Columbia ®nttJers(ftj)Cop^ intljeilTttpoflfttigork CoQege of ^i)^fiitiani anb ^utQtoni Hibrarp Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2010 with funding from Open Knowledge Commons http://www.archive.org/details/autobiographyOOtrud >^ biO V ;-■ c rC CO o ■!-> Z ^ ■*-> fl • Pi 2 (U (L) w P^ pi o o < Q s W3 OS >i-< O &^ t/5 < I4 1— I O (A ffi o ^ Cj 13 ^ f^ «+-( o O 4-) CO H o M Q o OS •rH (LI T—t ■4-1 CO CO • »-• 4-1 ■M 03 r-l -4-» (U o 4-> >^ Vh OJ 4-t o o 4-) 4-) (U g bjO V- d o o -> bO >. ^* r^ % o o 4-1 g o d d vd < (U 52 M S t-l > (U 4-1 t--< o vO M-l !? r" oj O ^ Vl-I O >, >> bX) u a. . o o d o 1-1 Oh 5 ct3 ct3 4-> t— I 1 Hi «j\ <^ ^ ^ ^gppr, f - ^. c^iuddOXi^ AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY BY EDWARD LIVINGSTON TRUDEAU, M.D. ILLUSTRATED LEA & FEBIGER PHILADELPHIA AND NEW YORK MCMXVI Copyright, 1915 LEA & FEBIGER All rights of translation reserved DEDICATED TO MY DEAR WIFE EVER AT MY SIDE EVER CHEERFUL AND HOPEFUL AND HELPFUL THROUGH THESE LONG YEARS DURING WHICH " PLEASURE AND PAIN HAVE FOLLOWED EACH OTHER LIKE SUNSHINE AND RAIN." FOREWORD Mr. Gilbert K. Chesterton, in his review of Mr. Graham Balfour's "Life of Robert Louis Stevenson", says: "When Robert Louis Stevenson was a little boy, Mr. Graham Balfour tells us, he once made the following remark to his mother: 'Mother, I've drawed a man. Shall I draw his soul now' ? . . . The only biography that is really possible is autobiography. To recount the actions of another man is not biography, it is zoology, the noting down of the habits of a new and outlandish animal. It may fill ten volumes with anecdotes, without once touching upon his life. It has 'drawed' a man, but it has not 'drawed' his soul." (5 I I HAVE never been very partial to autobiog- raphies, and if there is one thing I thought I would never do, it is to attempt to write about my own life! Nevertheless here I am, falling into what in so many cases has seemed to me in others the great mistake of a man's trying to describe his own experiences and speak of his own work, instead of allowing these to tell their own story, or letting others tell it after he is dead. Autobiographies must of necessity run peril- ously near the fatal precipice of egoism, and too many of those I have read have reminded me of the plain old ladies who so often tell us what belles they were in their youth, and what con- quests they achieved. Then why write? First, perhaps, because many autobiographies are certainly of intense interest, instructive and inspiring to others, and because the experiences they describe are in a great measure known to the writer alone, and must perish with him; and because many of my good friends, whom I trust, tell me that the main facts of my life are such as to be of interest to others, and to prove inspiring and stimulating (7) to younger men. In addition, I imagine another reason is that I am human, and that as a man nears the end of the earthly journey, and "the evening comes and the shadows lengthen," and "the work is done"; when there is no longer any future to look forward to in this world and much of the joy of life has disappeared from the present, he naturally turns his face not unwillingly to the past, and is not at all averse to living over again for others some of the days of sunshine and shadow, of pleasure and pain, and of strenuous activity through which he has passed. I was born in New York City on October 5, 1848. I had a markedly medical ancestry. My father. Dr. James Trudeau, was a member of a well-known New Orleans family, and my mother's father. Dr. Frangois Eloi Berger, was a French physician whose ancestors were physicians for many generations, as far back as they could be traced. My mother, Cephise Berger, was Dr. Berger's only daughter. I had a brother and a sister, both older than myself. My father and mother separated shortly after my birth. He re- turned to New Orleans with my sister, and when three years old I went abroad with my mother, my brother and grandparents, when Dr. Berger retired from his extensive New York practice, where for many years he held a very prominent place in the early medical history of New York City. While we were abroad my mother (8) obtained a divorce, and married a French officer, a Captain F. E. Chuffart. She and her husband lived in Fontainebleau together until her death in 1900. I can remember little about my father. I know that during the great Civil War he was an officer in the Southern i\rm3% and for a time had charge of Island No. 10; and that he was wounded and brought back to New Orleans, where he partly recovered and practised his profession for a few years before his death. Before the War he mar- ried a Miss Marie Bringier, who belonged to a well-known New Orleans family, and who survived him, dying in Baltimore in 1909. After her death, Miss Felicie Bringier, her sister, sent me a large oil painting of my father in Indian hunting costume, which she said was painted in the early Forties by John J. Audubon. The distinguished naturalist was a great friend of my father's, who accompanied him on many of his scientific expeditions, and went with him on the Fremont expedition to the Rocky Moun- tains in 1 84 1. Miss Bringier states in her letters to me that my father often helped Audubon with the anatomy of his ornithology work, and drew illustrations of birds and eggs for him. My father not only drew and painted well, but he had a marked talent for modelling in clay and making bas-reliefs, and I have in my pos- session some of his work cast in bronze. I re- member my grandfather. Dr. Berger, often saying (9) that my father's talent for caricature had done him an immeasurable amount of harm profes- sionally in New York, for he made a set of statuette caricatures of the medical faculty, which were so well done and such telling carica- tures that many of the gentlemen never forgave him. The love of wild nature and of hunting was a real passion with my father — a passion which ruined his professional career in New Orleans, for he was constantly absent on hunting expedi- tions. As mentioned in Miss Bringier's letters, in 1 84 1 he spent over two years with the Osage Indians, who presented him with the buckskin suit in which he was arrayed when Audubon on his return painted the portrait which is now in my possession. This certainly could not have helped him retain his practice. It would seem that from my father as well as from my mother's ancestors I must have inherited a strong leaning toward medicine as a profession, for after many vacillations and failures in early life, this inherited bent guided me to the choice of a medical career. This same love of wild nature and hunting, which was a passion in my father, was reproduced in his son, for when stricken with tuberculosis in 1872 it drove me, in spite of all the urgent protests of my friends and physicians, to bury myself in the Adirondacks — then an unbroken wilderness, and considered a most dangerous (10) climate for a chest invalid — in order to lead an open-air life in the great forest, alone with Nature and those who were dear to me. It is curious that this passion for the wild out- of-doors existence which wrecked my father's professional career, saved my life by enabling me to live contentedly in a wilderness during the first five years of my illness just the sort of life that was best adapted for my restoration to health. Both of my sons apparently inherited the same leaning toward medicine and the love of wild nature that I did, for, in spite of my suggestion that they take up some other career, both chose medicine as a profession, and both have loved the woods and the hunting as their father and grandfather did before them; and some of the happiest days of my life have been spent in the woods with them and their mother. The following extracts from letters of Miss Felicie Bringier contain all I know about my father's portrait now in my possession. "Baltimore, Md., October 16, 1910. "One of the things I mentioned to your boy was your father's stay with the Osage Indians during two years (in 1841), and about the por- trait in Indian costume (painted by John J. Audubon), the one you write of. I will