred Heart. At the age of eighteen she married Casimir Dudevant, and after several years of married unhappiness, they entered into a contract; he allowing her 1,500 francs a year, and to live in Paris three months out of every six. This is a bare outline of the early history of Mme. Dudevant before she started on her literary career. What cause she had to finally separate from her husband no one ever knew. The reason given to the public was incompatibility of temper. I ruminated over this history while the woman was at 28 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. my side, applauding with all her heart whenever she was touched by the magnificent acting or singing of the artist before us. Mme. Dudevant was the mother of four child- ren, and had the sole care of them for many years. She spoke of them very frequently, and certainly was a most devoted mother. She told me it was to find food and shelter for her little ones that she first assumed male attire, in order to visit the different places which she found occasion to write about, as it would have been impossible to giin the knowledge she desired in female dress. She looked like anything but a woman who would brave the rough company she was'compelled to meet. Her allowance of 1,500 francs was but a pittance, and she was obliged to add to her income by her personal efforts. The only way open to her was through the medium of her pen. She con- tributed to the daily papers for some time before the publi- cation of her first novel. She was of a nervous, emotional temperament. Tears were in her eyes frequently during the evening, and [ had to use all the tact which I was mistress of in asking questions regarding herself. In the whole course of my life I have never met so lovable a woman as she. From what [ hid heard and read of her life, I was not prepared to be so agreeably impressed, or to find her so amiable as well as talented. That she was well liked by her acquaintances there is no doubt. The box was thronged during the whole evening by the most celebrated authors, artists, musicians, act jr-s and journalists. All seemed to be on the most cordial terms with her, and she greeted them with a friendliness that was perfectly charm- ing, Of course the conversation with her friends was about GEORGE SAND. 29 their mutual acquaintances, and not once did she utter an envious or ill-natured remark. In this respect George Sand differs from the majority of the Parisian women, who in spite of the tact, wisdom and good taste which they generally display, do not hesitate to spread scandal whenever it is of the choicest kind; and the box at the opera is the hot-bed where all the little t dbits of gossip are generated. Ladies here and gentlemen there are pointed out, viewed through the lorgnette, criticised; confidentially the lady whispers of this indiscretion or that escapade into her friend's ear, and soon the scandal grows. Mme. Dudevant was not guilty of any such conduct. She told me the story of her nom de plume. Her first novel was written in partnership with Jules Sandeau, and was pub- lished under the name of Jules Sand. One day her child became suddenly ill. At that time being entirely unused to the care of children, she was at a loss how to administer to the little sufferer's wants. The faithful attendant whom she had hitherto depended upon suddenly left. The child would have died in convulsions had it not been for a humble neighbor who applied the proper remedies and the child was saved. This neighbor became the intimate friend of the household. Soon after this event, the furniture of the kind neighbor was seized for debt which the husband, a drunken good-for-nothing, had incurred. Officers were re- moving the goods, when the woman ran into Mme. Dude- vant's, crying: " Oh,, madame, save them! save them! They are removing everything I have in my home." Madame Dudevant inquired how much the husband owed. " Four hundred francs," was the reply. She would have paid the 3O PEOPLE I HAVE MET. sum at once, but alas! she had not the money and did not know where to get it. She had no valuables to offer as s-curity. What was to be done ? She entreated the officers of the law to wait until the next day, and promised that she would then discharge the indebtedness, offering her own furniture as security. The officers consented, but how was she to accomplish what she had pledged herself to do 1 She had nothing but an incomplete manuscript of a novel, which she had laid aside unfinished. She had written it without the aid of her partner; he knew nothing about it. That night Madam Dudevant completed her work, and with some trepidation signed the name of George Sand, not desiring to use the name of Jules Sand, that being the firm's nom de plume. The next day she sold it to the publishers for 1,800 francs, and from this amount saved the poor woman, who had once befriended her. The novel appeared two months later with the title of " Indiana, by George Sand." Imme- diately it created a furor, and from that time forward she was known by that name. She was at once engaged to write the novels and novelettes for the Review des Deux Mondes, and from that dates her great success. She has written numerous works, and they all show a profound seeking for the truth. They may be divided into classes. Her earliest novels show the school of the Philosoplie, which she learned from. Sandeau and others; the later ones the opposite school of Desmoulins, as is shown in " Consuelo," and the sequel, the " Countess of Rudolstadt." The works for the stage were not very successful until the production of " La Marquis de Villemar," which was a great success. A great theatrical success, the authorship of which another was credited with, and one well GEORGE SAND. 31 known by Americans, is the work of George Sand " Fan- chon," which is an adaptation of " Le Petit Fadet." It was first played in Germany under the name " Die Grille " (the Cricket) and adapted by Charlotte Birch Pfeifer. It was then brought out in its present form for the American actress, Maggie Mitchell, and called " Fanchon, the Cricket." Many of George Sand's novels show a knowledge of music, which is wonderful in one who never studied the art; but Madame George Sand was a woman who gained knowledge from those with whom she came in contact, and Chopin, the great composer, was her most intimate friend at one time. She realized immense sums of money from the proceeds of her works, but died in moderate circumstances. This was mainly due to her very charitable disposition. No one who was worthy and in want ever applied to her without receiv- ing material assistance. Much of George Sand's time was spent in reading manuscripts of young authors which were sent to solicit patronage. She conscientiously delivered her opinion. Many a young author owes his success, moderate though it was, to her influence. Nowhere, or to no one, was there so much friendship given as to George Sand. In Paris, she was esteemed and loved by all who knew her, and in her own family she was held in the tenderest regard. To strangers, especially to Americans, she was particularly polite, as was evidenced to me in many instances. I saw Madame George Sand many times after my visit to her in her opera box, and the more I saw of her, the greater be- came my esteem for the woman who was looked at by the world of church-goers and society as a Bohemian, who was 32 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. only to be admired through her writings. Who cannot sympathize with the struggles, the heartaches, the search and craving after human sympathy and love, of a woman with the gigantic brain of George Sand? And who will judge her for the mistakes she may have made? She died in 1876; she is now with her God. He knows to what depth her heart in its struggle had sunk, and he will judge her righteously. J. ROSS BROWNE. MANY years ago, on the deck of a steamer moored to the New York pier, and crowded with California- bound passengers, I first met the brilliant author, who in after years, became so identified with the Pacific Coast, and who, in the latter part of the sixties went as our Minister Plenipotentiary to China. The sun never shone brighter than on that warm July morning. I was returning to San Francisco to my family. My uncle, General James D. Thompson, of New Bedford, Mass., stood by my side. In ten minutes he, would bid me farewell and I would be left alone with that vast assembly. I was young then, I had not yet learned to battle alone with the world. I had only seen the pleasant side of life, a mother's and a husband's love had protected me from every chilling blast, that I have since found borders life's pathway. I was indeed disconsolate, when my uncle made a survey of the steamer and returning said: "I have found one man whose appearance tells me I can trust you with." It was Mr. J. Ross Browne. Cards were exchanged and I was introduced to him and subsequently to his wife and interesting family. I felt I had met an old friend when it became known that Mr. Browne was the author of many 3 34 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. popular books, the most celebrated being " Yufes," which was then at its height of popularity. I had read the book, an interesting story which Mr. Browne's connection with his Syrian dragoman had suggested. How I loved to talk with him; I would look forward with real pleasure to a chance of having a promenade with him, and treasure up all I could call forth about his many and extensive, tours to the remote corners of the world. I also learned something of Mr. Browne's early life, a perusal of which cannot but prove interesting to those who knew him. He was born in Dublin and was the son of Thomas Edgerton Browne, the famous editor of that city, who wrote against the tithe question, which so enraged the Catholic clergy, that he was arrested and banished from Ireland; his property, with the exception of just enough to support him a couple of years in America, being confis- cated. His wife and the mother of J. Ross Browne was a Miss Burk, a sister of one of the bishops of Dublin, who with the rest of her family gave her up, and she never saw them after leaving Ireland with her husband. J. Ross was a lad of ten years when the family came to the United States and settled in Kentucky, where Browne Sr. started a finishing school in Louisville. When the subject of this, sketch was nineteen years of age a great passion for travel took possession of him, and unknown to his family and with less than twenty dollars in his possession he left home, to start around the world. During this trip he went to the coast of Africa, the Indian sea, island of Madeira, Magotta, etc. In speaking of the latter named isle, Mr. Browne always became pensive and J. ROSS BROWNE. 