of the jockey clubs. There were two of Tom--Tom the
noisy on exhibition, and Tom the courtier in society.

How he lived when out of office was the subject of unflattering
conjecture. Many thought him the stipendiary of Mr. Mackay, the
multimillionaire, with whom he was intimate, who told me he could
never induce Tom to take money except for service rendered. Among his
familiars was Colonel North, the English money magnate, who said the
same thing. He had a widowed sister in Texas to whom he regularly sent
an income sufficient for herself and family. And when he died, to the
surprise of every one, he left his sister quite an accumulation. He had
never been wholly a spendthrift. Though he lived well at Chamberlin's in
Washington and the Waldorf in New York he was careful of his credit and
his money. I dare say he was not unfortunate in the stock market. He
never married and when he died, still a youngish man as modern ages go,
all sorts of stories were told of him, and the space writers, having a
congenial subject, disported themselves voluminously. Inevitably most of
their stories were apocryphal.

I wonder shall we ever get any real truth out of what is called history?
There are so many sides to it and such a confusing din of voices. How
much does old Sam Johnson owe of the fine figure he cuts to Boswell,
and, minus Boswell, how much would be left of him? For nearly a century
the Empress Josephine was pictured as the effigy of the faithful and
suffering wife sacrificed upon the altar of unprincipled and selfish
ambition--lovelorn, deserted, heartbroken. It was Napoleon, not
Josephine, except in her pride, who suffered. Who shall tell us the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, about Hamilton; about
Burr; about Caesar, Caligula and Cleopatra? Did Washington, when he was
angry, swear like a trooper? What was the matter with Nero?

IV

One evening Edward King and I were dining in the Champs Elysees when
he said: "There is a new coon--a literary coon--come to town. He is a
Scotchman and his name is Robert Louis Stevenson." Then he told me of
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. At that moment the subject of our talk was
living in a kind of self-imposed penury not half a mile away. Had we
known this we could have ended the poor fellow's struggle with his pride
and ambition then and there; have put him in the way of sure work and
plenty of it; perhaps have lengthened, certainly have sweetened, his
days, unless it