surely do all in my power that you should have it; none has more right to it than you and your (11) children. It is not in Baltimore, as we were compelled to intrust most of our belongings to the care of our relatives in New Orleans when we came here to visit my sister, not knowing how long we would remain. Our cousin Mr. L. A. Bringier has the portrait. I will write to him very soon. Believe me, "Very truly yours, "Felicie Bringier." "Hills Forest, Maryland Co., M^., "July 28, 1911. "Dear Eddie: "I was so delighted to hear that the portrait had got to you in good condition and was a source of pleasure. I am sorry I cannot tell you the date when it was painted; but from some state- ments of your dear father's that I recall, I should surmise it was in the forties, as he was with Fremont on his expedition to the Rocky Moun- tains, and stopped on his return with the Osage Indians (where he remained two years), they having sent a deputy of their young bloods to meet and invite him to visit their settlement when they learned that a Trudeau was of the party. Your great-grandfather, Mr. Zenon Tru- deau, when Governor of 'Les Illinois', in sailing down the Mississippi in his barge from St. Louis to New Orleans, had rescued an Osage chief who had been wounded in a fight on the banks of the river, taken him to his plantation, had (12) him cared for, and when restored to health, helped him to get back to his wigwam and friends. On leaving your parent he had said: 'Indian never forgets'; therefore your father was honored. He always mentioned that his stay with the tribe had been most agreeable and enjoyable, affording him an opportunity to study their customs and manners, learn their language (which he spoke quite fluently) and an ability to ride and use their arms as they did. The costume with which he is represented, was embroidered and presented to him by the squaws of the Osages, and may now be in one of the French Museums, if the 'Prince de Joinville,' who was quite a visitor and friend of your uncle, Mr. Jules de Gay Lussee (who was at the time a resident of New York City), kept his word and deposited it there. I have heard your father relate that he actually begged it of him for the purpose; as your father was loath to part with it, as can well be conceived. "Audubon was also with Fremont's expedi- tion; they hunted and painted much together. Audubon mentions your father frequently in his work; several birds are named for him. He often told us that most of the anatomy work of the ornithology was his. If my memory is cor- rect, Audubon died in 1850; that is why I have come to my conclusions. "Truly yours, "Felicie Bringier." (13) II WE arrived in Paris in 1851, and my brother and I lived there with our grandparents for nearly fifteen years, when we all returned to New York in 1865 at the close of the war. While in Paris my brother and I were sent to a French school, where I learned little in the way of lessons and a great deal that was bad for me. The influence of the French school at that time was upon the whole bad for the formation of the boys' characters. Cowardice, lying, cheating and deception of all kinds were in vogue among them and little frowned upon by the masters. The boys' main idea was not to get caught; it mat- tered not what methods you employed to escape that calamity. Mrs. Louis Livingston, who in after years befriended me to such good purpose when alone in New York, brought her two sons, Lou and Jim Livingston, to Paris, and my grandfather, who thought she spoiled them and that they needed toughening, advised her to send them to the same school where my brother and I were. The Livingstons were a fair sample of wild Ameri- can lads, and they soon had thrashed many (15) of the French boys so unmercifully that Mrs. Livingston was sent for by the principal and implored to place them elsewhere. I can well remember the scene: the indignant principal, the astonished and distressed mother, the lamb- like offenders. I remember the distracted prin- cipal saying: "Mais, Madame, Monsieur le docteur Berger m'a dit que ces jeunes-gens etaient eleves dans du coton!! Eh bien, mon Dieu, ce sont de vrais sauvages!" In after years the Livingston boys lived up to their early reputation for wildness, imparting some of it to me in the eyes of my staid New York friends and relatives, and it is true we had many thrilling adventures together as young men. They proved true friends, however, and when I was taken ill in 1873 it was Lou Living- ston who took me to the Adirondacks and re- mained with me for a month. When he was obliged to go back to New York, Ed. Harri- man and Jim Livingston each came up in turn until I was well enough to return to my family. From the first I have had the best friends a man ever had. My grandfather's apartment was in the Rue Matignon, just off the Champs Elysees. It had a "porte cochere" entrance, after the manner of the better class of French apartment houses, where carriages drove in to turn around or to wait in the large courtyard at the back. We (16) were on the second floor; the first floor was always hired by the French Government as the residence of one of the Generals of the French army. This fact was of great interest in my life, for the General's horses and orderlies, with all of whom I was always on intimate terms, occu- pied the stables at the back of the big square courtyard. Whenever a military review or any public fete took place, requiring the official pres- ence of the General, the courtyard was suddenly thronged with cavalrymen of various types, generally lancers or "cuirassiers," and our excite- ment was intense when in the midst of the clatter of sabres and horses' hoofs the General's horse, caparisoned with gold trappings, was led out into the middle of the court. Shortly after- wards the General himself, resplendent in gold lace, covered with decorations and wearing white buckskin riding trousers, lustrous black boots and a plumed hat, would mount the prancing horse and the whole cavalcade would clatter out of the courtyard, through the "porte cochere," into the street — to our intense delight. General Bazaine for many years occupied the apartment, and after the manner of boys, I grew as intimate with him as such a grave man would allow an admiring boy to become. Those were halcyon days for General Bazaine as well as for his Emperor, Napoleon III, for the French Empire was in the zenith of its glory (17) at that time. General Bazaine, prancing at the head of the French soldiers at one of the gorgeous reviews in the Champs de Mars, where all Paris flocked to see the Emperor review the troops, was, however, more within his capabilities than when suddenly brought face to face with the grim game of war and such a formidable foe as the German army. When, in 1871, through General Bazaine's tactical errors or treachery, Sedan was cut off and surrounded, and Napoleon III and the French army surrendered to the Germans, leaving France and Paris at the mercy of the invaders, I could not but feel a pang of grief for my old friend, the General, who had seemed so magnificent and unconquerable to m}' admiring boy's eyes. My grandfather must have rendered some dis- tinguished service to some member of the Imperial Court or of the Imperial Family, for the Emperor decorated him with the Cross of the Legion of Honor while we were in Paris. I was greatly excited one day when a gorgeous equerry rode into our courtyard and handed the butler a parcel: when I pressed the butler for an explanation he told me that it was a Cross of the Legion of Honor the Emperor had sent my grandfather. I was shown the wonderful cross in its box by my grand- mother, and I noticed my grandfather afterwards always wore in his buttonhole a little red ribbon decoration. I never, however, learned just for what service he had received this distinction, (18) though I often asked him why he wore the red ribbon; but the old gentleman would only smile and say, ''Pour faire parler les curieux, mon enfant!" Our apartment was well fitted for small enter- tainments, and was a meeting-place for many Americans travelling abroad as well as for those who were living in Paris as we were. Cordial