reservations with him, not expressed in the written contract; viz: That his first installment of colonists was to be taken from the contraband camps round Washington, thus relieving to some extent the annoyance and embarrassment of the administration; and that under no consideration was he to impart to any members of the Cabinet except Mr. Seward and Judge Blair the existence of his contract.

This was Mr. Koch's statement and it was backed up by documents; his project was to raise $70,000 in five contributions of $14,000 each, the contributors to be entitled to half the profits of the whole adventure. Two-fifths of the money he had been promised in Boston; and he had come to New York to find parties ready to take the other three-fifths.

Sundry gentlemen in Wall Street were spoken to on the subject, amongst others Leonard Jerome, William R. Travers, and Edmund H. Miller. The two last named consulted me about it, and thus I was brought into contact with Mr. Koch, and learned the above particulars. I saw his patent for the island of La Vache, his commission as civil and military governor, and his contract with the President. I had many interviews with him, in which the whole of the details of his project were canvassed.

I remember on one occasion, in the course of the negotiation, he gave a dinner at the Union Club, to some eight or ten gentlemen, at which the Haytian Minister of Washington was a guest. I sat next to him at the table and found him a most agreeable and well educated gentleman. He spoke three or four languages, though not English, with fluency and elegance, and discussed topics of the day, literary and political, in the manner of one who was accustomed to the best European society. Unnecessary to say he was black- -not as black as the ace of spades, but fairly a black man as distinguished from a mulatto. It was the first and perhaps the only instance in which one of

that particular color was admitted as a guest within the precincts of that aristocratic house.

I had no confidence in Governor Koch's project, although he appeared to have answered every objection that I could foresee to it. He had provided himself with ministers of religion -two, I think-musicians, and so forth. I succeeded, however, in deterring my personal friends from taking any interest in his project, by my confident belief that it would break down from some unforeseen cause; and having eliminated them from the case, I declined all interest in it, and dismissed the subject.

He did, however, succeed, as I subsequently learned, in obtaining the money he wanted, and took his four hundred emigrants to La Vache, landed them there, and drew his money from the Government.

Then, of course, began his troubles. The change of climate, change of scene, and novelty of everything around them, and absence of all accustomed associations, disturbed the equanimity of the emigrants ; they did not see the advantage of exchanging the lazy life of the contraband camps round Washington for the labor of house building, field culture, and the necessary work of providing for their daily wants. Homesickness, took possession of them, presently followed by the fever of the country and like troubles; and the colony in effect was a total failure.

Before many months were over, the President was constrained as a matter of mere humanity to send a vessel of war after the' poor fellows, and the remainder of them was brought back and landed in Boston.

The last thing I heard of them was a public meeting under violent anti-slavery auspices to denounce the brutal and inhuman conduct of President Lincoln, in sending these poor men into exile; and one or two of the negroes themselves appeared at the meeting in support of the resolutions! Poor Mr. Lincoln paid the penalty of being too kind-hearted. John T. Doyle.

"Why, I just lived right along day by day, day by day, honey. It wasn't very bad. Such things ain't hard, chile, if you only take 'em right. Little children ain't no trouble to me, and never was. Why, bless your heart! I've brought up more than twenty,--eight of my own and more than a dozen of other people's, and now I'm at work on the grand children! I'm Grandma Bascom to everybody. I could tell you stories till next week about everything and everybody.

I'm

"And I'd love to hear them," I said with enthusiasm, for her eager volubility was so set off by her quaint little wrinkled face, and there was such freshness and originality in her way of putting things, that I was charmed indeed. "But I think we must go now, for the little folks will need me at noon. We'll come again, and have many a good visit, I hope, hereafter."

"Well, if you must go, I reckon I'll have to let you; but wait just another minute," and away she ran with the spryness of a child, re-appearing after a moment with a great dish of grapes, and a watermelon almost as heavy as herself.

"Now let me spread a paper on the bottom of your buggy, and you take these right along with you for your other children.

This hyar melon's right from the cellar and mighty cool and good, and these hyar grapes are sweet-waters. They'll be good for the baby-pore dear ! I'll pack 'em in sofashion"--and she piled the beautiful clusters around the melon till there was no more room. Then with hand-shakings as if we were old friends, we were at length suffered to depart.

