equently had no cattle to hold, and I became little more than a
camp-follower.

I was born in the Shenandoah Valley, northern Virginia, May 3, 1840.
My father was a thrifty planter and stockman, owned a few slaves, and
as early as I can remember fed cattle every winter for the eastern
markets. Grandfather Anthony, who died before I was born, was a
Scotchman who had emigrated to the Old Dominion at an early day,
and acquired several large tracts of land on an affluent of the
Shenandoah. On my paternal side I never knew any of my ancestors, but
have good cause to believe they were adventurers. My mother's maiden
name was Reed; she was of a gentle family, who were able to trace
their forbears beyond the colonial days, even to the gentry of
England. Generations of good birth were reflected in my mother;
and across a rough and eventful life I can distinctly remember the
refinement of her manners, her courtesy to guests, her kindness to
child and slave.

My boyhood days were happy ones. I attended a subscription school
several miles from home, riding back and forth on a pony. The studies
were elementary, and though I never distinguished myself in my
classes, I was always ready to race my pony, and never refused to play
truant when the swimming was good. Evidently my father never intended
any of his boys for a professional career, though it was an earnest
hope of my mother that all of us should receive a college education.
My elder brother and I early developed business instincts, buying
calves and accompanying our father on his trading expeditions. Once
during a vacation, when we were about twelve and ten years old, both
of us crossed the mountains with him into what is now West Virginia,
where he bought about two hundred young steers and drove them back to
our home in the valley. I must have been blessed with an unfailing
memory; over fifty years have passed since that, my first trip from
home, yet I remember it vividly--can recall conversations between my
father and the sellers as they haggled over the cattle. I remember the
money, gold and silver, with which to pay for the steers, was carried
by my father in ordinary saddle-bags thrown across his saddle. As
occasion demanded, frequently the funds were carried by a negro man of
ours, and at night, when among acquaintances, the heavy saddle-bags
were thrown into a corner, every one aware of their contents.

But the great event of my boyhood was a trip to Baltimore. There