relations always existed between my grandparents and the American Embassy. Our parlor was lighted with beautiful sperm-oil lamps on ordinary occasions, but when company was expected to dinner or in the evening the candles in the gilt candelabra in the center of the room were always lighted, producing a brilliant illumi- nation. I speak of this because I remember dis- tinctly some gentleman coming from the Embassy one day and showing my grandfather and grand- mother a curious little glass lamp which he lighted, and everyone stood about and admired the clear, strong light it gave. The lamp was exactly like the common glass lamps one sees everywhere in country homes nowadays, even to the piece of red flannel in the oil; but to us it was a weird and strange object then and everyone was impressed with the bright light it gave. This gentleman told us that the lamp burned kerosene, which could be pumped from the earth in America in great quantity, and that many far-seeing men had pre- dicted it would entirely supersede the sperm oil, as the supply was unlimited, its cost was trifling, (19) and the light much stronger than that of whale oil. My grandfather was dubious, however, about the safety of this new product, and we kept on with sperm-oil lamps and candles as long as we remained in Paris. The Civil War brought all Americans in Paris who sympathized with the North closer together, and the American Embassy became more a meet- ing place for them than ever. Mr. Dayton was Ambassador at the time I write of. His son, a lad of my own age, "Ned" Dayton, I knew inti- mately and we, together with many American boys, met in the Champs Elysees daily and played games there together. Great were the discussions of war news, but as we were all on the Northern side there were no battles to speak of on the playground. We never saw anything of any of the few Ameri- can Southern boys then in Paris, except when we sailed our toy boats in the large basins of both the fountains in front of the Tuileries. There we had to meet, and the Confederate ships, which were greatly in the minority, were not, I am afraid, always treated strictly according to international laws of warfare by the owners of the more numer- ous craft which flew the stars and stripes. My boat, in addition to a big cannon which fired real powder and shot with a fuse which hardly ever went off at the right time, carried at the tip end of its bowsprit a device which I thought cal- culated to damage greatly the enemy. It was a (20) large steel ink eraser which I had sharpened with the utmost care, so that when my craft ran afoul of the enemy the ropes and sails would be cut and torn by this sharp weapon. The great trouble with this arrangement, however, was that, as it was impossible to steer the little vessels accurately, my boat several times ran afoul of and damaged friendly vessels, and brought much trouble on its owner by so doing. It was about the time I write of — 1864 — when Messrs. Slidell and Mason were sent over by the Confederate States to try to induce France and England to recognize them, and we all knew when these gentlemen arrived in Paris. We boys soon found out that Mr. Slidell late in the afternoon walked through the Champs Elysees on his way home from the Palais Royal, and we tried in a feeble way to express our disapproval of him by standing together with our boats under our arms and waving as much as possible the Stars and Stripes on the little boats as he went by. Mr. Slidell, as I remember him, was a stout, elderly man with a florid complexion and a large white moustache. On one memorable afternoon we were returning from the pond with our boats when we espied Mr. Slidell coming toward us on his way home. As he passed we all waved the little flags on the boats violently, but more than this we dared not do. He walked by us with a scowl on his face, and we all giggled, of course. I was always somewhat more venturesome than my (21) fellows and frequently paid the penalty. After Mr. Slidell had passed us and was well down the block I put my boat hastily on the ground, took a dozen steps toward the retreating figure, and drawing from my pocket my trusty "catapult" — a weapon dear to all boys' hearts from time immemorial — I adjusted a large piece of hard putty in the little leather sling, drew the strong elastic as far back as I could, measured the eleva- tion with my eye, and let go the sling. The projec- tile became invisible as it described a slight upward curve, and then to my horror I saw it bounce off the middle of Mr. Slidell's broad back. I was terror-stricken, and thrusting the sling-shot in my pocket I put on an unconcerned air and walked toward the boys, who had not noticed this episode. As I neared the group one looked up. I saw his face suddenly change, and he called out, "Run!" At the same moment a heavy hand seized me by the coat collar and a large umbrella came down on my head and shoulders with a resounding whack. Quick as a flash I wriggled out of the coat and ran. As I turned to look back I saw the excited old gentleman, purple with rage, beating my coat with his umbrella, and heard his sulphurous remarks to the boys who, too awed to laugh this time, kept at a respectful distance. I waited to see no more, but in my shirt sleeves sped straight home at top speed, seeing in my imagination the minions of the law in pursuit and a dungeon cell awaiting me. (22) When I reached my room in safety I began to reflect upon the enormity of my offence, and con- cluded I would say nothing about it at home unless questioned. It occurred to me, however, that it would be hard to explain the absence of the coat, which, with the tell-tale catapult in the pocket, was still in Mr. Slidell's possession; and then I remembered my grandfather was never very severe with me, so I decided to make a clean breast of it. I crept downstairs, and by peeking through the keyhole ascertained that the old gentleman was in his usual seat in the parlor, reading the newspaper; so I knocked gently, walked in and climbed up in his lap. The confession followed! I saw the cor- ners of my grandfather's mouth twitch, while he told me I had been a bad boy and what I had done was very wrong; to go upstairs and he would decide what punishment I should have. The punishment never came, and to my intense relief no reference was made to the incident at dinner. The following evening was Saturday, the usual reception evening at the Embassy, and my grandfather told me he wanted me to accom- pany him there. This gave me quite a shock, and I had some misgivings as to what was going to happen, but went as cheerfully as I could. When the door of the parlors of the Embassy was thrown open, and my grandfather was announced in a loud voice by the liveried butler, a hush at once fell over the assembled guests. Then Miss Dayton, in a beautiful evening dress, walked rapidly across (23) the floor, took me by the hand and said, "So you are the young man who shot at Mr. SHdell on neutral territory. Come and let me introduce you to my father!" Mr. Dayton received me very cordially, but he was too much of a diplomat to express any opinion as to what I had done. Many of the guests were not as cautious, however, and shook my hand and patted me on the back; and the men said, "Bully for you!" and the women smiled at me with every sign of approval. Cer- tainly I was the lion of the evening on that occa- sion; but I never saw or heard anything more of my coat or of Mr. Slidell. Shortly after this we boys had another war excitement. The news reached us that the United States Cruiser Kearsarge had attacked the famous privateer Alabama off the coast of France and sunk her. The next day, at the pond in the garden of the Tuileries, the United States vessels were in full force and more bedecked with Stars and Stripes than ever, but no Confederate ship put in an appearance on that day. (24) M III Y grandfather's health had been steadily failing, and after the end of the war we left Paris and came over to New York, where my grandfather had ver}' many friends and m\' grand- mother many relatives. Mr. James Aspinwall, my grandmother's brother, had always managed Dr. Berger's affairs