35 happy. On one occasion he exclaimed: "It was indeed a paradise oh! the sweet smell of the fruit and the flowers." So fascinated with the place was he, that he named his first girl after that paradise. At the end of two years, during which time his family had not heard from him, he returned to Washington, where his family then resided. At the age of twenty-two, one year after his return, he married the beautiful Mary Mitchell, daughter of Dr. Mitchell of Wash- ington, who was a near relative of the celebrated Wier Mitchell of Philadelphia, who distinguished himself by giving to the world many medical books, novels and poetry. Mr. Browne was one of the most devoted husbands and fathers I have ever met. During all of his travels after his marriage, his wife and children were his companions. Among Mr. Browne's works, the best known are, " The Land of Thor," " Crusoe's Island," "The Apache Country," "The Norway Family in Germany " and " A Whaling Cruise/' which has been allowed was the best description of the killing of a whale that has ever been given. Mr. Browne first came to California in '49, and it is now about twenty years ago, and after his return from China, that he built his beautiful home, in something of China fashion, on " Pagoda Hill," Oakland, which is one of the most beautiful places in that part of the country, and where the author of " Yufes " breathed his last several years ago. PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. ABOUT seventeen years ago, one day during my second visit to Europe, I found myself going down to Not- tingham by the afternoon express, in company with a Mr. Gee, the owner of one of the largest Nottingham lace factories of that place. I was to be shown over the exten- sive works, and then go to Mr. Gee's home to remain over night. Just after leaving London my companion drew my atten- tion to a gentleman sitting opposite to us, and said: " That is Mr. Bailey, the author of ' Festus/ ^hall I present him ? " " Do," I answered, " by all means." " Oh, how glad I am t) meet you," were almost my first words, " for if there is a book that has drawn tears from my eyes, it is that wonderful pDem of yours which I know almost by heart." Such a pleasant look came into his face, and he said: " You like Festus, then 1" "Yes," I said. "You see how much I like it," and with this remark I took from my pocket a copy I had that morning purchased on my way to the depot. Mr. Bailey at the same time took a copy from his overcoat pocket saying: " I believe I have also one of the books with me." Then I begged him to exchange copies with me. " But," said he, " Yours is perfectly new, while mine is much PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. 37 worn." " So much the better/' was my reply. He saw the compliment, handed me his book, and took mine with my thanks in return. At this time, Mr. Bailey was a man in the sixties, tall, spare and very courteous. He lived at Nottingham and was a barrister at law. He was very popular in his town as I afterwards discovered. Who that has ever read Festus will forget iU The principle borne out is shown in one of his verses : " Evil and good are God's right hand and left. By ministry of evil, good is clear, And by temptation, virtue: As of yore Out of the grave rose God." " Festus is a book one has to read many times to fully understand, and how easy it is to memorize," I said that evening when Mr. Bailey dropped in to his friend's to make a neighborly call, which our mutual friend made through a hint from me. I remember one passage in Festus contai: this: " I have seen all the woes of men pain, death, Remorse, and worldly ruin; they are little Weighed with the woe of woman, when forsaken By him she loved and trusted." And Mr. Bailey looked like a man who could write just such lines. I never after that day saw the author again; whether he be still living or not I cannot say. But I do know that I will ever remember that meeting, and that I cherish very highly the b jok that was once in his possession. 38 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. The following stanzas were written to me, many years a g> by a well-known gentleman of San Francisco, and for the sake of their beauty, as well as for recollection of the past, I here give them to the public : TO Rather than be one joy forgot Be all my woes remembered too. I stood by the shore in sorrow and dread, Our parting was o'er, my angel had fled. I gazed on the sea, the earth and the air, All whispered to me of loneliness there. I turned me to faces familiar for years And found but the traces of unbidden tears. Why brims not mine eye when farewell is spoken ? 'Tis that eyelids are dry when heartstrings are broken. One kind look she gave ere hid from my yiew That speck on the wave had faded to blue. One kiss from those eyes, so mournful to-day That agony dries their tear-drops away. And thus did we part a whispered good-by, Warm tears in the heart though eyelids were dry. And fadeless and bright that vision shall last, While memory's light falls back on the past. Though sadness will come like darkness at night O'er spirits that come far off from their light, Yet memory cheers with visions of love As starry light peers through the darkness above. Though parting has left me the light of her face, One kind look is left me, one lasting embrace, Ajid Time in his flight shall speed him amain To bring me the light of my angel again. ROSA BONHEUK. ROSA BONHEUR. IT was on one of those pleasant Sunday excursions vvliich are such noted features of Paris life, that I first beheld Fon- tainebleau. It may be reached in less than two hours by the Lyons railroad, which has a splendid viaduct of thirty arches at the station. The chief attractions of the place are its palace, which stands unrivaled for its magnificence, the picturesque forest near by, and the "Cour de la Fontaine," with its great pond, a fine piece of water which contains a vast number of carp, many of them of great age. A diver- sion peculiar to the place, consists in throwing very hard rolls (sold by poor women on the spot) into the pond, and watching the eager and unsuccessful attack of the carp upon them. I was looking at this sport, laughing at the antics of the fish, when I noticed that several people were staring in my direction. Looking about me, I saw that the person who drew the attention of the other spectators was a little stout lady, of masculine appearance, her hair gray in places, and parted on one side; bright, black eyes, strongly marked features and a wonderfully resolute mouth. She was dressed in a plain black-silk skirt, with a vest and jacket of black velvet; white linen collar and cuffs, and she wore a fob watch- chain attached to a watch, which she carried in her vest 2* 42 PEOPLE I HAVE MET, pocket. Altogether, the lady presented a striking appear^ ance. I hastened to meet some friends who were on the opposite side of the pond. Before joining my party, how- ever, I lingered long enough to give the strange lady a chance of getting ahead of me, so that I could obtain an- other good look at her as she passed. I was much surprised to see her stop and talk in the most animated and friendly manner to my friends, and when I came up to them, I was introduced to Rosa Bonheur. I was prepared to hear the name of a celebrated personage, for, in spite of any eccen- tricity of dress, the true Parisian will not stare unless it is really at someone he knows to be a celebrity. Mile. Bon- heur, although a person past 60 years of age at that time, looked hardly more than 45. She bears a resolute look about her, and hard work does not seem to appall her or stand in the way of her success. We received an invitation to her atelier for the next day, and went there at the time appointed. Rosalie Isadore Bonheur is the oldest daughter of Ray- mond Bonheur, a painter, who gained some fame in his profession. She has two brothers and one sister, all of them artists of more or less renown. The sister Juliette (Madam Peyrolles) is almost the only female friend or companion whom Mile. Bonheur allows, and she frequently takes charge of the School of Design, which is under the care of Rosa. The atelier is in the neighborhood of the Quartier Latin. A plain, unpretending court, somewhat neglected, leads to an entrance which at one time may have looked interesting, but is now hidden beneath a crust of dust and dirt. On the first floor are the apartments of the great artist. You ROSA BONHEUR, 43 enter the hallway into the studio, a bright-enough looking room, with light streaming in from two windows. The furniture in this room is thoroughly Bohemian-like. Every- thing was lying around in picturesque confusion half- finished pictures on idle easels and broken models of animals' heads. Now and then we would catch a glimpse of a picture thrown aside for future manipulation. "We were next shown the living apartments of Mile. Boiiheur by Mme. Peyrolles, who is constantly in attendance on her sister, both using the same studio. Mile. Bonheur is rather silent, but learn- ing that I came from California, she brightened up and questioned me about our state. Her apartments are not remarkable for anything save the absence of pictures. Not one single oil painting has she in either parlor or sleeping- room. In 1861 she was elected Principal of the Free School of Design for women, and she told me that it had been a long desire on her part to help women in the walks of art- At this school female pupils of good repute can go through a course of drawing, wood engraving, paintirg, etc. It is from here that most of the female artists, who make