small men, lawyers and soldiers, merchants and mechanics, millionaires and beggars. Nearly all the distinguished characters of the country paid their respects to him from time to time, and notable statesmen from across the seas were frequently his guests. He was accessible to every person in distress, and it was rarely that an applicant for alms went away empty-handed. His library never became such an audience chamber as that famous room, No. 11, at the Astor House, where caucuses were held, campaigns arranged, senators, congressmen, cabinet ministers, governors, and Presidents made and unmade, but it approached it in many curious respects. Miss Weed, if not by his side, was always within reach of her father's voice, and ready to relieve him whenever the burden of entertaining callers became oppressive. The very mention of her name recalls a presence always sympathetic and

was any Erie Canal except in prospect. He was one of the two editors who, by appointment, accompanied Lafayette on his northern tour in 1824, the other being Colonel William L. Stone. He was one of the party, in 1832, who occupied the first train of cars that passed over the first passenger railroad in the state of New York-between Albany and Schenectady -a picture of which may be seen in our illustration of the entrance hall, hanging upon the wall near the library door. Among his companions on this experimental trip were Robert Lansing, ex-Governor Yates, Lewis Benedict, John Meigs, John I. Boyd, Joseph Alexander, Hugh Robinson, and a post-boy named Billy Winne. Mr. Weed witnessed the miracles of progress in the next and most wonderful half-century in the world's history. He was himself no inconsequential factor in the rise and development of journalism; he lived and worked with three generations of earnest men, and was personally acquainted with almost every celebrity in the country during his life-time. When he retired from his vigorous career to the repose of private life, he continued to read, talk, and write upon every theme of a political or governmental nature, and was perpetually solicited for advice and aid in the solution of practical problems that defied the wisdom of expert legislators.

He purchased the property in Twelfth Street in February, 1866, from Mr. James Blatchford, then a well-known member of the New York Stock Exchange. The house was built by the son of Rev. Mr. Phillips, pastor of the adjoining church. It was situated pleasantly for Mr. Weed, through the fact that many of his personal friends, with whom he had intimate social relations, resided in the vicinity-General Winfield Scott, a few doors west in Twelfth Street; Mr. Robert C. Minturn, in Fifth Avenue, corner of Twelfth Street (the house now occupied by General Butterfield, nearly opposite Mr. Weed's); James Lenox, in Fifth Avenue, near by; Moses H. Grinnell, at the corner of Fourteenth Street and Fifth Avenue; and Jonathan Sturges, Richard M. Blatchford, and Robert H. McCurdy, in Fourteenth Street, but a few doors from Fifth Avenue. The house adjoining Mr. Weed's on the west was occupied by a son of Harrison Gray Otis, of Boston, whose family still reside in it. Mr. Weed altered his new home to suit his tastes and convenience, and moved into it in March, 1866. His eldest daughter, Miss Harriet Weed, since the death of his wife ten years before, in 1856, had been his constant companion, several times accompanying him to Europe. She was the presiding genius of his household, and bore the whole care of the establishment, with its never-ending procession of visitors-friends and acquaintances, party leaders and officeseekers, lion-hunters and strangers, journalists, statesmen, great men and

small men, lawyers and soldiers, merchants and mechanics, millionaires and beggars. Nearly all the distinguished characters of the country paid their respects to him from time to time, and notable statesmen from across the seas were frequently his guests. He was accessible to every person in distress, and it was rarely that an applicant for alms went away empty-handed. His library never became such an audience chamber as that famous room, No. 11, at the Astor House, where caucuses were held, campaigns arranged, senators, congressmen, cabinet ministers, governors, and Presidents made and unmade, but it approached it in many curious respects. Miss Weed, if not by his side, was always within reach of her father's voice, and ready to relieve him whenever the burden of entertaining callers became oppressive. The very mention of her name recalls a presence always sympathetic and