and m}' grandfather was greatly dependent upon him. Mr. and Mrs. Aspinwall and their family of two girls and three bo^'s then lived on Eighteenth Street just out of Fourth Avenue, and for the remaining years of my grand- father's and grandmother's lives we resided in this neighborhood so as to be near them. We spent the winters in New York, and for the summer months we went to Nyack, on the Hudson, where the Aspinwalls had a country place, and much of my time was passed with my newly found cousins and their friends. When I arrived in New York I spoke only broken English, and I remember wondering why my girl cousins laughed when I said "Ze English language is a very hard language to prononciate!" America was a revelation to me. Ever>thing was new and full of intense interest. The thing (25) that above all made the deepest impression upon me, however, was the freedom given to young people, and especially the freedom between young people of both sexes. Although I was seventeen I had known little or nothing of young girls in France. Whenever I met any of them or spoke to them it was always in the presence of some older person, but young men and women were never given any opportunity for free interchange of ideas and impressions, or allowed to enjoy harmless pastimes together. To find myself all at once thrown intimately and unrestrictedly with my girl cousins and their girl friends, in winter to walk and ride and dance and skate with them, and in summer to drive and sail and row and swim and dance again with them, was a new revelation to me, and I think I made the most of my oppor- tunities. Those were joyous play-days indeed, especially in the glorious summer time spent at Nyack, when I had a horse and wagon and a sail-boat, but no les- sons, and the absence of all the young men during the daytime at their business in New York gave me an unrestricted field with the girls and brought my wagon and sail-boat into constant requisition. I had many love affairs, and I am afraid I was rarely off with the old love before I was on with the new. But they were not very serious love affairs, though they often seemed so to me at the time. It was on a trip to Nyack that I met my wife. My cousin, Minnie Aspinwall, had frequently (26) described her dearest friend, Lottie Beare, to me in such glowing terms that I was impatient to meet her. My cousin Minnie and I had arranged that we should go up to Nyack together that day. When I called for her on Eighteenth Street I found her talking to a tall, very slender young woman, dressed in black, whom she at once intro- duced to me as Miss Lottie Beare. Minnie informed me Miss Beare was to accom- pany us on the boat to Nyack to spend a few days with her at their country house, and w^e all started at once. On the boat I talked to both the girls, and though Miss Beare was pleasant enough I thought her cold and dignified. When we reached Nyack we decided to walk to the Aspinwall house, which was on a high hill. I seized Miss Beare's travelling bag with alacrity and we started. It was a hot afternoon and the hill was long and steep, the bag large and heavy, and Miss Beare did not seem to me very gracious. When we reached the house she at once went to her room, and my cousin rushed back to me and said, "Well, what do you think of Lottie Beare?" and I answered: "I don't know much about Miss Beare, but I can say positively that she has an enormously heavy travelling bag." Nevertheless it was the tall, slender girl in black, with the heavy travelling bag, who soon inspired me with a love which made me in time give up all the wild mode of life into which I was fast slip- (27) ping in New York, and work for three years to obtain a medical degree, and for a lifetime to try to be worthy of her. I am often asked if I would be willing to live my life over again, and as I look back on most of it I can say very positively, "I have my doubts;" but that part which has been lived in contact with the "tall and slender girl with the heavy travelling bag" I would gladly live over again indefinitely. Miss Beare, however, did not for a long time look on my advances with favor, and I came perilously near going to the dogs in New York in the meantime. My sister had come up from New Orleans and was living with us, and my brother soon found employment with a business firm. I began to think I must settle on some kind of work soon, and the glamor of the war must have still been in the air, for I decided, for some unknown reason, to go into the United States Navy. Another uncle of mine, Mr. William Aspinwall, at that time had influence with the Government in Washington, and in order to please my grandfather and also, I think, to get me away from New York, he promised to secure for me an appointment as midshipman. So it came about that I was packed off to a preparatory school at Newport, as the Naval Academy and the old ship Constitution, on which the cadets lived, were then at Newport. I was just about to enter the Academy when an unexpected event brought about an entire change in my plans. (28) My brother's health began to fail from the time he took the office position, and he was obliged to give up work. From childhood he had been deHcate, having a congenital heart trouble, and any over-exertion, excitement or fatigue caused his heart's action to become irregular and his nails and lips to turn blue. For this reason, though some years younger than he was, I had always cared for him and helped him and fought his battles with the French boys at school, who took advantage of his lack of strength to torment him. He, on the other hand, was a very strong, unselfish and beautiful character, deeply religious, and con- stantly trying to help me in the straight and nar- row path from which I was apt to wander. He always insisted on our saying our prayers and reading the Bible together daily, and it was through his influence that I joined him and that we were confirmed together in the American Episcopal Chapel in Paris by Bishop Mcllvain. We were much closer to each other than most brothers are, and as soon as he found he was ill he came straight to see me in Newport. I was shocked at his appearance, and when he told me the doctor said he had consumption I at once threw up my appointment and returned with him to my grandfather's house. My brother had a rapidly progressive type of tuberculosis and my time was soon entirely taken up in caring for his needs. We had no trained nurses in those days, and I took entire care of (29) him from the time he was taken ill in September until he died on December 23, 1865. We occupied the same room and sometimes the same bed. I bathed him and brought his meals to him, and when he felt well enough to go downstairs I carried him up and down on my back, and I tried to amuse and cheer him through the long days of fever and sickness. My sister and grand- mother often sat with him in the daytime and allowed me to go out for exercise and change, but he soon became very dependent upon me and I had to be with him day and night. The doctor called once a week to see him and usually left some new cough medicine, but the cough grew steadily worse. Not only did the doctor never advise any precautions to protect me against infection, but he told me repeatedly never to open the win- dows, as it would aggravate the cough; and I never did, until toward the end my brother was so short of breath that he asked for fresh air. In the light of our present knowledge as to the mode of infection in tuberculosis, I shudder to think of what condition that room must have been in. Even my vigorous young body during the last month of my brother's illness began to show the ill effects of the constant confinement and the prolonged mental and physical strain. How strange that, after helping stifle my brother and infect myself through such teaching as was then in vogue, I should have lived to save my own life (30) and that of many others by the simple expedient of an abundance of fresh air! I remember that during the last week he lived I had to drink green tea every night in order to keep myself awake, but I held out to the end. He died one night, and after all I had seen him suffer the