their living by painting fans, boxes, bottles, and other articles for which Paris is famous, have graduated. " True," said Mile. Bonheur, "it is not the highest kind of art, bub it is one way in which females of Paris can raise themselves above the ordinary labor of sewing and drudging, which kills so many every year." "Do you not find the cares of the school very irksome?" I asked. She laugh- ingly turned to Mme. Peyrolles, and said: " My poor sister must bear it all. Whenever 1 am busy or do not feel in the humor, she does the work at the school for me." I said to 44 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. her: " Do you find that women as a rule like the drudgery necessary to arrive at the real art ultimately] " She an- swered with a very characteristic shrug of her broad shoul- ders: " It is like everything else that women undertake. Some go to the school and learn just the first rudiments, then start out to earn their living the best way they can with what they have acquired. There are others whom I an deeply interested in; they work from day to day dili- gently and for the real love of art. I think I can safely predict that there are two pupils who are now in the life- class that will make their mark as artists." " From what station of society do you get your pupils 1 " " From all classes. Most of them are the daughters of re- spectable clerks or small tradesmen, who must earn their own livelihood some way." Mile. Bonheur showed us a small portrait of herself, painted by one of her most promising pupils. " This," said she, " is the most beautiful piece of artistic work that has ever been produced in the School of Design in Paris, or in any other school of the kind I know of. The coloring is exquisite, the tone and drawing correct and very beautiful. You see," she continued, pointing out every merit in the portrait, " how originally this flesh tint is used, and how the effect is produced 1 " I was convinced she took a deep interest in the school and her pupils. I asked her what she thougl.it of her fellow-artists in Paris Meissonnier, Gerome and Dore" 1 "Divine," said she. "I am proud to be called their confrere. I think art is appreciated in Paris as it is in no other part of the world. I have been in London, Vienna, Dresden, Dusseldorf, Munich, Leipsic, and most all the art centers of Europe, but nowhere does ROSA BONHEUR. 45 art hold so lofty a stand as in Paris." When I inquired what she thought of American art and artists, she smiled in a most charming manner, and said: " You are an American, what can I say. They are the best after my countrymen." I laughed, and so we chatted on from one subject to another. Her countenance brightens up wonderfully when she is absorbed or interested in her conversation. She strikes one, on becoming first acquainted, as a rather stern and forbid- ding woman, but it is not so; she is, like all cultivated French women, a good conversationalist, and touching art she is in her element, having been surrounded all her life by art and artists. To strangers, she speaks very little of her father; of her brothers very little is known, except that in late years, through the name they bear and the influence which their sister used for them, some of their pictures have brought good prices. Mile. Bonheur exhibited pictures many years ago, and for one who has been in the profession so long, it is surprising how very few she has produced, but this is because she works exceedingly slow and very careful. Her pictures bring enormous prices, ranking even higher than those of Gerome, and are generally given the place of honor at the art exhibition. I asked her how she became exclu- sively an animal painter] She answered, laughing, " I am very fond of all animals, and not at all afraid of them. If I had not become a painter, I should have made an excellent lion-queen in some menagerie. In the first place, it was an accident, and I will tell you how. You see in my father's studio we used to play, and I, being the eldest, had to look out for my younger 46 PEOPLE 1 HAVE MET. brothers and sister, so that they would not get into the way or disturb him at his work. We had four kittens to play with. One day it suddenly entered my head to play painter. Of course I had received a great many lessons in painting and drawing from my fathe^, so that I was not entirely without knowledge. I took the kittens and put them all in a heap, making the other children keep them together while I went to work to paint them. We had a great deal of fun, I remember, in keeping the restless things in their places. I painted the group as well as I could that after- noon, and for three or four days we amused ourselves with them. My father did not give me the least aid; so of course the picture did not amount to much, and was thrown aside as children's toys usually are when they tire of them. One day, about nine years after I had striven to paint other sub- jects, but not with a great deal of success, I ran across my youthful effort the group of four kittens. I liked the natural pose so much that, more for amusement than earn- estness, I put the picture on my easel and painted it over. When I had finished it some friends happened to see it, and it was pronounced my masterpiece. I exhibited it with other works, and from that I date my first success." " Which of your pictures do you consider the best]'' ' The Tiger and Hyena,' which was exhibited with others in 1867 at the exhibition; also, < The Horse Fair,' " she replied, and then continued: " I must tell you under what difficulties I labored to get ' The Horse Fair ' done. I attended the horse fair every day in order to paint it just as it was. One day I was sitting alone working, not paying attention to anything but my work before me, when I was startled by a ROSA BONHEUR, 47 horse's head right over my shoulder, looking as it were, at my work. I merely looked around to see my admirer, the horse; but alas! it was too late he had stepped into my box of colors, and I suppose taking fright at my scream of dismay, he gave one bound ahead, overturned my easel, and stepped on my canvas, tearing a hole right through the center of my cherished piece of work. Owing to the friendliness of that horse, I had all my work to do over again." Her principal pictures are, aside from those already named, "Horses for Sale," "Cats' Cradle," and "Shetland Ponies." She has painted about fifty -and all animal subjects, more or less famous. I asked her if she was fond of her fellow-artists. She answered with her significent shrug c: With some. I am at heart and soul a Bohemian, and when I find people, artists or others, who are congenial, I like to associate with them; but you see I do not have a great deal of time. When I go for an excursion, I generally start alone. Fontaine- bleau is my favorite place to visit, and if I could paint fish well, my favorites at Cour de la Fontaine would find a place on my canvas. How I enjoy seeing them snap at the rolls, and how quick they let them go again when they find they are too hard; but the rogues know that the water softens them, so they let them float for a while, keeping a good lookout for their particular bun." She laughed so unaffect- edly, that I joined, and hoped that we might meet again; a wish that was gratified. Our adieus were said, and I parted from one of the most remarkable women of our age. OSCAR WILDE. All San Francisco will remember when Oscar Wilde aired his aesthetic views to crowded houses some ten years ago in this city. I saw the lion in his lair saw him stirred up, poetically speaking and an interesting process it was. It took place at the Palace Hotel, where the young poet resided during his stay here. Without further prelimina- ries, I will endeavor to picture Oscar Wilde's at-home man- ner, and how he existed in so unaasthetic a caravansary as the Palace Hotel. Fortunately, there was plenty of time to get a good look at the room, and to peer about without transgressing any social rules; for when I arrived, as per appointment, there was no one but his servant at home, and there was opportunity to get an uninterrupted few minutes, and jot down whatever was remarkable. Between the fear of not seeing everything and of his sudden arrival, I could only get cursory glimpses of the peculiarities the room afforded, and had but little time to think of what I had to ask him when he did make his appearance. At any rate all the questions I had in my mind in reference to Mr. Wilde flew from me when he entered the room a few moments after I did. His lazy mariner and my hard effort to explain in a depressed sort of way, occasioned by my feeling of strange- OSCAR WILDE. 49 ness, soon made matters rather one-sided. But after a time I regained my ordinary frame of mind, but still with a mis- giving as how to broach my subject; but his action in throwing off his circular cloak, the quick and well-rehearsed movement of the servant, who reached the center of the room just at the right moment to catch the outside wrap of the poet, and his subsequent position on the sofa, partaking rather of an easy posture, half -reclining, half- sitting, put me quite at ease, and the -poet, whom I had expected to lead me in the empyrean ways of poetic fancy, for which I was half prepared, made me believe so utterly in the mere common- place, that I felt a sense of disappointment, for it is so awful to believe in a man's superiority and then find him out. At last I said at haphazard: " How do you manage to live in these rooms without any surrounding sign of the beautiful, Mr. Wilde V Quoth he, with an accompaniment of a rather comfortable shudder, " Don't mention it." Since he requested me not to mention it, I dropped the question of the beautiful in art, or whatever else was in my mind pertaining to the subject, and naturally did what ninety- nine people out of every hundred, when a lack of material for conversation occurred, would do, I spoke of myself: " Is not this something new to you, Mr. Wilde. I suppose you never before met a lady reporter V " N"o," he replied, smil- ingly, " I have not; we don't have them in our country." Glancing around the room a pile of newspapers attracted my not : ce, and naturally