exerted to prevent, retard, and destroy the industrial and commercial development and prosperity of the United States.

No amount of later compliments or courtesies, however unusual or distinguished, paid to living or deceased Americans, can obliterate these historical facts, or should be suffered to weaken the memory of them in the minds of patriotic Americans mindful of their country's welfare; because the situation of Great Britain is such that the necessity of selfpreservation compels her to continue in the same course towards this nation that she has ever adopted.

The historical events just recited may be commended to the consideration of such youthful Americans as find themselves inclined to Anglomania-who affect English costumes and customs, in dress, manners, and speech, and who would esteem it a compliment to be taken for English" which they never could be, you know!"

On the other hand, there were certain object lessons set in the main building of the Centennial Exposition for all to see, which may well modify the opinions of those who are inclined to Anglophobia and feel the stirrings of an hereditary resentment against the one consistent and persistent opponent of the American Republic.

Doubtless, in the present era of effusive compliments, the possibility that Americans could regard any past or present actions of England as designedly unfriendly would be warmly protested against; but two and a half centuries of consistent history are not to be obliterated by a few smooth phrases. England has to-day, and with each passing day, ever more pressing need to secure and retain customers for her varied manufactures; and therefore it is impossible that any policy which is wise for her, commercially speaking, can as yet be advantageous to this country. It may be well for us to adopt similar methods for developing artistic skill in manufactures and industries to those which England has found successful; but Americans should always remember that, owing to the differences of the situation, the policies of the two countries must also necessarily differ. The United States must adopt, sooner or later, a continental policy; one best adapted to the development of the immense natural resources of the country, and best fitted to promote the industries and manufactures of the people.

Although it has seemed proper to thus briefly recite the historical relations of England to American industries, it is only simple justice to state that in these latter days, so far from manifesting any disposition to prevent or retard the movement for developing industrial-art training in the United States, the educational authorities of England have offered every aid and every courtesy.

Until the millennium dawns, individual nations, just as are the heads of private families, are charged with the protection of the lives and the

promotion of the interests of their own citizens. It is easy to see that these interests may demand very different conditions on the part of England and of the United States; that what would be most conducive to the selfish interests of the English-speaking people dwelling in Great Britain, might be disastrous to the interests of the English-speaking people dwelling in these United States. The fine-sounding philanthropy which urges that American statesmen ought to consider the questions that arise simply in their universal relations, and not in the narrow view of how they may affect the interests of the citizens of the United States, is not only premature but sophistical. Policies urged by England should be considered under all the light that the events of the past can give.

Noah Brooks.

BORN in Castine, Maine, 1830.

PERSONAL REMINISCENCES OF LINCOLN.

[The Century Magazine. 1878.]

for

URING the presidential campaign of 1856 I lived in Northern Illinois. As one who dabbled a little in politics and a good deal in journalism, it was necessary for me to follow up some of the more important mass-meetings of the Republicans. At one of these great assemblies in Ogle County, to which the country people came on horseback, in farm-wagons, or afoot, from far and near, there were several speakers of local celebrity. Dr. Egan of Chicago, famous for his racy stories, was one, and "Joe" Knox of Bureau County, a stump-speaker of renown, was another attraction. Several other orators were "on the bills this long-advertised "Fremont and Dayton rally," among them being a Springfield lawyer who had won some reputation as a shrewd, close reasoner and a capital speaker on the stump. This was Abraham Lincoln, popularly known as "Honest Abe Lincoln." In those days he was not so famous in our part of the State as the two speakers whom I have named. Possibly he was not so popular among the masses of the people; but his ready wit, his unfailing good-humor, and the candor which gave him his character for honesty, won for him the admiration and respect of all who heard him. I remember once meeting a choleric old Democrat striding away from an open-air meeting where Lincoln was speaking, striking the earth with his cane as he stumped along and exclaiming, "He's a dangerous man, sir! a d-d dangerous man! He makes you believe what he says, in spite of yourself!" It was Lincolu's manner. He admitted away his whole case, apparently, and yet, as his political opponents complained, he usually carried conviction with him. As he reasoned with his audience, he bent his long form over the railing of the platform, stooping lower and lower as he pursued his argument, until, having reached his point, he clinched it (usually with a question), and then suddenly sprang upright, reminding one of the springing open of a jack-knife blade.

