iladelphia. In this work occurs my original poem of "Ping-Wing the
Pieman's Son." Of this Poem _Punch_ said, many years after, that it was
"the best thing of the kind which had ever crossed the Atlantic." Ping-
Wing appeared in 1891 as a full-page cartoon by Tenniel in _Punch_, and
as burning up the Treaty. I may venture to say that Ping-Wing--once
improvised to amuse dear little Emily--has become almost as well known in
American nurseries as "Little Boy Blue," at any rate his is a popular
type, and when Mrs. Vanderbilt gave her famous masked ball in New York,
there was in the Children's Quadrille a little Ping-Wing. Ping travelled
far and wide, for in after years I put him into Pidgin-English, and gave
him a place in the "Pidgin-English Ballads," which have always been read
in Canton, I daresay by many a heathen Chinese learning that childlike
tongue. I also translated the German "Mother Goose."

And now terrible times came on, followed, for me, by a sad event. The
rebels, led by General Lee, had penetrated into Pennsylvania, and
Philadelphia was threatened. This period was called the "Emergency." I
could easily have got a command as officer. I had already obtained for
my brother an appointment as major with secretary's duty on Fremont's
staff, which he promptly declined. But it was no time to stand on
dignity, and I was rather proud, as was my brother, to go as "full
private" in an artillery company known as "Chapman Biddle's," though he
did not take command of it on this occasion. {252} Our captain was a
dealer in cutlery named Landis.

After some days' delay we were marched forth. Even during those few
days, while going about town in my private's uniform, I realised in a
droll new way what it was to be a _common_ man. Maid-servants greeted me
like a friend, other soldiers and the humbler class talked familiarly to
me. I had, however, no excuse to think myself any better than my
comrades, for among the hundred were nearly twenty lawyers or
law-students, and all were gentlemen as regards position in society.
Among them was R. W. Gilder, now the editor of the _Century_, who was
quite a youth then, and in whose appearance there was something which
deeply interested me. I certainly have a strange Gypsy faculty for
divining character, and I divined a genius in him. He was very brave and
uncomplaining in suffering, but also very sensitive and emotional. Once
it happened, at a time when we were all nearly