suggested the next question: "Are you pleased at the newspaper reports of yourself, and the reporter's interviews ?" Evidently this had struck a rich 5<3 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. vein, for he looked up with a peculiar and hearty smile; but, evidently remembering that his questioner was of the same genus as the subject spoken about, he seemed to restrain himself, but replied, with a laugh: " Frankly, then, I read them all; and not only here but all over America, T have been quite amused at the struggle each of the gentlemen has had to write what T did not say; but I have the most sym- pathy with the writers of the articles which strive to be what is called here in the United States ' funny,' their hard work has been so apparent." From this on the conversation was quite easy, and Mr. Wilde displayed a fund of shrewd common sense hardly to be expected from an art-enthusiast and a poet. The con- versation on his part gave me full opportunity to memo- rize the disposition of every article of furniture in the room, and that a certain eccentric individuality of the man was displayed in every phase of the furniture could not be gainsaid. A full description of the apartment would at this time take up too much space. During our conversation several cards were handed in, and among other things the servant brought in an autographic album, with some one's compliments and a request for Mr. Wilde's little contribution to the general collection. He arose, seated himself at the table with the open book before him, and in a posture which excellently expressed thought, he tried to evolve something for the in- evitable autograph-hunter and great American nuisance. The inspirational mood was not, however, on him. He arose, gracefully spread his arm over an almost impossible distance, and with an admirable breadth of reach, got hold of a copy of his own poems, sat down again and said to me: " One OSCAR WILDE. 51 sometimes forgets one's own lines." The struggle was short and had to be given up, so he bade the servant tell the mes- senger to "leave the album, as I am too much engaged just now;" this with a glance at me. A few moments later another album was sent in, and the message repeated without the glance, however. Among other questions, and they were legion, I asked him, "At what hour of the day do you find it most convenient to write T " At no particular hour. In writing a verse I sometimes wait for the exact mood, and it takes weeks at a time before I get the exact word to express my thought in the comple- tion of a sentence or a line." From the conversation that followed I learned that Mr. Wilde was born at Dublin, and that his mother, of whom he is very proud, inspired him with the desire to become a poet. On being asked as to the age expressed in the last verse of his poem, beginning with "Sweet, I blame you not," which interests all women, and ending with " I have made my choice, have lived my poems, And though youth is gone in wasted days I have found the lover's crown of myrtle better Than the poet's crown of bays?" He replied, " Sometimes one feels older at twenty than he will at forty." During the conversation about his poems, he ceitainly evidenced a belief in them, and gave way to his enthusiasm by frequent gestures. Youthful fervor carries with it a sense of truth, and if the word " utter," as expressed by this aesthete, means ardor, coupled with a sense of art and what 52 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. is beautiful in the world, it is a good word, and ought to be a welcome word in our vocabulary, which after all, is not replete with adjectives expressive of things that are beauti- ful, as a lady-reporter can testify. MRS. HUMPHREY MOORE. DURING the many years I have filled the position of reporter for the best papers of San Francisco, it has been my good fortune to form the acquaintance of some of the most brilliant and well-known people who have come to this coast acquaintances which in many instances, turned into warm and lasting friendships. A few years ago, there came to San Francisco the cele- brated American artist, Mr. Humphrey Moore, and his beautiful and accomplished wife, the subject* of this sketch. I was detailed to call upon them and learn something of their lives, which I could give to the public through the medium of the paper which I was then connected with. I found both husband and wife so agreeable, and received so warm an invitation to visit his studio, that I spent many a half hour there, feeding my eyes on his magnificent works; and when I was last in Paris, I found them as kind and pleasant as ever. Mrs. Moore's history is of more than ordinary interest. She is notable, not only on account of being the wife of the deaf and dumb artist, but for her beauty, intelligence and high family connections. And I am sure a brief sketch of her life cannot but prove interesting to my readers. Isabella de Cistue was born in Saragossa about thirty years ago, of 54 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. purely Castilian parents. Her father was Colonel Cistue, one of the sons of Baron de la Mensglena, who belonged to one of the most aristocratic families of Spain; and her grand- mother held the high position of a lady of honor to the beautiful and powerful Queen Maria Louisa, so fondly re- membered by the Spaniards. Mrs. Moore is also a cousin by marriage to the ex-Queen Isabella, two of her cousins having married the two brothers of that personage. Sefiorita de Cistue was sent at an early age to the college of Loretto, in Madrid, where she received a brilliant and finished education, graduating before she was sixteen years of age, proficient in three languages and mistress of the piano, harp and guitar. When Isabella was but a girl five years old, she met a child of about her own age who was both deaf and dumb, but who was well learned in the mute language. The two children formed a strong attach- ment for each other, and Isabella begged she might be taught to converse with her little friend. About this time her eldest brother came home from college on a long vaca- tion, bringing with him a friend of his, a handsome young Spaniard of about seventeen years of age, with the title of Marquis. This young nobleman was also deaf and dumb, and from him the little Isabella learned to converse with her fingers, and subsequently became the constant friend and protector in her childish way, of her dumb little playmate. Time passed on; the heroine of this sketch grew to a lovely young lady of the true Moorish type of beauty. Her coal- black hair, beautiful flashing black eyes, and clear, rich, olive complexion, became a theme for the poet and the painter in Granada, where she resided after having left MRS. HUMPHREY MOORE. 55 school in Madrid. A favorite walk of hers was through the gardens of the Alhambra, where many an hour was passed, chaperoned by some of her family, but generally by her grandmother, then no longer the handsome maid of honor. One day as the two ladies were walking in a secluded but most beautifully romantic spot of the garden, they suddenly came upon a gentleman of about twenty-four years of age, of medium height, rather florid ^complexion, large, soft and speaking blue eyes, light auburn hair and delicately-shaped mustache. He was sketching, what afterward became a fine work of art, known as " Views of Granada." Upon the approach of the ladies, the artist arose and handed to the dazzling young Spanish beauty her handkerchief which had fallen from her hand. Their eyes met. She passed on, and the artist resumed his work. Upon several subsequent days they accidentally met. The artist was less attentive to his work, and a Spanish nobleman, who had been a suitor for the hand of the young Seiiorita, received less encouragement. About a month after the first meeting in the garden, while the artist was pacing up and down in his studio, a gentleman friend named De Castillo called upon him. To him the artist unbosomed himself. He declared he could do no more work until he had painted a picture of the lady whose appear- ance had so strongly affected him. Then taking De Cas- tillo's arm, they went out and wandered to the Alhambra Gardens. There he again saw the object of his infatuation. She was conversing in the deaf-and-dumb language with the Spanish marquis, who had taught her the hand manual years back, when she was a child. De Castillo, knowing 56 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. the marquis, introduced him to the artist, and the marquis then presented his companions, who were Isabella and her grandmother. Much to Isabella's surprise, she discovered that the handsome young artist was deaf and dumb! Then she found greater happiness in the use of the dumb language than she had ever before experienced. To his earnest solici- tations, she sat for a portrait, which she now has in her possession. Though titled suitors sought her hand, and she was even invited to become maid of honor to the then reigning Queen Isabella, she cheerfully renounced all this pomp and brilliancy to bestow her heart and hand on the deaf-and-dumb American artist. H. Humphrey Moore is well known in San Francisco, where he lived from early childhood, up to 1865, at which time his father, who will be remembered in the firm of Moore & Folger, died. He was twenty-one years of age when his mother, who has lived in San Francisco for several years, accompanied him to Eu- rope, where for three years he labored hard at his profession in the studio of the greatest figure-painter in France Gerome. It was while in Granada, that Mr. Moore met with Fortuny, whose style of work is followed by him. Mr- Moore's name was forcibly brought to the minds of his Cal- ifornia friends some eight or ten years ago, when he sent to this coast for exhibition his celebrated work " Almeh, the Eastern Dancing Girl." Mrs. Moore is devoted to her hus- band, and justly proud of his talents. She is his constant companion in his studio; and day after day, in winter and summer, whatever else may claim her attention, from four to six o'clock she devotes to a study of his canvases and the work of her husband's brush during the day. MRS. HUMPHREY MOORE. 