powder their curls than the old have to dye theirs. And I think it is better so. How much more enchanting to see a sweet girl all herself-blushes, tresses, contour, and all! And how much better to see a lovely woman of forty facing her autumn with white locks, black eyes, and glistening teeth! Of the men, I must say that the youngsters never cheat anybody on the question of hair; but the old fellows always do, or, at least, did, until it was proved that the man who blackened his whiskers might as well make an early contract for his coffin. I have known a good many black-haired, brown-haired, red-haired, yellow-haired men and women, who have grown white or gray or light with years; but I was never more impressed by the changing frosts of time than as I sat at the side of George Bancroft, the American historian, on Friday, September 30, 1876, in the St. George's House in the Exhibition Grounds. He was nearly seventy-six, and was eighty Tuesday, October 3, 1880. [I like dates, because they save trouble in after-time.] Mr. George W. Childs, our international host, who gave the pleasant party, placed me next the historian, and my good old friend knew me at once. A wonderful, wiry, weather-beaten warrior-if my readers will excuse the alliteration-followed by many fortunes and few misfortunes. My keenest recollection of George Bancroft was very many years ago, March 4, 1845, when he was forty-five and I was twenty-nine. His hair then was as black as Governor Hartranft's—a tall, straight, olive-faced, whiteteethed, gold-spectacled scholar. I had learned to honor him before. At that time I was a Democrat of Democrats, and he was one of my leaders and idols; and when I met him first I was deep in the early volumes of his incomparable "History of the United States," which began in 1834, and had run into its third volume in 1840. The splendor of its diction, and especially its high republican tone, gave it an extraordinary hold upon the people; and there was hardly an American or European review that did not greet its first volumes with the same

enthusiasm that welcomes the last. He came to Washington after the election of President Polk to accept the appointment of Secretary of the Navy, and I remember right well a dinner at the National Hotel in that city one day before the inauguration. I was living with Mr. Buchanan at his residence on F Street. The dinner was given by Commodore Robert F. Stockton, of New Jersey. All the gentlemen at that party are dead but myself. Mr. Bancroft was not of the number. Mr. Buchanan, Robert J. Walker, John R. Thompson, of New Jersey, Cave Johnson, of Tennessee, and a few more, gathered around the board; and when the impulsive New Jersey sailor, Stockton, offered a wager of a basket of champagne that he could name the Cabinet of the incoming President, the bet was immediately taken by Mr. Buchanan. The names were written by the Commodore and put in an envelope, which was placed in my hands. The Commodore lost the wager, because he did not include George Bancroft as Secretary of the Navy. The new Administration started with a new Cabinet in the full tide of success. June 8, 1845, Andrew Jackson, the ex-President of the United States, died at the Hermitage in Tennessee. It was necessary to pay immediate honors to that intrepid historical character, and it was also necessary that an orator should be secured. George Bancroft was selected, and he discharged his duty with such zeal and accuracy, and pronounced his speech with a rhetoric so magnetic, as to capture the listening thousands. I made my old friend laugh, very recently, when I recalled to his recollection the remark of Father Ritchie, who had been summoned from Richmond to Washington, at his advanced age, to take possession of the Democratic organ, The Union, to which, even at that early day, I was a regular contributor. Carried away by the eloquence of Mr. Bancroft, and by the knowledge that his oration had been rapidly prepared, he exclaimed to the young historian and statesman as he finished his address, "Bancroft, you are a humbug!" After Mr. Bancroft's retireII. 18

