J. Raymond, Ex-Lieutenant Governor of New York, and proprietor of
the _Times_ newspaper, was one of our family for several weeks. He had
been a New Hampshire lad, and, strolling to New York, took to journalism
at the age of nineteen years. His industry and probity obtained him both
means and credit, and, also, what few young journalists obtain, social
position. He was the founder of Harper's Magazine, one of the most
successful serials in America, and many English authors are indebted to
him for a trans-Atlantic recognition of their works. He edited an
American edition of _Jane Eyre_ before it had attracted attention in
England, and conducted the _Courier and Enquirer_ with great success for
many years. The _Times_ is now the most reputable of the great New York
dailies, and Mr. Raymond has made it influential both at home and
abroad. He has retained, amidst his social and political successes, a
predilection for "Bohemia," and became an indefatigable correspondent. I
rode out with him sometimes, and heard, with interest, his accounts of
the Italian war, whither he also went in furtherance of journalism.
Among our quill cavalry-men was a fat gentleman from Philadelphia, who
had great fear of death, and who used to "tear" to White House, if the
man "Pat" shot a duck in the garden. He was a hearty, humorous person,
however, and an adept at searching for news.

O'Ganlon rode with me several times to White House, and we have crossed
the railroad bridge together, a hundred feet in the air, when the planks
were slippery, the sides sloping, and the way so narrow that two horses
could not pass abreast. He was a true Irishman, and leaped barricades
and ditches without regard to his neck. He had, also, a partiality for
by-roads that led through swamps and close timber. He discovered one day
a cow-path between Daker's and an old Mill at Grapevine Bridge. The long
arms of oaks and beech trees reached across it, and young Absalom might
have been ensnared by the locks at every rod therein. Through this
devious and dangerous way, O'Ganlon used to dash, whooping, guiding his
horse with marvellous dexterity, and bantering me to follow. I so far
forgot myself generally, as to behave quite as irrationally, and once
returned to Michie's with a bump above my right eye, that rivalled my
head in size. At other times I rode alone, and my favorite route was an
unfrequented lane called the "Quaker Road," that extended from Despatch
Station, on the