At the Ogle County meeting to which I refer, Lincoln led off, the raciest speakers being reserved for the later part of the political entertainment. I am bound to say that Lincoln did not awaken the boisterous applause which some of those who followed him did, but his speech made a more lasting impression. It was talked about for weeks afterward in the neighborhood, and it probably changed votes; for that was

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the time when Free-soil votes were being made in Northern Illinois. I had made Lincoln's acquaintance early in that particular day; after he had spoken, and while some of the others were on the platform, he and I fell into a chat about political prospects. We crawled under the pendulous branches of a tree, and Lincoln, lying flat on the ground, with his chin in his hands, talked on, rather gloomily as to the present, but absolutely confident as to the future. I was dismayed to find that he did not believe it possible that Fremont could be elected. As if half pitying my youthful ignorance, but admiring my enthusiasm, he said: "Don't be discouraged if we don't carry the day this year. We can't do it, that's certain. We can't carry Pennsylvania; those old Whigs down there are too strong for us. But we shall, sooner or later, elect our president. I feel confident of that."

"Do you think we shall elect a Free-soil president in 1860?" I asked.

"Well, I don't know. Everything depends on the course of the Democracy. There's a big anti-slavery element in the Democratic party, and if we could get hold of that, we might possibly elect our man in 1860. But it's doubtful-very doubtful. Perhaps we shall be able to fetch it by 1864; perhaps not. As I said before, the Free-soil party is bound to win, in the long run. It may not be in my day; but it will in yours, I do really believe."

Of course, at this distance of time, I cannot pretend to give Lincoln's exact words. When I heard them, the speaker was only one of many politicians of a limited local reputation. And if it had not been for Lincoln's earnestness, and the almost affectionate desire that he manifested to have me, a young newspaper writer, understand the political situation, I should not have remembered them for a day. Four years afterward, when Lincoln was nominated at Chicago, his dubious speculations as to the future of his party, as we lay under the trees in Ogle County, came back to me like a curious echo. If he was so despondent in 1856, when another man was the nominee, would he not be still more so in 1860, when he, with his habit of underrating his own powers, was the candidate?

It was not long before Lincoln heard that I was in Washington, and sent for me to come and see him. He recollected the little conversation we had had together, and had not forgotten my name and occupation. And he recalled with great glee my discomfiture when he had dispelled certain rosy hopes of Fremont's election, so many years before. It seemed quite wonderful. But, as I afterward observed, Lincoln's memory was very retentive. It only needed a word or a suggestion to revive in his mind an accurate picture of the minutest incidents in his life. A

curious instance of this happened at our very first interview. Naturally, we fell to talking of Illinois, and he related several stories of his early life in that region. Particularly, he remembered his share in the Black Hawk war, in which he was a captain. He referred to his share of the campaign lightly, and said that he saw very little fighting. But he remembered coming on a camp of white scouts, one morning just as the sun was rising. The Indians had surprised the camp, and had killed and scalped every man.

"I remember just how those men looked," said Lincoln, "as we rose up the little hill where their camp was. The red light of the morning. sun was streaming upon them as they lay, heads toward us, on the ground. And every man had a round red spot on the top of his head, about as big as a dollar, where the redskins had taken his scalp. It was frightful, but it was grotesque, and the red sunlight seemed to paint everything all over." Lincoln paused, as if recalling the vivid picture, and added, somewhat irrelevantly: "I remember that one man had buckskin breeches on."

One Saturday night, the President asked me if I had any objection to accompanying him to a photographer's on Sunday. He said that it was impossible for him to go on any other day, and he would like to have me see him "set." Next day we went together, and as he was leaving the house he stopped and said: "Hold on, I have forgotten Everett!" Stepping hastily back, he brought with him a folded paper, which he explained was a printed copy of the oration that Mr. Everett was to deliver, in a few days, at Gettysburg. It occupied nearly the whole of two pages of the "Boston Journal," and looked very formida ble indeed. As we walked away from the house, Lincoln said: "It was very kind in Mr. Everett to send me this. I suppose he was afraid I should say something that he wanted to say. He needn't have been alarmed. My speech isn't long."

"So it is written, is it, then?" I asked.

'Well, no," was the reply. "It is not exactly written. It is not finished, anyway. I have written it over, two or three times, and I shall have to give it another lick before I am satisfied. But it is short, short, short."

I found, afterward, that the Gettysburg speech was actually written, and rewritten a great many times. The several draughts and interlineations of that famous address, if in existence, would be an invaluable. memento of its great author. Lincoln took the copy of Everett's oration with him to the photographer's, thinking that he might have time to look it over while waiting for the operator. But he chatted so constantly, and asked so many questions about the art of photography, that