57 Among the first, in fact the very first, to entertain and present to San Francisco society Mr. and Mrs. Moore, was Mrs. Senator George Hearst. The subjects of this sketch are now located in Paris, where Mr. Moore has a well-appointed studio, and where Mrs. Moore is a constant companion. JFI7BRSIT7 LEOPOLD II, KING OF BELGIUM. LEOPOLD II, KING OF BELGIUM. IN referring to my meeting with the handsome King Leo- pold, I am reminded of the many years that have gone by since then. Yes, it is now nearly eighteen years since the photograph, from which the above likeness has been taken, was presented to me. But before proceeding further, let me give a few words regarding the Belgian capital. From London per steamer to Antwerp, a hasty glance at the old Dutch city, and thence by rail to Brussels. The Belgium capital on a bright day, presents so many varied views, so many bright scenes, that it well deserves its name of " Little Paris." The dresses of the country people, with the more fashionable attire of the city's inhabitants, and the many quaint vehicles from the environs of Brussels, form a contrast most picturesque. The peasants of Belgium still adhere to their old national costumes, which are certainly a study. In the moraing, the principal street is lively with the flower-girls, milk-venders, market-women and artisans going to their various occupations. The milk-women are generally middle-aged, stout, healthy peasants, who live from five to ten miles from the city, and trudge to and from their work through storm and sunshine, day after day. They each have a small wagon, which is drawn by a half-starved 62 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. dog. The women are neatly dressed in short skirts, thick, wooden shoes, white aprons, plaid shawls across their shoul- ders, and the peculiar Belgian cap, with the long tabs of white muslin falling over the ears. The flower-girls have the same healthy look. They are dressed in short skirts, displaying clumsy feet and ankles ; a hat which looks like an inverted tin pan, hair hanging down in plaits, and a comb that projects on either side behind the ears and looks like the wings of a windmill. They carry baskets heaped with flow- ers on their heads, while their hands are kept busy knitting. But the most noted feature of Brussels' industry, as we all know, is the lace factories, where hundreds of women find a means of subsistence; the most celebrated of these laces being Brussels, point applique, round point, point d'alen9on and the most delicate of all, point de Yenise. The lace-mak- ers are more intelligent looking then the milk-venders and the flower-girls, but dress the same, with the proverbial plaid shawl and pure white caps, only of a finer texture. Our first excursion, while staying in Brussels, was to Lacken, the palace of the King Leopold II, who until the differences with the church party, a few years ago, was one of the most popular monarchs of all Europe. Lacken is a few miles from Brussels, and is one of the most beautiful palaces on the Continent; at least it was until last year, when it was partly des royed by fire. The grounds were laid out with artistic taste, and the edifice was indeed imposing. It has a history varied and romantic. It was built for the charitable Austrian Princess Maria Christiana in 1782. After the invasion of the French in 1792, it was converted into a hospital, the Archduke Charles having sold it to a LEOPOLD II, KING OF BELGIUM. 63 surgeon. In 1793-94, when all France flowed with blood, some of the refugees found shelter there. Among the num- ber was the painter De Lys and his entire family, which consisted of two sons, his daughter (a beautiful young lady of about twenty years) and his devoted wife. They were all arrested on a trumped-up charge of incivism and sent to the Luxembourg ; but, owing to some friendly influence they were released, only to be threatened again by the pop- ulace, who hated De Lys because he had been a favorite at the court of Louis XVI. De Lys, knowing his danger, made his escape in disguise. In order not to excite suspicion two conveyances were used: the first carriage contained De Lys and his daughter; the second, his wife and sons. They started at different points at an interval of half an hour. The first, containing the father and daughter, arrived safely in Brussels; but the second was overtaken, and its occupants were returned to Paris and there executed. De Lys, over- come by the sad fate of his family, sickened and finally be- came insane. He was taken to the hospital at Lacken, where he was recognized by the surgeon and treated kindly, but never recovered. He died before the year expired, and the brave young girl his daughter, having attended him faithfully, soon followed him to the grave. De Lys painted the celebrated picture " Death's Dance at the Guillotine," which, before the fire there, hung in the gallery at the palace, but was destroyed. The picture was known as showing more power in drawing then anything else that artist ever did. The coloring was peculiar, and showed that the artist was insane. After the palace had been used as a hospital, it was re- constructed by the architect who built it, the famous 64 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. " Geefs." Napoleon and Marie Louise took up their resi- dence here for a time. The road leading to Lacken is un- surpassed, being lined on both sides by immense trees forming a shadowed roadway five miles long. The palace stands near an artificial lake, in the center of which is a fountain, said to have the greatest powers of any in Europe; spouting to a height of over 200 feet. It was while visiting this palace, that I first saw the King of the Belgians. Leopold Marie Victor is the son of Leopold I and Louisa, daughter of Louis Philippe. He was born the 9th of April, 1825, and as prince was known as the Duke of Brabant. He is a second cousin of the English Queen and brother of the ex-Empress, "poor Carlotta " of Mexic x At the age of eighteen he mar- ried Marie Henriette, daughter of the Archduke Joseph of Austria, Palatine of Hungary. His only son died in 1869. The King has three daughters living. Leopold II ascended the throne in 1865, and has since followed the policy of his father. He received a thorough education, and traveled for many years, very frequently incognito. He speaks nine languages, excelling in the correct pronunciation of each. In speaking English it is difficult to detect' that he was not born and raised an Englishman. When I saw him he looked very plain, and indeed, was mistaken by roe for a traveler, who seemed familiar with the palace and its grounds. He was sitting on a rustic bench in the park, smoking a cigar and looking over a newspaper, and dressed in a light suit of English cloth. I had wandered from the party I was with and had lost my way, and really was glad to find someone who I hoped would direct me to the entrance, where I knew the carriage was standing. LEOPOLD II, KING OF BELGIUM. 65 In return to a bow he courteously raised his hat, and as he again took up his paper, I passed on, never giving the strange gentleman a second thought. Soon after the gen- tleman passed by, and then noticing that he was slightly lame, it dawned upon me that he was the King of the Bel- gians. As I passed a turn in the road, I noticed a photo- graphic card on the ground, turned upside down. The King evidently imagined I had dropped it, and as he stooped to pick it up in passing me, he said in French, " Pardon, madam, you have lost something." I took it and was about to say it was not mine, when turning the face-side to me, I immediately said in English, " Oh, thank you very much." He saw as well as I it was a picture of himself, and we both smiled. Some tourist had evidently bought the card in town and lost it there in the park. However, I took it with all the coolness of an expert thief. When I spoke to him, he exclaimed: " Ah, an American, it is very seldom any American comes to Lacken." At this moment a liveried attendant came to tell him the carriage was ready. The King is a tall, well-built man with a noble-looking face. He wears a full beard, and has mild blue eyes. On approaching the pilace, it was evident he had been waiting for his equipage. To the carriage were harnessed four white, beautiful horses, their heads adorned with high, red plumes. Two outriders were already mounted on white horses. The driver held the reins and the footman held the carriage door open. The King was going to meet the Queen at the station in Brussels, who was on her return from Spa. During his absence I had a chance to wander around the grounds. I had found my friends and we were just leaving Lacken, when 4* 66 PEOPLE I HAVE MET, he returned with the Queen, who was seated by his side. She wore a plain drab-colored traveling suit, and black bonnet. She appeared to be a woman in the prime of life, not handsome; but gentle and very lovable. In a carriage following the royal pair sat a single attendant of the Queen, holding in her lap a favorite dog* The next day I saw the King again, and had a better opportunity of viewing him. About eight miles from Brus- sels is the famed hamlet of Waterloo. It borders on the forest of Soignes and is the favorite resort of tourists. In the forest of Soignes the King has a shooting-box. Game is not very plentiful, but he comes to this retreat occasionally, and it was here I saw him again. He looks as if the cares of state do not trouble him much. His domestic relations are extremely felicitous. He is rather a quiet gentleman, being studiously inclined. The Queen is an excellent mother, and is devoted to domestic duties. She superintends her daughters' education, leaving them very little to the care of ladies of honor or governesses, and is devoted to her husband and family. Near Lacken is the burying-ground, in which De Bereit erected the magnificent monument over the remains of his wife, the famous prima donna, Malibran; and here also is the monument to some of the heroes of Waterloo, which has been raised by the King and some citizens of Brussels. The King occasionally visits this beautiful spot, and among the quiet dead the King of the