unannounced, and the old
man, who had tramped up with his grandson from a great distance to see
the new Democratic President, found his way into the large hall of the
capital. Now he was evidently much puzzled to know which in our little
group of eight or ten persons was that President. He soon held the right
man's hand, and truly touching he was in his allegiance. He had waited
for many a weary year, he said, for the advent of the Democratic party,
and at last this happy day had dawned upon him and his beloved country.

I made a rapid sketch of him, for he was a type well worth recording;
Cleveland liked it, so I naturally gave it him.

All this was in the first days of November 1884. It was not till the
following February, when I again visited Albany, that I found myself
installed in the bedroom above mentioned. The President-elect was living
in a very small house in Willet Street, what we should call a bijou
residence. The people had nicknamed it the Casket, if I recollect right,
and it was certainly not much bigger than a receptacle of that
description.

Cleveland had very kindly consented to let me paint a head of him. An
opportunity of doing so was only to be found in the little house, and we
entrenched ourselves in the bedroom against the intrusions of
office-seekers and office-bearers, enthusiastic supporters, cranks and
faddists, and, though last not least, young ladies with albums and
birthday-books.

"Well, Mr. Cleveland," I said, as I started full speed to cover my
canvas, "I'm not going to apologise for troubling you; I'm sure you must
be quite pleased to have for once in the way a man come to view you, not
to interview you. It must be a relief too, to know that I'm not going
to rush off after the sitting, and send telegrams and cables all over
the place, to let an expectant public know what you said."

He answered, "I am glad that is so."

Then for a while our conversation ran on art and other peaceful pursuits
of man. Seeing a good opening I led up to the question ever uppermost in
my mind,--that of international arbitration as against the arbitrament
of the sword, and of the institution of a permanent tribunal between the
United States and England. And here let me say in parenthesis, it is a
glorious profession, that of the portrait-painter; he can button-hole
his man and keep him a fixture, whilst he indoctrinates and prods him
with truths, from which, under other circumstances, his victim would