first feeling I experienced was one of thank- fulness that he was at rest. This was my first introduction to tuberculosis and to death, with which I had never come in contact before. Little I knew then how man}^ hundreds of such death-bed scenes I should attend in years to come, in a life which has been spent in the midst of a perpetual epidemic of tuberculosis. It w^as my first great sorrow. It nearly broke my heart, and I have never ceased to feel its influence. In after years it developed in me an unquenchable sympathy for all tuberculosis patients — a sympathy which I hope has grown no less through a lifetime spent in tr^dng to express it practically. Even now I love to think that my work has been in a measure a tribute from me to the brother I loved so well. For many months, in spite of the buoyancy of spirits which was ever natural to me, I felt like one who is stunned by a blow on the head, and I tried to forget my heartache by plunging into all sorts of occupations and amusements. «^Iy cousins did all they could to cheer me; my good friend, Mrs. Louis Livingston, invited me to her house (31) ) 1 and was like a mother to me in her efforts to console me, and my friends, the Livingston lads, took me on wild expeditions and adventures in their efforts to divert me. After all, however, I got more help from the visits I paid to Miss Beare at her home on Long Island than from anyone else. Miss Beare's mother and sister had died a couple of years before, and she and her father, an Episcopal clergyman, who had been in charge of the church at Little Neck for nearly forty years, lived in the little rectory cottage on the turnpike to New York. As time passed, I found that the hours spent in the little cottage by the roadside, inhabited by the saintly old clergyman and presided over by his charming daughter, who helped her father with his parish work, played the organ on Sunday, and was beloved by the rich and poor of the neighbor- hood far and wide, brought more peace to my sorrowing spirit than I could find anywhere else. My grandfather died February i, 1866, and my sister and I continued to live with my grand- mother at Nyack during the summer, and in New York in a house on Twentieth Street during the winter. All this time I was trying to get some occupation and settle on some career. I studied for three months in the School of Mines, took a position for awhile in a broker's office, and tried various other occupations spasmodically, but soon gave them up, as I was a failure at everything I under- (32) took. This, I think, was due partly to my lack of interest in, and fitness for the work I started on, and partly to the constant temptations to amuse myself with my friends the Livingstons, who did not have to work and were only too glad to have me go about with them. Had it not been for my love for Miss Beare, and the religious ideals imbibed from childhood from my good brother, which had been fanned into new life by the influences at the Little Neck cottage, I should certainly have fallen into a life of amusement and dissipation. I realized, however, that if I was ever to win the girl I loved, I must demonstrate my ability to be steady enough to make some sort of career for myself and earn some sort of living. It was about this time that I had a rupture with my grandmother which brought things to a climax. The old lady and I had never got on well together, and had had many battles royal. She knew that I was dependent on her, for my grand- father had left most of his property in trust to her for her lifetime. By his will a small trust had also been created for me, which gave me about seven hundred dollars income a year, but this was only about enough for my clothes and spend- ing money. One day I came home and found someone had taken what seemed to me unwarrant- able liberties with some of my personal property. I taxed my grandmother with having done it, and she admitted it and told me she intended to do as she pleased in her own house; that I was entirely dependent upon her and would starve without her. I certainly was in a white rage that day. I told her I would get out of her house within an hour, and that I never would take another cent from her as long as I lived; and I never did. I went straight to Union Square and hired a truckman to come for my trunk, which I packed hastily, and we walked from house to house look- ing for a boarding place, until on West Eighteenth Street I found a hall bedroom on the fourth floor at eight dollars a week, which I took at once. Within an hour I was sitting on my trunk in the little boarding-house room, wondering what to do next. I decided to go down to my friends, the Livingstons, and tell them what had happened. The young men were out, so I went up to Mrs. Livingston's room and told her. She was as kind as ever to me. She told me she owed a debt of gratitude to my grandfather she could never repay, and that she would be only too happy if I would come and make my home with them. I was overcome with gratitude, but too proud to accept such an offer; so finally she pressed on me an arrangement which I was only too glad to acquiesce in. She told me she wanted me to have some sort of home influence, and that she would always have a place set for me at her dinner table, and I could come or not as I chose to do each da3^ Mrs. Livingston's confidence and motherly interest, the many interviews with her (34) in the little sitting-room, when she encouraged me to open my heart to her, and the remembrance of the seat always ready for me at the table, many times recalled me to my better self and helped steady me in those days of reckless youth, when so many other places seemed more attractive than the little hall bedroom in the boarding house. Ever afterwards, although I frequently visited my grandmother at her home and the old lady in the kindness of her heart did all she could to have me return there, I always declined as graciously as I could. She pressed money on me repeatedly, even to leaving it on my table in an envelope in my little hall bedroom at the boarding house; but though I needed it badly I always returned it with thanks. We never had any more quarrels, and our relations were very cordial until she died suddenly March 27th, 1870. (35) IV I WAS a member of the Union Club all this time and had many friends there besides the Living- stons, who led easy, gay lives, and I made up my mind that unless I did something radical soon I never should "pull out" or do any work. I knew no doctors or anyone connected with a medical college, but I often did things purely on impulse, which came to me as a sort of auto-suggestion, and perhaps the blood of my ancestors was the cause of the auto-suggestion this time. Be that as it may, in the fall of 1868 I decided to become a student in the College of Physicians and Sur- geons, and matriculated. So little faith did my friends at the Club have in my doing any work at all that I remember when my decision to study medicine was announced to a group of men in the Club, Mr. Dan Moran said, "I bet five hundred dollars he never gradu- ates;" and no one was found to take the bet! The requirements for a medical student in those days were of the simplest. There was no entrance examination. All the student had to do was to matriculate at the college and pay a fee of five dollars, attend two or more courses of (37) lectures at the college, and pass the very brief oral examinations which each professor gave the members of the graduating class on his own subject. In addition, the law required that every student enter his name with some reputable practising physician for three years as a student in his office — a rather hazy and indefinite relation, for which he paid the physician one hundred dollars each year. If these requirements were met the long-hoped-for sheepskin was forthcoming, and the new M.D. was turned loose on the world to meet as best he could the complicated respon- sibilities of a medical career. I chose as my preceptor Dr. H. B. Sands, who then lectured at the college on surgery, and that gave me the great privilege of being a member of the Professor's Quiz, which was composed of all the Professor's own