r Leland died. I wept sadly on hearing it.
My father, who went to Holliston to attend the funeral, brought me back a
fine collection of Indian stone relics and old American silver coins, for
he had been in his way an antiquarian. _Bon sang ne peut mentir_. I had
also the certificate of some Society or Order of Revolutionary soldiers
to which he had belonged. One of his brothers had, as an officer, a
membership of the hereditary Order of the Cincinnati. This passed to
another branch of the family.

For many years the principal regular visitor at our house was Mr. Robert
Stewart, a gentleman of good family and excellent education, who had
during the wars with Napoleon made an adventurous voyage to France, and
subsequently passed most of his life as Consul or diplomatic agent in
Cuba. He had brought with him from Cuba a black Ebo-African slave named
Juan. As the latter seemed to be discontented in Philadelphia, Mr.
Stewart, who was kindness itself, offered to send him back freed to Cuba
or Africa, and told him he might buy a modest outfit of clothing, such as
suited his condition. The negro went to a first-class tailor and ordered
splendid clothes, which were sent back, of course. The vindictive Ebo
was so angry at this, that one summer afternoon, while Mr. Stewart slept,
the former fell on him with an axe and knife, mangled his head horribly,
cut the cords of his hand, &c., and thought he had killed him. But
hearing his victim groan, he was returning, when he met another servant,
who said, "Juan, where are you going?" He replied, "Me begin to kill
Mars' Stewart--now me go back finish him!" He was, of course, promptly
arrested. Mr. Stewart recovered, but was always blind of one eye, and
his right hand was almost useless. Mr. Stewart had in his diplomatic
capacity seen many of the pirates who abounded on the Spanish Main in
those days. He was an admirable _raconteur_, abounding in reminiscences.
His son William inherited from an uncle a Cuban estate worth millions of
dollars, and lived many years in Paris. He was a great patron of
(especially Spanish) art.

So I passed on to my fourteenth year, which was destined to be the
beginning of the most critical period of my life. My illnesses had
increased in number and severity, and I had shot up into a very tall weak
youth. Mr. Hunt gave up teaching, and became editor of _Littell's
Magazine_. I was sent to the school of Mr. Hurlbut--as I believe it was
then sp