Belgians may often be seen whiling away an hour, free from the trammels of ceremony and the cares of a kingdom. LADY DUFFUS HARDY. AMONG the many pleasant acquaintances made through my work as a reporter, was Lady Duffus Hardy and her daughter Iza Hardy, the young lady who, it will be re- membered, was so report said at one time engaged to Mr. Joaquin Miller. The ladies are English, and both writers, the mother, however, having achieved more note, owing no doubt to her much longer experience. Lady Hardy is the widow of Sir Thomas Duftus Hardy, who died about ten years ago in London. He was " Deputy Keeper of Records and Rolls," and was knighted by the Queen for learned historical and antiquarian research. Sir Thomas had been in the government service in his de- partment for upwards of fifty-five years. To show in what esteem he was held, it may be mentioned that the depart- ment was put in mourning when he died, and it was the first tims the honor had been conferred upon anyone in the government office, from the time of the death of the Prince Consort. When I first met Lady Hardy, which was ab mt five years ago, she was perhaps forty -five" years of age, of portly physique, easy and gentle in her manners, of the true type of the English lady. Her countenance is very expressive, 68 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. an 1 with features exceedingly mobile. Her flow of language is remarkably free and much to the purpose. She is the author of quite a number of novels which are as yet but little known in America, although her books have a large circulation in England. Among them may be mentioned, "Madge," " Lizzie," "Woman's Triumph," " Paul Wynter's Sacrifice," and " Daisy Nichol." This last was the only one that had been published in the United States when Lady Hardy was in this country nine years ago. Lady HarJy has always been a great admirer of the Americans, and has been noted in London for the many entertainments given at her house, an elegant residence in Northbank street, Regent square. So thoroughly was she identified with the Americans in London that she received invitations to most of the receptions tendered to General Grant in that city. Iza, Lady Hardy's only child, is a young lady of tall, willowy and very erect figure, with dark bright eyes and soft brown hair. Among the novels she has written may be mentioned: "Broken Faith," "Only a Love Story," " Glencairn," which has been translated into the German and " Not Easily Jealous," her first book, written before she was eighteen years old. About the time the ladies visited this country, Miss Hardy gave into the hands of a New York publishing house a book she had just finished, entitled " Friend and Lover." She is a constant contributor to such magazines as Belgravia and Temple Bar, and has written several poems of much merit. A short time after the arrival of Lady Hardy and her daughter in San Francisco, cards and invitations from ladies of position began pouring in, and from that time on they LADY DUFFUS HARDY. 69 were kept in a whirl of excitement by balls, parties, recep- tions, dinners, teas, kettle-drums and sight-seeing. I saw much of the ladies during their stay in San Francisco, and during an illness of three weeks, many a lonely day was made cheerful by a call, or a note, or a book to read, from one or the other. One day Lady Hardy said to me : " Do you know what I think of San Francisco 1 This: I think it is simply the most beautiful city for its age in the world; match' ess in its situation, marvelous in the strength, power and enterprise of its people, a puzzle to the curious, a lesson to the wise. It is a city of magnificent beginnings a thing of promise which I am confident will have a glorious fulfill- ment." " I should imagine you liked writing \ r ery much, Lady Hardy," I said to her on one occasion. " Yes," she replied, "it is a comfort to the heart and brain." And among other questions, I asked her " What do you think of lady re- porters ?" "Do you know," she said, "you are the first one I ever met, and so I shall say, I like lady reporters. There is only one thing I am sorry to see in you." " Say what it is, and it shall no longer exist," I cried. " Ah, my dear lady, that is easier said than done, I fear; but it is that horrid society work you do. Telling all about where people go, what they do, what they eat, what they wear, and goodness knows what all." " Yes," I replied, "I certainly agree with you, especially, ' it is easier said than done;' but one must live, and it is good pay." " I intend to commence a book on America, as soon as I return home," she said, " and I shall make some very strong references to this sort of newspaper work." 70 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. Although^very desirous, I have never had the pleasure of seeing the above-mentioned book. o I j I saw Lady Hardy the day she left the Occidental Hotel, for the train, to go East, and I remember her saying to me, and she really appeared to be in earnest: " I assure you it is with much regret I say good -by to the Golden City; but my regret would be tenfold greater, if I did not hope to revisit it again with my daughter, some day not long distant, for I shall never forget the many cordial kindnesses I have received in ' This land of the sea with its fragrant foam, which reached to the stranger the welcome of home.' " MONSIEUE LOZE. MONSIEUR LOZE. AMONG the various objects of interest in Paris is the police system, and the many prisons. Still few tourists care to devote much time in this direction. I was, how- ever, determined to make an inspection as far into the system as possible, the results of which appeared subse- quently in the Morning Call while corresponding for that journal. But what an amount of red tape I had to go through to obtain the desired privilege ! And what an amount of influence was required ! Armed with an excellent letter from the state, embellished with the great seal of California and the governor's signature, together with letters from Chief of Police Crowley, Captain Laes and several private latters, I sought the American minister, Mr. McLane, then in Paris, and obtained from him a very strong letter of introduction to Monsieur Loze, the prefect of police, whose position makes him one of the most influential 'men of the French capitol. A meeting with him WMS by no means an easy matter. The prefecture was reached after driving some distance, and crossing the Seine at Point Neuf. The prefect has a special office of his own. Under him is the department of the secretariat-general, one section of which supe: intends the members of the force, its stores, archives 74 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. and accounts, while the two others control the police of Paris and its markets. Upon inquiring for the prefect I was shown toward a flight of stone stairs, and, in com- pany of a guide, began ascending, passing one landing after another, until reaching the very topmost one of the grand structure. There we were received by a very powerful- looking man in a light-blue coat, red vest, black trousers, and a gold colored sash. He took my letter, and soon we were shown into a large, comfortably furnished apartment to await M. Loze's answer. The answer soon came that the prefect would receive me the following day between 11 and 12 o'clock. I went through the same formality the next day, when on. my way to keep the appointment again; there was clambering up the long stairway, and another meeting with the man in the gorgeous colors. A messenger was dispatched to the prefect to inquire if he was at liberty. I was next passed over to an officer, who conducted me through long halls, turning first one way, then another, pass- ing dark and silent places, until, arriving at a certain point where I was left in charge of another conductor, who carried a large sword and looked very dignified, bowing all the way, until I really began to feel of very much importance ! At last he stopped at a door heavily draped with dark rich portieres; the draperies were lifted at one side, and I was ushered into the presence of M. Loze! He came forward with a look of welcome, and it was difficult to know which would claim the first attention. There was the tall, handsome French gentleman, with his full side-whiskers and graceful manner. There, too, were the rich surroundings, the soft, velvety carpet, the handsome window coverings, the great MONSIEUR LOZE. 75 book-cases filled with well-bound books, the massive pieces of furniture, great easy-chairs and a table of noble propor- tions, holding books, paper and writing materials. A mellow, subsued light came through the partly-closed blinds, while the faint, sweet smell from a bunch of violets added additional charm to the scene. At that moment I thought of our able " prefect " in the miserable quarters where I had last seen him in San Fran- cisco, and I said, mentally, " Surely he is as great a man with us, as is the French prefect to the people of Paris." M. Loze read, in broken English, Captain Lees' flattering letter of recommendation. The result of the interview was a letter, or rather a com- mand, to each director of the seven different prisons under his control, ordering that every facility and attention should be extended to the bearer and friend. I remember during the conversation, M. Loz6 said, he admired the American people and was always glad to be of service to them. When taking leave of the prefect he turned to a private draw in one of the book-cases and took therefrom a number of tickets, to various places in and around Paris, the doors of which will not be opened unless the printed orders are shown. There were also numerous cards to places of beaux- arts. These he presented, and then gallantly raised the portiere on the opposite side of the room from which I had entered, and bowed me out, presenting at the same time the secretariat-general. And so ended the pleasant visit to the prefect of police, a gentleman exceedingly moral and much respected; a fine-looking man, very commanding in appear- ance, and just in the prime of life. MRS. TINSDALE. " Is there anyone here going to Charing Cross station, who speaks English T What a sweet, clear, positive voice! On the instant I turned my head in the direction from whence it came, and met just such a face as I expected to see a round, pleasant face, with full speaking brown eyes, an earnest, well-formed mouth, and a mass of wavy auburn hair. " I speak English, and I am going to Charing Cross," I answered; Then the stranger, who was a handsome English lady, picked up a little boy, perhaps six years of age, and pushed him toward me saying: " Then will you take my child in charge and give him over to a gentleman who will meet you in London?" " Yes," I said, and handing her my card, added, " There is my name, and my London address, and my vocation." "Ah! I see you are a newspaper writer. Do you know I am devoting my best energies to the cause of women, and in fact, that is what I am now in Paris for. I have not a card with me. My son has one around his neck. Show it to the lady, Harry. Oh, how slow you are! You see how stupid he is! I'll " but I didn't catch the last sentence; it was lost in a jingling of bells, steam-whistles, and the guards rushing past waving little red nags, slam- ming and fastening the coach doors. The scene occurred MRS. TINSDALE. 