young as not to know
that he was an ex-President of the United States, and to realize the
meaning of it. He had been the oldest member of the House when my father
was the youngest. He was John Quincy Adams. By chance I was on the floor
of the House when he fell in his place, and followed the excited and
tearful throng when they bore him into the Speaker's Room, kneeling by
the side of the sofa with an improvised fan and crying as if my heart
would break.

One day in the spring of 1851 my father took me to a little hotel on
Pennsylvania Avenue near the Capitol and into a stuffy room, where a
snuffy old man wearing an ill-fitting wig was busying himself over a
pile of documents. He turned about and was very hearty.

"Aha, you've brought the boy," said he.

And my father said: "My son, you wanted to see General Cass, and here he
is."

My enthusiasm over the Cass and Butler campaign had not subsided.
Inevitably General Cass was to me the greatest of heroes. My father had
been and always remained his close friend. Later along we dwelt together
at Willard's Hotel, my mother a chaperon for Miss Belle Cass, afterward
Madame Von Limbourg, and I came into familiar intercourse with the
family.

The general made me something of a pet and never ceased to be a hero to
me. I still think he was one of the foremost statesmen of his time
and treasure a birthday present he made me when I was just entering my
teens.

The hour I passed with him that afternoon I shall never forget.

As we were about taking our leave my father said: "Well, my son, you
have seen General Cass; what do you think of him?"

And the general patting me affectionately on the head laughingly said:
"He thinks he has seen a pretty good-looking old fogy--that is what he
thinks!"

VII

There flourished in the village life of Washington two old blokes--no
other word can properly describe them--Jack Dade, who signed himself
"the Honorable John W. Dade, of Virginia;" and Beau Hickman, who hailed
from nowhere and acquired the pseudonym through sheer impudence. In one
way and another they lived by their wits, the one all dignity, the other
all cheek. Hickman fell very early in his career of sponge and beggar,
but Dade lived long and died in office--indeed, toward the close an
office was actually created for him.

Dade had been a schoolmate of John Tyler--so intimate they were that at
college they were called "the two Jacks"--and when the death of Harrison