of the
country could have its own way. The most successful candidate for the
Presidency at this time seemed to be the man who could most bewilder the
public mind on these questions. Blessed in politics is the political
fog!

The most significantly hopeful fact to me was that the three prominent
candidates for Speakership at the close of 1883--Mr. Carlisle, Mr.
Randall, and Mr. Cox--never had wine on their tables. We were, moreover,
getting away from the old order of things, when senators were
conspicuous in gambling houses. The world was advancing in a spiritual
transit of events towards the close. It was time that it gave way to
something even better. It had treated me gloriously, and I had no fault
to find with it, but I had seen so many millions in hunger and pain, and
wretchedness and woe that I felt this world needed either to be fixed up
or destroyed.

The world had had a hard time for six thousand years, and, as the new
year of 1884 approached, there were indications that our planet was
getting restless. There were earthquakes, great storms, great drought.
It may last until some of my descendants shall head their letters with
January 1, 15,000, A.D.; but I doubt it.

THE EIGHTH MILESTONE

1884-1885

I reached the fiftieth year of my life in December, 1883. In my long
residence in Brooklyn I had found it to be the healthiest city in the
world. It had always been a good place to live in--plenty of fresh air
blowing up from the sea--plenty of water rolling down through our
reservoirs--the Sabbaths too quiet to attract ruffianism.

Of all the men I have seen and heard and known, there were but a few
deep friendships that I depended upon. In February, 1884, I lost one of
these by the decease of Thomas Kinsella, a Brooklyn man of public
affairs, of singular patriotism and local pride.

Years ago, when I was roughly set upon by ecclesiastical assailants, he
gave one wide swing of his editorial scimitar, which helped much in
their ultimate annihilation. My acquaintance with him was slight at the
time, and I did not ask him to help me. I can more easily forget a wrong
done to me than I can forget a kindness. He was charitable to many who
never knew of it. By reason of my profession, there came to me many
stories of distress and want, and it was always Mr. Kinsella's hand that
was open to befriend the suffering. Bitter in his editorial
antagonisms, he was wide in his charities. One did not have to knock at