77 early one morning at the Gard du Nord in Paris, and all in about five minutes. Then we were rushing out of the French capital, making our way to the old historic town of Boulogne, intending to lake the steamer there for Folke- stone, and thence to London. As we moved out of the Gard, the little fellow seemed to realize that he was left en- tirely alone with strangers, and only a slight demand on my protection. The tears would well up to his pretty brown eyes, but after a desperate resisting struggle, he threw him- self into my arms and cried himself to sleep. I then had time to think over the situation What in my impetuosity had I done] Allowed this child to be thrust upon me by an entire stranger. How did I know I would be relieved of o him when I arrived in London at 6:30 in the evening? I had only this stranger's word. The boy would say nothing, and it may have been a fancy, but I thought the other pas- sengers gave knowing yet mysterious glances toward me and the boy. Surely no right-minded or right-hearted mother would send her child "adrift. Yet perhaps an En- glish mother was not so tender-hearted as the mothers of America. Could it be she was an adventuress, who had thus cunningly got rid of somebody's child? Perhaps she read in my face the signs of a simple-minded woman easily duped, and then I tried to catch a glimpse of my face in the little mirror opposite. "Yes, surely I looked like one easily fooled." The guardian angel, however whispered to me, " Perhaps she read charity and good feeling to all mankind, and knew she could trust her darling with you," and as these thoughts passed through my poor bewildered brain we sped on, passing many sunny little French towns. At Amiens w.: t 7 8 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. we stopped an hour, and my charge got his luncheon basket down. What a study that preparation was] How it spoke of duty cold, proper, very proper duty. Yet not a spark of love's tra series could I discover. The basket was large and well filled with enough for three persons at least. The nap- kins were snowy white and smoothly folded, the bread cut as by a square, meat ditto, crackers all placed with precis- ion, and a stalk of celery was cut very evenly and nicely, rolled in a napkin butter likewise; pickles, pepper, salt, etc., ditto. No sweets, no candies, cakes or any thing appreciated by the liliputian taste. How cold it all looked. I noticed the boy frequently drank from a claret bottle. Good gracious! could it ba possible that bottle was full of wine 1 I hazarded the question, " You are drinking milk, T sup- pose?" " No," lie answered, in his cold, unemotional way, " I don't like milk." Then I said to myself, " The little rebel must be a wine tippler." At last in utter desperation I asked, " What is it, then 1 " " Water, nothing but cold water." One suspense at least was taken from my mind. During the day I asked him to show me the card which his mother had in the morning referred to. After some difficulty he brought it forth. It was attached to a string, and bore the following: " If this boy is lost, take him to Scotland Yard and send this card to Lord L , Carlton Club." The plot seemed to thicken, and it looked very much as though I were to be arrested for carrying off some one's child. At every station where we stopped I braced myself up and almost held my breath, and would not have been surprised to have been ordered out of my carriage by a sergeant de MRS. TINSDALE. /9 mile at any moment. As the train drew into the station at Boulogne, about 12 o'clock, a handsome and wonderfully striking Frenchman, with a fierce-looking mustache, came and looked in at us, and asked in good English, "Are you Mme. W.r I have never yet found out what reply I made. I think 1 must have appeared in a very dazed state, for I remember hearing him say to the boy, " Madame is faint; I will see you and her on the steamer." A few moments later the vessel was steaming towards the Channel, and we were losing sight of the white cliffs of France. It worried me exceedingly why this man had spoken to me. Was he following us, and was I to be arrested when I stepped upon British soil ? " Oh, poor child, what trouble have you brought on me! " I said. Had the handsome, brown-eyed woman set a spy upon me ^ No. I soon learned he was the interpreter who goes from Paris to London and back daily for the benefit of the traveling public, and madame had asked him to look out for us. From Folkestone we started on our long afternoon ride, going through the loveliest portion of Kent; passing the quaint old town of Rochester, where Dickens loved to think out his stories and to write; running through Chiselhurst, where we caught a bird's-eye view of Eugenie's home; then out among the green fields, and again under great branches of trees. At last the lights of London came in view, and we would soon be at Charing Cross station a moment wished and feared. As one depot and another was passed, our companions of the day left us, and we were at last the sole occupants of the luxurious coach. The train was promptly on time, and, as it was slowing up, a face appeared 8O PEOPLE I HAVE MET. at the window which almost took my breath away. There were the brown eyes, the wavy hair, and the full, round face, almost a facsimile of my morning acquaintance, only more rugged and more manly. But the sweetest sounds the most consoling ones to my ears were when the boy, fairly jumping with glee, shouted, " Oh, there's Uncle Percy!" It was his mother's brother who had been tele- graphed to, to meet us. In my nervous state I had neg- lected to look on the other side of the card which the boy had tied around his neck, or I would have read the name of Mrs. Tinsdale, Bloomsbury Square, London, who is one of the leading ladies of that city, and who is deeply inter- ested in all that concerns women and women's work, and who spends much of her time traveling over Europe, look- ing into the great question that is now coming so boldly to the front. I was taught a lesson that day which will serve me the rest of my lifetime not to be too quick in obliging strangers if I value my peace of mind. ANTHONY TROLLOPE. ANTHONY TROLLOPE. IT was on the Tsland of Jamaica, a number of years ago, I first met Anthony Trollope, who was accompanied by his son. The occasion was a dress parade of her Majesty's black or native soldiers; the location, the plaza, a sort of park to which the inhabitants of the insular capital resort on Thursday afternoons, to witness the military maneuvers, and listen to the music of the band, made up of native musicians, who play with considerable skill, and number about fifty performers. The Trollopes, father and son, were in search of material for a new book, and an opportunity was tlms afforded for observing their peculiar manner of col- lecting facts to be interwoven with fiction. It was amus- ing, as well as instructive, to observe the indefatigable way in which they used their note-books. Like all earnest seekers after novelty, and with a true desire for knowledge, they allowed nothing to escape their attention, and nothing was too trivial for record. They were at the parade, comparing the picturesque zouave dresses with the jetty faces of the soldiers, and on this occasion (as on every other) the note-books were before them, and their pencils on the page, ready to write down anything and everything that occurred at isolated banana groves, viewing the tropical 84 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. growth of the cocoanut-tree, the domestic productions, the peculiarities of the little island empire. In fa< t, the travelers and their note-books were everywhere, and so ostentatiously desirous of acquiring knowledge, that it was the prevalent belief of the people of Kingston that not a private cock-fight or badger- run could be indulged in without the presence of the Trollopes and their extensive preparations for takin > notes, sketches, etc. I dare say one reason why Mr. Trollope's novels are not so popular in this country, is that the pains taken with the minor matters become tedious and tiresome to the average American reader. Mr. Trollope, when I first met him was about sixty years of age, in aspect rugged and stern, with grizzly beard, hair somewhat gray, and bald-headed, with gray eyes, which glance at you through the medium of a pair of spectacles. His appearance was in accord with his habits, precise, thorough and systematic. The negro musicians amused him vastly. After the parade he spoke to me of their performance, saying: " They are very fair for this country," and not a little of the proverbial contempt of the Britons for everything foreign was expressed in the tone of his voice, as well as in the words themselves. Jamaica, especially, is not a place where a man of Mr. Trollope's temperament and education would care to spend a life-time. At certain seasons the heat is so intense as to be almost unbearable to all but natives, and at times the floods are sudden and