It is hardly necessary to say that on our homeward way we kept exclaiming over this delightful bit of experience. Such overflowing hospitality and kindliness is as rare as it is beautiful.

"Here," we said "is a 'living epistle' to be read by any one who will look into the sweet faded hazel eyes, or mark the records of time and sorrow lining and cross lining all the strangely wrinkled face."

"Here is a little pilgrim' at whose feet one might gladly sit and learn lessons of wisdom and patience and cheerfulness, of boundless faith, and hope, and charity, such as no book could teach."

"Here is a pioneer whose keen perception nothing has escaped, whose memory keeps it all, and whose vivid pictorial style and ready flow of words make her story like a panorama."

It was the beginning of a friendship which has confirmed every first impression.

We learned that the Bascoms were among the honored families of Kentucky, the famous Bishop Bascom of the the South Methodist church being a brother of Doctor Bascom, our friend's husband. They had come to California in quest of health, breaking every possible tie of home, friends, wealth, and position; but had regained these treasures. in this new world.

Great sorrows in the way of bereavements by death of children and husband, have befallen this much-chastened spirit since that doorstep acquaintance, of which I have told, ushered in our friendship, but nothing can crush or wholly darken a life which is lived wholly for others. Still, as of old, she laughs

while the tears are yet shining in her eyes. My life has been the saddest of sad," she says, "and the gayest of gay."

"Why have you not written it ?" I ask. "O chile, I've been too busy living it," she answers.

A few mornings since I ensconced Grandma Bascom in our easiest rocking chair, with a hassock under her little feet, and made ready for a whole long day of story telling. "Yes, chile, yes," she began, "I'll tell you about the days of '49, and days farther back, too. You ask me questions, honey, and when I go rambling off you just call me back, for I am just like an old clock, I keep on striking till there ain't any sense to it. I never did have much every-day sense anyway."

"Well," I said, "we'll begin then with what made your husband first think of coming to California, when he had such a large practice, and you had so much to keep you in your beautiful Kentucky home."

Oh, it was a book set the Doctor wild about California-a book called What I Saw and Part of which I Was,' by Edwin Bryant. He was alcalde of San Francisco, and he wrote the book, and afterward traveled through the East lecturing about California. Doctor's health was poor-he had asthma all the time-and so he began to plan about going. At first I wouldn't hear a word to it. I loved my home and friends so much, and everything on the place was precious to me. My heart always was the biggest part of me; once some of these modern materialists were talking where I could hear 'em, and says I, 'Is body all there is to us, indeed? Well, then, you needn't pretend to think much of me--I haven't any body to speak of, but I've got a soul or there isn't anything to me!'-I loved the pore niggers on our plantation past telling, especially one of 'em-Louise; she was my children's nurse-we had grown up together, and I loved her just like a sisI couldn't take her with me, for she

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had husband and children, and yet it seemed as if I couldn't live without her. Still, Doctor kept talking about going, and some of the neighbors and friends began to catch the California fever; but, it seemed so far off! There ain't no place in the world begins to be as far off now as California was then. It was like going to the moon, and not having any telescope to look back with. I held out a long time that I wouldn't go, and then one night, after Doctor had looked pale and breathed hard for two or three days, I dreamed he was dead. It woke me up, and I sat up in bed and spoke to Doctor. 'I'll go,' I said.

"Why, chile, what are you talking about?" says he.

"I'll go to California' says I.

"Well, don't take it back in the morning,' says he.

And I didn't. I just went to work to get ready, but with a breaking heart. We sold our dear home and the poor black people. Of course we saw that they had good masters, but O, the agony of parting! Isn't it at comfort, chile, that when we have such trouble we can pray? For weeks we were packing and saying good-bye. I rode on horseback ten miles over a rough mountain road, alone, to say good-bye to a dear sister of charity who had been a governess in my house. When we parted, we just clung to each other and cried, and then I would try to tear myself away but had to go back again and again for one more long embrace.

"It was the ninth of April, 1849, when at last we were ready to go, and there were a hundred in the company, most of them new acquaintances. Doctor's unmarried sister, older than he was, went with us, and nine families from our neighborhood. We had a wagon made in Louisville that cost four hundred dollars. It was as nice as a little house, and we lived in it all the way. We had three other wagons for provisions and stores. Doctor took his books, and surgical instruments, and medicines. Of our ser