students, and they were examined once each week by every professor on his own subject. When I returned from my first visit to Dr. Sands, after entering my name in his office as one of his students, I carried under my arm a new Gray's Anatomy and, wrapped up in a piece of brown paper, two venerable human bones Dr. Sands had given me to study. By their dark appearance and high polish they had evidently been already used by generations of medical students, but I felt quite proud of them neverthe- less. In after years I often brought much more unsavory and objectionable anatomical curiosities (38) home for study, until finally my landlady objected. One of these dark yellow bones I decided at once was an arm bone, but the other, w^hich looked like the flange of a propeller, I was utterly at a loss to place anywhere in the human body at first. Finally with the aid of my Gray's Anatomy I concluded it must be a shoulder blade, and began to tr>'^ to memorize the extraordinary names of its parts and processes and of its mus- cular attachments, until they finally overcame me and I went to bed. This was the first step in my medical career, and the turning-point between an easy life of pleasure to one of work and responsibility. After this my evenings were generally spent in the little hall bedroom with my anatomy instead of at the Club with my boon companions. The College of Physicians and Surgeons was then a not very imposing institution on the corner of Twenty-third Street and Fourth Avenue, and very appropriately had a drug-store and an ice- cream saloon occupying the basement of the high-stooped three-story brick building which was devoted to the uses of the College. The dissecting-room was on the top floor. There was very little clinical or bedside teach- ing in those days, although the professors of medicine held public clinics occasionally at Bellevue and the New York Hospitals, and all the students were notified of the daily operations by a notice on the bulletin-board of the College. (39) The teaching was all done by lectures and charts on the wall. The charts, which were hung up just before the lecture by the professor's pet student — often under a pitiless fusilade of mis- siles — were generally of a gigantic size and strik- ingly and vividly drawn and colored. I can see some of them distinctly now, so strong an impres- sion did their exaggerated characteristics make on my receptive mind. The lectures on Practice of Medicine and Sur- gery were didactic and descriptive. What the professors taught was well taught, especially the clinical side, and was up to the knowledge of the day; but there was much less to teach then than now, and theories were accepted and taught without proof when definite knowledge was lack- ing, as laboratory and animal experimentation were still in their infancy. Pathology was taught by the Chair of Medicine as a side issue. No laboratory microscopic studies were required of the students. The theories as to the causation of disease were discussed and criticized in the lectures, as well as the classifica- tion, which was based entirely on the gross and microscopic pathology; but the exciting causes of these diseases remained necessarily theoretical. This was true of tuberculosis. Dr. Alonzo Clark taught that it was a non-contagious, gen- erally incurable and inherited disease, due to inherited constitutional peculiarities, perverted humors and various types of inflammation, and (40) dwelt at length on the different pathological characteristics of tubercle, scrofula, caseation, and pulmonary phthisis, and their classification and relation to each other. How absolutely different is our present conception of the disease, owing to the light thrown on its causation by animal experimentation and bacteriology! But bacteriology was an unknown science in those days. The clinical side of medicine, however, was wonderfully accurate and well presented, and the treatment, based on the lecturer's personal obser- vations, could not be criticised. While in the College one of the students devel- oped symptoms of tuberculosis of the lungs, and, with my brother's case ever before me, I felt deeply for him and wanted to help him. I decided to brave Dr. Clark in his office and lay my friend's case before him. The interview, like all interviews with Dr. Clark, was a brief one and to the point. He listened to me attentively as I described my friend's case, and then rising from his chair said, "Tell your friend to go to the mountains and become a stage driver for a few years. Good evening." If Dr. Clark's teaching seems obsolete to us now, his treatment certainly was up to date. Driving a stage in the mountains means an open- air life, rest, and a good climate, and embodies the main features of our modern treatment of the disease. We had some most distinguished men on the (41) faculty: the venerable Dr. Alonzo Clark, Dr. Willard Parker, Dr. John Dalton, Dr. H. B. Sands, Dr. William H. Draper, Dr. T. Gaillard Thomas, Dr. Fessenden W. Otis, with whom I subsequently entered into partnership in New York, Dr. James L. McLane and Dr. H. B. St. John. I have most pleasant recollections of all the professors whom I grew to know personally during the two and a half years when I sat on those hard benches and heard the lectures. My favorite lecturer was Dr. John Dalton, and his lectures on physiology seemed to me, and really were, w^onderfully thorough and well presented. Dr. William H. Draper was my ideal of an educated and refined physician and gentleman, and for Dr. H. B. Sands, my preceptor, I had unbounded admiration, and he was, I think, the most popular professor with the students at that time. Dr. Alonzo Clark was admired for his learning, though feared by the students on account of his gruff, short manner, and his, at times, pitiless irony. The other professors all quizzed their students once a week at their offices, but Dr. Clark always held his weekly quiz in the upper lecture-room at the College and invited the entire class to be present. We were all in dread of being called up, as our mistakes were commented on sometimes in what seemed to us an unnecessarily severe manner. I was fortunately never specially held up to ridi- cule, but I resented Dr. Clark's apparent unfriend- liness to the students. (42) I remember on one occasion the laugh of the class was turned on a timid friend of mine, a man by the name of Little; and this aggravated my antagonism to Dr. Clark, It was a public quiz evening, and as Dr. Clark called out Little's name he added, '"Man wants but Little here below nor wants that Little long'; so make your answers as brief as possible, Mr. Little." Poor Little was covered with confusion and failed in his answer. I remember I nearly got myself into trouble by tr>ang to get even with Dr. Clark. He was lecturing on d^^sentery the next day, and in speaking of the treatment inadvertently said that ''ice injections into the bowel should be used." Questions were often written out and passed up unsigned to the professors to answer. So under cover of my note-book I wrote on a piece of paper, "What kind of a syringe do you advise for injecting ice?" The paper was passed up to the Professor, who put on his glasses, looked at it, tore it up and went on with his lecture. I thought, however, he suspected me, for his keen black eyes gave me a sharp look. When I came up for final examination Dr. Clark's manner was so severe and his questions so searching that I made up my mind he guessed that I had been the offender on that occasion. I was almost in a tremor with fear when I was admitted to his bare and dusty sanctum under the stairs of the college. The old gentleman sat with his fur-lined coat on his knees and nodded to (43) me as I entered, then began to look down his list of the student's names. In my anxiety to be on pleasant terms with him I volunteered, "My name is Trudeau, sir." "I know it," was the only reply, followed by a dreadful pause. Then he said, "Mr. Trudeau, what is pain a symptom of?" At first I was floored and did not know what to answer: then I pulled myself together and began with the inflammations, neuralgias, etc., and men- tioned as many as I could. Another pause. "You have omitted one long pain." "Sciatica," I answered. "Well, Mr. Trudeau, what is hemor- rhage a symptom of?" and then, "Well, Mr. Trudeau, what is fever a symptom of?" and so on. I was glad to escape when the ordeal was over, but as no other student reported having been asked such searching questions, I have always felt the old gentleman had been getting even with me for trying to poke fun at him about the ice injections. As fellow-students with me in Dr. Sands's office I came in contact with many men who made their mark in medicine afterwards: Dr. William T. Bull, Dr. John G. Curtis, Dr. Francis P. Kinnicutt, Dr. Matthew D. Mann, and many others whose names became well known as great physicians and surgeons. 