terrible. It was on one of these occasions that a dangerous advent- ure happened to Mr. Trollope and his party, among whom I was numbered, which gave me an insight into his ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 85. character that I could not well otherwise have obtained. A few miles from Kingston there lived a gentleman by the name of Brown, who became acquainted with us, which resulted in our visiting him on his plantation, one of the largest on the island. Mr. Trollope remarked that this would offer him an excellent opportunity of witnessing the labor of the native negroes, and how they were treated by their masters. A small stream passed through this planta- tion, and on either side there were fields of coffee and sugar- cane. On a slightly elevated plateau, about two hundred feet from the stream, and in the center of the plantation, stood the house, built in the usual style of architecture peculiar to the "West Indies. The party went to bed that evening tired with the journey; and, on the following morn- ing, at about five o'clock, were awakened by the sun, which, at that early hour shone brightly through the windows with so much warmth that a bed became intolerable. At six o'clock we were called to breakfast. I could hear my next-door neighbor growling about the early hour at which he was obliged to rise. I think I can hear him now, s tying, in that subdued, gruff voice of his, " What a beastly country, fit for negroes, to be sure!" I met him at break- fast, and I said to him, in a quiet, confidential tone, " Mr. Trollope, have you made a note of our rooms T The look he gave me did not betray that he had discovered any sarcasm in my question. He merely returned, " Yes, I have had plenty of time and light to make a note of all, for it seems it is hardly dark before it is daylight again." We finished our breakfast, which consisted of fried plantain, yams, eggs, and small fish called Jamaica mullet, resembling 86 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. our mountain trout, but even more delicious in flavor; coffee, with a most fascinating: aroma, owing to the few grains of pimento, which is added while boiling, and sweet- ened with sugar as black almost as Phillipo the negro steward, who waited on the table and fanned away the flies while we were eating. This served for another item to be entered in Mr. Trollope's note-book. The morning was pleasant enough, but in the afternoon clouds became visible, and we were told to expect a storm, and soon we had a scene that defies description. The rain came pouring down so fiercely, and in such torrents, that it seemed as if it were one continuous stream of water. But it was grand to look at! The landscape, not twenty yards from us, was totally obscured, so thick and fast did the rain-drops come down. The negroes were called to their quarters to make ready for any emergency which might occur. The wind did not cease to blow, and we were compelled to remain that night, and were told that probably we would have to stay for a longer time. The face of our fellow- guest expressed nothing; but what he inwardly uttered and put in his note-book, I will not try to guess. Another night passed; the rain continued in its fierceness, and what a sight met our eyes ! The small stream, meandering so calmly along a few hours previously, was now swollen to a raging torrent, carrying with it everything that came in its way. Mr. Brown was greatly alarmed, saying that the stream had risen four feet within an hour. I inquired what he feared. He said we must get ready to leave the house; the negroes were instructed to carry as much provision as possible to a mountain station, a short ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 87 distance from the house. It very frequently happens that these floods do all the damage possible, then subside as fast as they arose, leaving everything that stood in the way a total wreck; and so it nearly proved in this instance. In a few hours from the time the river began to rise, the water had nearly reached the house. The storm abating some- what, we ferried, on a raft made of old boards and tied together, to the place where the blacks had gathered. It was a sort of rudely-built house in the mountains, from which we could see the valley nearly covered with water. The negroes were terribly freightened, and it was all we could do to pacify them. Sitting on a rock as near the entrance as he could get was Mr. Trollope, with the tiresome pencil in his hand, still persisting in taking notes. Fortunately no lives were lost. The water subsided as suddenly as it came upon us; the plantation was almost ruined, and the furniture quite so, though the building remained. As we were coming down the mountain, I looked at Mr. Brown with real pity, and would have condoled with him, but he interpreted my look, and said in as light a tone as he could command, " Never mind, my plantation will look just as well as it ever did in six months from now. You see, this is one of the accidents we planters may expect at any time, and it can't be helped." I could not refrain from saying, "Sir, you are a brave man," and I looked toward Mr. Trollope expecting him to say some thing in approval of that sentiment. He was busy with his note-book. I do not think it was real selfishness of the man, but an earnest absorption of the author in his self-imposed task of describing Jamaica. I learned a month later that 88 PEOPLE I HAVE MET. Mr. Trollope had used every effort with the government to render assistance to Mr. Brown, and by his individual ex- ertions had a number of concessions made to the planter which were of value to him. Shortly after we parted from Mr. Brown, and soon arrived at our comfortable hotel quarters. That evening we related our adventure to others, and I found that Mr. Trollope's note-book kept me in order and in exact time regarding our experiences. He was in a more talkative mood than usual that evening, and I ventured to ask him about his 'books discussed them with him. But he would not enter very heartily into the subject; so among other things, I spoke of Mrs. Ann Trollope and mentioned that she had written a book about America, but it was not very complimentary. " It was, no doubt, the truth," said he, " and if it wa.s, Americans have no right to feel hurt about it." I replied, " But I am an American, I spent some of the best years of my life in New York city, and have also, lived in many other places, and I ask you honestly, was it not exaggeration Mrs. Trollope's description of an American first-class hotel 1 " " What do you mean 1 " he inquired. I replied: "Mrs. Trollope described her first dinner in America, as nearly as I can recollect, thus ' She was sitting at a table, a soiled napkin was handed to her, which no doubt had been used before. The waiter mocked her when she ordered from the bill of fare, and a gentleman sitting opposite to her picked his teeth with a fork after having finished his dinner/ " " This was many years ago," he said, " and I do not remember anything about it. I only know Mrs. Trollope described the manners and customs of the country exactly ANTHONY TROLLOPE. 89 as she found them." I did not reply, feeling that an in. justice had been done to my countrymen. Since I met Mr. Trollope, he has issued his book, and I would not advise him to visit Jamaica again, for he has offended a great many of his own countrymen, by exaggerat- ing the faults of the place and the people. The inhabitants of Jamaica do not feel as if they had been very gratef Lilly dealt with by Mr. Trollope for all the hospitality that was shown him, and I must say I have never been anywhere else during my travels where so much kindness is shown to strangers. All seem to think it their duty to display hearty hospitality. It is true, there are some objections to a life on the island, as I have already shown; but, on the other hand, there are many things very pleasant. I met Mr. Trollope again at Newcastle, about three miles from Kingston, in the camp of Her Majesty's white soldiers. A stranger is welcomed there as a godsend, for a duller life than army existence there can hardly be imagined. Private theatricals, balls, etc., are the only pleasures which relieve the monotony of thir existence. Of course Mr. Trollope was welcomed most cordially by his countrymen, and I must add that the welcome extended to the rest of us was not one whit cooler. The next day I left Jamaica on the old English steamer Crusader, and so ended my experience in the " Island of Springs," and my adventures with the great novelist, Anthony Trollope. YOU KISSED ME. You kissed me ! My head Dropped low on your breagt With a feeling of shelter And infinite rest. While the holy emotions My tongue dared not speak Flashed up in a flame From my heart to my cheek. Yours arms held me fast; Oh ! your arms were so bold; Heart beat against heart In their passionate fold, Your glances seemed drawing My soul through my eyes As the sun draws the mist From the seas to the skies Your lips clung to mine Till I prayed in my bliss They might never unclasp From the rapturous kiss. You kissed me ! My heart, And my breath, and my will In delirious joy For a moment stood still. Life had for me then No temptations, no charms, No visions of happiness Outside of your arms, YOU KISSED ME. 9 1 And were I this instant An angel possessed Of the peace and the joy That are given the blest, I would fling my white robes Unrepiningly down, I would tear from my forehead Its beautiful crown To nestle once more In that haven of rest Your lips upon mine. My head on your breast. You kissed me ! My soul In a bliss so divine Reeled like a drunken man Foolish with wine; And I thought 'twere delicious To die there, if death Would but come while my lips Were yet moist with your breath; If I might grow cold While your arms clasped me round In their passionate fold. And these are the questions I ask day and night: Must lips taste no more Such exquisite delight ! Would you care if your breast Were my shelter as then, And if you were here Would you kiss me again ? SELECTED. TZHZE Of the Pacific Coast. THE NEW CHRONICLE BUILDING. 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