ment from the Cabinet, he was appointed Minister to England, and remained in London until 1849, in which year the University of Oxford conferred upon him the honorary degree of D.C.L. Returning to New York, he continued his herculean. labors on his great history, the fourth volume of which appeared in 1852, the fifth in 1853, the sixth in 1854, the seventh in 1858, the eighth in 1860, the ninth in 1868, the tenth in 1869, and the eleventh and last in 1874. In 1867 he was appointed Minister to Berlin, and during his mission performed many distinguished services. In 1871 he resigned and returned to Newport, which is his residence in summer, while at the same time he fixed his other home in Washington, which is his residence in winter. His eightieth birthday was October 3, 1880, and it found him in fine health, with a comfortable competency, and the supreme satisfaction that crowns a life's work well done. And to round the logic of his great life, he is to-day an earnest and again a national Democrat. I can conceive nothing more enviable than a public man closing his career in the capital of his country, especially since that capital has been made worthy of its founder, and has been solidly sealed to its chosen position, surrounded by the best society, and near a national library destined to be one of the finest in the world. Such a man as George Bancroft may, in the afternoon of his life, look out upon the glowing horizon of his evening, in the firm assurance that the stars that will shine over his night will forever sing sweetly in honor of his imperishable fame.

LVI.

AMERICAN PRESIDENTS ON HORSEBACK.-WASHINGTON, JEFFERSON, MADISON, MONROE, J. Q. ADAMS, JACKSON, VAN BUREN, HARRISON, JOHN TYLER, POLK, TAYLOR, FILLMORE, PIERCE, BUCHANAN, LINCOLN, JOHNSON, AND GRANT.

ALTHOUGH I know little about the horse-in fact, nothing beyond the general idea that he is a very useful, valuable, sometimes handsome animal, too often badly abused by his owner-yet there is no more interesting sight to me than a beautiful woman or a fine-looking man mounted on a well-bred horse, riding along Rotten Row, London; the Central Park, New York; or the vast Fairmount grounds, near Philadelphia. The modern English novel has always its equestrian side; and as we, in our country, are copyists of foreign follies and utilities, it is getting to be as much the fashion here to indulge in expensive horses as it is abroad. Society has taken largely to this luxury within the last few years, and your Four-in-hand Club is a clever imitation of that which you and I have seen starting from Hatchett's, Piccadilly, for a joyous drive through the surrounding English scenery. One remarkable day we treated ourselves to this favorite British pastime. Riding with the hounds calls into requisition not only the "blue blood" of the aristocracy, but the best blood of the stables; while the periodical contests at Ascot and at Epsom create a regular demand for the most expensive racers. In that country these sports are inherited, coming down from the long-gone past, when England and Ireland were comparative wildernesses, and when the chase was a necessity as well as a pleasure. Modern wealth, with its growth of cities, has only increased the appetite in Great Britain. The very dangers of riding across cultivated fields and through thickly built villages, and flying over hedges and stone-fences, add to the enthusiasm of the men

and women who chase the fox, and rarely come out without bodily injury, and sometimes with loss of life. In our country the horse was the companion of the early settler. The savage Indian loves his steed. The hunter of the West, the Southern gentleman, the farmers of the Middle States, for various reasons of trade or pleasure, cultivate the noble animal. The first importation of thoroughbred horses into America was about 1725-30. This class of horses are bred and used primarily for racing purposes, but the cross includes horses for all purposes, and it is shown by the superior average horse of Virginia and New Jersey, into which states the taste for racing introduced the thoroughbred horse at an early period. Owing to three and four mile and heat races having been kept up in America, while short races and single dashes have been in vogue in England for some years, the average American thoroughbred is probably a stouter and stronger horse than his English cousin. It can hardly be said that there are any distinct families of horses in America, although those of different localities present some peculiarities. The average horse of the New England States and of Canada is small, hardy, good-tempered, a good traveller, and very enduring. The Morgan horse of Vermont is one of the best types. Láncaster County, Pennsylvania, possesses a breed of horses, now somewhat scarce, called Conestogas-large, well-made, slow draught-horses. In Virginia, Kentucky, and the South generally, the thoroughbred and his connections predominate; and in Texas, California, and Mexico we find the mustang—a small horse, evidently descended from the Spanish horses introduced by the early conquerors of that region.

In the wild condition of our early colonies and the difficulties of travel, the horse became indispensable either for riding or for vehicles or other conveyances. The delegates to the First Congress, at Philadelphia, from distant states were all good horsemen. Washington, first a surveyor in Virginia, then