1 formed a strong friendship with Dr. Luis P. Walton, an English student, a personal friendship which lasted throughout his life. Among my intimates were William T. Bull, Francis P. Kinnicutt, Matthew D. Mann, Allan McLane Hamilton, Thomas R. French, (44) and Luis P. Walton. We formed a little clique with a few other members of the Professor's Quiz, sat together at lectures, and knew very little personally of the rest of the students. William T. Bull, John G. Curtis and Francis P. Kinnicutt were the star students in the Professor's Quiz. We were not much awed by their knowl- edge, however, for I can remember that William T. Bull did all Dr. Sands's dissections, and when the dissected body was brought into the lecture room, followed by the lecturer, in whose wake, with a smile upon his handsome face, walked W. T. Bull who probably had sat up all night doing the dissecting, we greeted him generally with cat-calls and a shower of cigarette stumps, paper balls and other missiles. This was the medical student's method of showing approval and admiration, as he was certainly the most popular man in the class. Many years after- wards the echo of the wonderful operations he had done reached me even in the midst of the Adirondack wilderness, and I had him come up from New York in consultation once on a distant lake in a case of shotgun wound of the hip-joint. The change in my mode of life and breaking away from my old associates was ver>' hard at first, for my former companions did their best to induce me to go to entertainments, theatres and parties with them. When they found, however, that I really meant my refusals ihcy soon let me alone to do as I pleased. My (45) finances had improved since my grandmother's death and I received more money from my grandfather's estate, so I took a better room on West Twenty-first Street and went for my meals to the Club. I found this no more expensive, if my orders were moderate, than eating at restau- rants, and the food was much better. I still kept up my friendship with the Living- stons, who looked upon my study of medicine as a passing fancy, and I often occupied the seat Mrs. Livingston kept at her dinner table for me. The summers were spent almost altogether at Grassmere, the Livingstons' country place near Rhinebeck, and I went as often as I could get invitations to the Little Neck cottage. Though slender, I was quite athletic, very active, and had wonderful endurance. I owned a racing shell boat and rowed a great deal with the Livingstons and their friends on the Hudson River. At times I kept my boat in New York on the Hudson River side, and, undeterred by the dangers of the crowded harbor, on Saturdays in the Spring I would row around the Battery, down through Hell Gate to Little Neck for a visit to the Rectory. My shell boat, like all such racing craft, would carry almost nothing but its owner and on one occasion, I remember, this proved awkward. I had rowed down to the Rectory in the boat one Friday afternoon, and on Saturday we all had an invitation to dine with Mr. John A. King and his family, who lived in (46) their country place on King's Point, at Great Neck. It was arranged that Miss Beare and her father should drive down in their little carriage and I was to row down in my shell boat. All I wore in the shell was a pair of trousers and a thin, sleeveless undershirt, so I put the rest of my clothes in a bag in the little carriage with the clergyman and his daughter, with the in- struction that they should send the things down to the boathouse as soon as they got there. It was a beautiful day and I rowed along at a good rate. When I reached King's Point, Mr. King, who had seen me, was standing on the shore waiting for me. He told me Air. and Miss Beare had not arrived yet, but he urged me to come ashore and wait for them. I came ashore, but explained to him that as I had no clothes with me it would be impossible for me to go up to the house and see his wife and daughters. My help- lessness seemed to amuse him greatly, and he told me it was absurd how dependent we were for our dignity upon our clothes. Had I ever thought how undignified a gathering the House of Bishops would be if deprived of their trousers? My bag soon came, however, and I was able to present a reasonably dignified appearance at dinner. From Rhinebeck I rowed at different times from almost one end of the Hudson River to the other with the Livingstons and their friends, and no matter what happened on those trips they (47) always developed situations and adventures which to us brought fun. The summer holidays after the hard work of the winter were full of pleasure to me. The joy of life and youth certainly ran in my veins then — as it always has, more or less, for the matter of that, in spite of years and the ills of the flesh — and I might well have said, "Give me youth and a day and I'll make the pomp of emperors ridiculous." On one of our trips I gave my companions a real fright for a time, though when we got home we all reached the conclusion that on the whole we had had lots of fun. On this occasion we decided to go for a long row down the river and return next day. The two Livingstons, Billy Remsen and Harry Olen rowed a four-oared shell, and I went in my single scull. We got off late, and when we reached Poughkeepsie, fifteen miles down the river, we landed for a little rest and had our tintypes taken in scant rowing attire. We got into our boats again, and by sunset had reached New Hamburg, where we decided to stop for the night. After supper at the little hotel we smoked our pipes and then all turned in. I had a little room to myself; the other four men occupied a big room with two double beds across the hall. I was tired and was soon asleep, but it must have been a couple of hours when I was brought back to consciousness by a strange tingling feel- ing in many places of my tired body. I got up, (48) lit the light, and a search of the bed revealed the unpleasant truth that it was full of vermin. That ended all idea of rest for me, so I put on my clothes and ventured into the dark hall. I saw a glint of light coming from the room occupied by the other men, so I gently opened the door and looked in. All four men and the lamp were on the floor, on which was pinned a sheet with charcoal lines on it. They never noticed me, so intent were they on their amusement which con- sisted, I gathered from their remarks, in racing the little insects they had obtained from their beds for a dollar a head from one black mark on the sheet to the other. Jim Livingston's racer was in the lead, and he was prodding it on with his scarf-pin and offering five to one on his winning when, in his zeal to hasten the insect's imperceptible advance, he jabbed the scarf-pin through its body and thus lost the race and his money, to the noisy delight of his antag- onists! I waited to see no more, but shut the door gently and walked out into the night and down to the boat landing. It was a glorious night; a full moon was reflected from the broad river and covered the landscape with its silvery sheen. Too good a night to waste, I thought; and after some difficulty I succeeded in getting at my boat, and was soon in the middle of the river, rowing down stream. What a gorgeous night it was! I remember (49) distinctly now how the river gHttered in the moonhght, and the dim and graceful outlines of the hills stood out on either side in their hazy softness. Lights were twinkling