Our Work: A Word About the Era

After the lapse of ten years, when Mr, Clemens had "arrived" and was indeed the best-known author in America, "Mr. Harrison came over and led me," relates the humorist, "to the General, and formally introduced me. Before I could put together the proper remark, General Grant said, 'Mr, Clemens, I am not embarrassed. Are you?'—and that little seven-year smile twinkled across his face again," An itinerant preacher of more zeal than discretion, passing along a country road, met a simple looking countryman driving a cart of peat, and asked him, "Do you believe in God?" "Yes, sir," he answered, "Do you read your Bible, pray to your Maker, and attend church regularly?" On these questions being answered in the affirmative, the preacher said: "Go on your way rejoicing; you are on the high road to heaven." The peasant iiourished his whip, giving it an extra crack, and drove on, greatly pleased at the intelligence. Shortly afterwards, the preacher met another person, and put the first question to him. The man with a look of surprise, said, "What is your business what I believe?" "Alas," replied the preacher, "you are in the gall of bitterness and the bond of iniquity; look at that poor fellow whistling so pleasantly along the road; he is on the high road to heaven," "It may be sae, sir," said the man, "but, if he's gaun there, to my certain knowledge he's gaun wi' a cairt o' stolen peat,"

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A cotemporary recalls the story of Fred Archer, the great English jockey and a distinguished surgeon. Archer was one day severely "savaged" by a bad-tempered horse, who happened to catch the great jockey napping, and got his toes between his teeth. Archer went to consult a leading surgeon, a gentleman whose skill had won for him the title of baronet, sent in his card, and hobbled into the great man's consulting room. The surgeon examined the injury, which he pronounced to be of a grave character, and one necessitating a long period of complete rest, "How long must I lay up?" asked Archer, The interview, it should be stated, took place early in April, "Three months' rest, with careful treatment and proper diet, would be sufficient," ^ "But what about the Derby?" asked the patient.

^'The Derby?" repeated the surgeon. "I must be there," said Archer —"I absolutely must ! " "Well, well," said the surgeon soothingly, "take great care of yourself, and if you make satisfactory progress you may go." "Go—yes; but can I ride?" "Well," said the surgeon, "you had better drive, I think." He had read the name upon his patient's card, but it had meant to him nothing more than a name. "You mustn't think me rude, Mr. Archer," he said, when his guest had explained his identity and calling, but I take no interest in any branch of sport, and I had never heard your name." "Well," said Archer, I hope you won't think me rude either; but, till a friend advised me to consult you, I had never heard your name either. And when I asked my friend who you were, he said, ' He is the Fred Archer of the surgical profession.' "

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Mr. Laurence Hutton tells a story of Edwin Booth that reveals the kindly heart of the man whom the world knew as a famous actor. Mr. Hutton called upon Mr. Booth one afternoon at the Albemarle Hotel, in New York, and found him in an easy-chair, with a pipe in his mouth. The long chat which ensued was not undisturbed. Mr. Booth was in great request, and before long a waiter entered and put a card into his hand. "Tell the lady that Mr. Booth is engaged," was the quiet answer; and an influential leader in New York society went away disappointed. A few minutes later a second caller—a man honorably known throughout the country—turned away without seeing Mr. Booth. Yet another card was sent down, with the statement that "Mr. Booth was engaged," and a gentleman and his wife, whom few people would have refused to receive, became convinced that the actor was an exception to the rule; but at last came a name that met with a different fate. "Show the lady up," said the now interested actor, and Mr. Hutton put on his overcoat to leave the room. He was not allowed to depart. The lady was a friend of his, and would be glad to see him, he was assured. Therefore he waited, curious to discover the identity of the person who could obtain an audience with the man who had been too tired to see the daughter of one of the most distinguished men of science in the country, or a judge of the Supreme Court of the United States, or a bishop and his wife. The door opened and in walked black Betty, the old negro servant who had nursed Mr. Booth's daughter when she was a baby, had taken the most tender care of his wife when she was slowly dying, and been a life-long friend to them all. She had left Mr. Booth's service after his daughter's