obstacles in his way. It didn't last long, that reputation; it had so much to contend with. He never gave it a fair chance. By an' by it tottered an' fell. Then he established another with some more eloquence. He was the first Dan'l Webster of Griggsby—looked like him, dressed like him, spoke like him, drank like him. Always took a tumbler of brandy before he made a speech, an' say, wa'n't he a swayer? The way he handled an audience was like swingin' a cat by the tail. He kep' 'em goin'; didn't give 'em time to think. It wouldn't have been safe. As a thought-preventer John Henry beats the world! The result was both humorous an' pathetic."

Mr. Smead, with the voice of Stentor at the gates of Troy, delivered a playful imitation of the late John Henry.

"You're quite an orator," I said.

"Oh, I can swing the cat a little," said he. "Ye ought to hear me talk hoss or tackle the old armchair at an auction sale. It would break a drought. So much for the Smeads. As to the other great folks, Senator John Griggs, a distinguished member of our Upper House, is also a son of Griggsby, not so great as his father, but a high-headed, hard-workin', hand-engraved, full-tinted orator. He has a scar on his face three inches long that he got in a political argument. Flowers of rhetoric grow on him as naturally as moss on a log.

"Years ago he convicted a man of murder here with oratory—made the jury weep till they longed for blood an' got it. Bill Smithers loaded himself to the muzzle with rum an' oratory for the defense. Nobody did any work on the case. The oratory of Griggs was keener than the oratory of Smithers—more flowery, more movin'. It fetched the tears, an' conviction came with them. Of course, Griggs had the body of the victim on his side. Smithers roared an' wept for half a day. The jury had been swung until it was tired. It clung to the ground with tooth an' nail. The fountain of its tears had gone dry. The prisoner was convicted, slain by oratory—pure oratory, undefiled by intelligence; an' years after he was put in his grave a woman confessed that she had committed the crime. Oh, Griggs is a wonder. He's another D. W., but he's a good-hearted man. I heard him say that he had rebuilt the church of his parish with his earnings at poker. That's the kind of man he is—reckless, but charitable. Everybody calls him John. They say that whisky has no effect on him. It is like water pouring on a rock. It only moistens the surface.

"Then there is Col. Silas Buckstone, our Congressman, whose home is also in Griggs—by, another D. W., a man of quality an' quantity, great length, breadth, an' thickness, with a mustache eight inches long an' a voice that can travel like a trottin'-hoss. A man of a distinguished presence an' several distinguished absences.

"Yes, I regret to say that he goes on a spree now an' then. It's a pity, but so often the case with men o' talent—so awfully often. About twice a year the Colonel slides off his eminence, an' down he goes into the valley o' the common herd with loud yells o' joy. Once he slid across a corner o' the valley o' death, but that didn't matter. What's the use o' havin' an eminence unless you're to enjoy the privilege of slidin' down it when ye want to? It was his eminence. While his spree lasts the Colonel buys everything in sight until his money is gone. Then some one has to go an' tow him back to us. Once he returned the proud owner of a carload of goats an' a millinery store."

Mr. Smead also told me of the two judges, Warner and Brooks, the ablest members of the county bar, who, it seems, were always wandering toward the dewy, meadowy path of dalliance. He said that sometimes they hit the path, and sometimes the path hit them and left some bruises. They enjoyed the distinctions of being looked up to and of being looked down upon.

"Of course, there are able men in the village who are addicted to sobriety," he went on. "Some of them have tried to reform, but, alas! the habit of sobriety has become fixed upon them—weak stomachs, maybe. They have to worry along without the stamp o' genius, just commonplace, every-day-alike men. Nobody takes any notice of 'em. Once a prominent citizen denounced one o' them on the street as a damn little-souled, conscientious Christian who could get drunk on a thimble o' whisky. It was one o' the first indictments against virtue on record.

"'Ha! I see that you are sober,' said John Griggs to a constituent whom he met in the street one day. I will forgive you, but don't let it happen again. Think of the obscurity that awaits you and of the example you are setting to the young. Think of Deacon Bradley and Priscilla Perkins. Sir, if you keep on you will be wrecked on the hidden reefs of hopeless sobriety.'"

Dan'l Webster laughed for a minute and continued: "Griggsby is the home and Paradise of the rural hoss-trader, whose word is as good as his hoss, and who never fools anybody except when he is telling the truth. One of 'em was sued for sellin' a worthless hoss. His defense was that a man who traded with him took his life in his hands, an' everybody ought to know it; an' the justice ruled that there were certain men that it was a crime to believe, an' that he who did it received a natural and deserved punishment."

So in his curious way, which was not to be forgotten, he described this heroism of the human stomach, this adventurous defiance of God and nature. In those callow days that view appealed to my sporting instinct.

"You see, the stamp of genius is on all our public men," Mr. Smead continued. "They all wear the scarlet blossom of capacity on their noses. The scarlet blossom an' the silver tongue go hand in hand, as it were."

Mr. Daniel Webster Smead was, indeed, a singular man. He had little learning, but was a keen observer. Ever since his boyhood he had browsed in good books, notably those of Artemus Ward and Charles Dickens. The Websterian thunder did not appeal to him, but he had cultivated certain of the weaknesses which he had vividly described. He had a massive indolence and a great fondness for horses. He was drunk with hope all the time, and now and then sought the stimulation of beer. Hopes and hops were his worst enemies. When he talked people were wont to laugh, but every one said that Smead did not amount to anything. However, if all the other leading lights of the village had conferred their brains jointly on one man, he would not have been more than knee-high to the mental stature of Smead. He was a man of wide talent—a kind of human what-not. He could do many things well, but accomplished little.

In fact, Mr. Smead was an ass, and he knew enough to know that he was an ass, which of itself distinguished him above all the citizens of Griggsby. He was drifting along in the bondage of custom; and he knew it, and laughed at his own folly.

As we rose from the table he said, in a little aside to me: "In the morning I'll show you a hoss an' a fool, an' both standard-bred an' in the two-thirty list."

I spent the evening in my own room with a book, and when I came down in the morning I saw Mr. Smead entering the gate in a shining red road cart behind a horse blanketed to his nose, and in knee and ankle boots. I hurried to the stable, where Mr. Smead stood proudly, with a short whip in his hand, while the boys were removing the harness and boots from a big, steaming stallion.

"There is Montravers—mark of two twenty-nine an' a half," said he, glibly. "By Bald Eagle out of Clara Belle, she by George Wilkes, he by Hambletonian X.; his dam was Queen Bess by Wanderer, out of Crazy Jane, she by Meteor. I expect him to transport me to the goal of affluence."