in the streets as I went by Newburg but, fascinated by the grandeur and stillness of the beautiful scene, I went on until abreast of West Point, when a streak of light in the east caused me to turn in to the little landing at Garrison's, forty miles from our starting-place the day before. I pulled out my boat, went up to the hotel, got a room and was soon asleep. I slept until about half- past three in the afternoon, when I decided to leave my boat and take the train back to Rhine- beck. As I boarded the train I ran into Jim Livingston, who greeted me with expletives which were more forcible than parliamentary. Where in H had I been? They had been running up and down the river all day in a tug-boat looking for me but could find no trace of me, and thought I must have upset my shell and been drowned. However, we all reached Rhinebeck safely on the train. I was a very fast walker, and had often proved my speed and endurance on short races. During my second winter at the College the Livingstons, who had a good opinion of my athletic capa- bilities, induced me to walk against time on one occasion. They had made the wager of a din- ner with a number of men at the Club that I (50) could walk from Central Park (Fifty-ninth Street) to the Batter>^ inside of an hour, I had had no practise and had lived an indoor life most of the winter, but I wanted to prove that their confidence in my powers was not misplaced. So one night at midnight we all went up in car- riages to Fifty-ninth Street and I started. I had not realized my want of condition nor what a test such a long walk at top speed would be. By the time I reached Twenty-third Street I was in great distress. I remember the lights of the Fifth Avenue Hotel all looked red in my eyes as I raced by, but I kept on. At any rate, I held out until the Battery was reached, and covered the distance, I believe, in a little over forty-seven minutes; but it did me up badly and for a long time afterwards I felt ill. I finally went to a doctor who examined me and found an abscess beginning to form, which he thought was the result of the strain of the walk. It proved to be a cold abscess and had to be operated upon several times before it healed, as all such abscesses do. In those days the rela- tion of such cold abscesses to tuberculosis was not understood, and no one even hinted to me that it was of the least importance. Had they done so I should have known that it was the first manifestation of tuberculous infection, and I could have altered my mode of life and regained good health. Many years afterwards, on one of my visits to (51) New York, my friend Dr. Walter B. James asked me to speak to his class at the College of Physi- cians and Surgeons on the subject of tubercu- losis. Hoping to save others from the same mistake, after describing the usual symptoms of early tuberculous infection, I emphasized to the students that if a patient came to them with a dry pleurisy, blood-spitting or a cold abscess, it was wise to consider him as tuberculous and treat him as such until the contrary could be proved. I hope some of the young doctors who listened to me on that occasion saved some of their patients from the same error that I was allowed to commit through ignorance. I had evidence that some of the students lis- tened and that my appeal for an early diagnosis made some impression. About fifteen years later I was in bed at my home with one of my exacerbations of fever which were then becom- ing more and more frequent, when the servant came to my room and told me there were two gentlemen downstairs who wanted to see me for an examination. I asked if she had told them I was sick in bed and could see no one. She said she had, but that one of them replied that they had come all the way from Australia to see me and must see me as soon as possible. I thought if they had come from Australia to see me I cer- tainly must see them, and so they were admitted. It proved to be a doctor with his patient, a young Englishman. The doctor told me that fifteen (52) years ago he had been a student at the College and heard my lecture, and that it had made a strong impression on him. After graduation he went out to Australia and had been in practice there ever since. Two months before he had been sent for to examine the son of a very prominent English resident. He found the young man showed evidences of tuberculosis. The father asked the doctor what he considered the best chance to save his son's life, and the doctor advised that the young man be sent to m}^ care at Saranac Lake and said that was what he should do were he in the patient's place. The father made an arrangement that the doctor should come at once with his son to Saranac Lake to consult me, and they had just arrived. The young man stayed in Saranac Lake two years, and the last I heard of him was a post-card saying he had gone from Australia to the great European war. In some of my frequent visits to the Little Neck Rectory during the first winter I studied medicine, I found that Mr. Beare's horse had given out and that if Miss Bcare wanted to drive or ride she had to use a poor horse, and one I did not consider safe. I had always been rather familiar with horse-flesh through my friends the Livingstons, who always kept trotting horses, and bred horses on their country place at Rhinebeck; and the idea occurred to mc that by strenuous (53) saving I might be able to give Miss Beare a sur- prise on her birthday in the shape of a good horse. The Livingstons had a wide-awake young Irish coachman who was known to us only by the name of Patsy and had been with horses and horsemen since he was a child, I confided to Patsy my ambitious plan to buy a good horse for Miss Beare, told him I wanted the horse to be perfect, and that two hundred dollars was all I thought I could possibly raise. I didn't see how such a perfect animal as I wanted could be bought for any such sum, but I had great faith in Patsy's ability to produce any kind of a piece of horse-flesh from his many horse-dealing acquaintances; and he certainly lived up to my expectations. One day he came to me and told me he had found a perfect horse, a beauty, and one without a fault, worth at least one thousand dollars, but that his friend was hard up and he thought it could be bought for five hundred. The horse w^as described in such glowing terms that in spite of the fact that the price was far beyond what I could afford I couldn't resist the temptation of looking at him. Patsy's friend brought him to the Livingstons' stables, and he certainly seemed perfect in every way. He was a beautiful bay with black points and a tail that touched the ground. I asked the privilege of trying him, so he was saddled and I went out in the park for a ride on him. He seemed per- fectly broken for a lady's saddle horse; would (54) single-foot, lope, trot or gallop at the rider's will, and was very gentle. I pictured Miss Beare's delight when she saw him, and how she would enjoy riding him. I made up my mind I must have him if it took my last cent. To my sorrow, however, I found that three hundred dollars was the very utmost I could possibly hope to scrape together. I confided this unfortunate circum- stance to Patsy, who told me he would see his friend and find out what could be done. After much talk he told me that he had seen his friend who, he thought, in view of all the circumstances, could be induced to take three hundred dollars; so my last cent went in a check for that amount and the horse was bought. Miss Beare's birthday was the following week and I wrote her I would ride down and spend it with her, but never said a word about the horse. I was so joyful in anticipation of Miss Beare's pleasure when, after she had admired my mount, I would tell her that the horse was for her birthday, that I could hardly wait; and many times went down to the Livingstons* stable and looked at the beautiful animal with my friend Patsy. It was a fine, clear day when I started on horseback for Little Neck and I was bursting with pleasurable anticipation. I rode slowly for the first few miles; then the exhilaration of the circumstances got the better of me and I decided to tr^^ my handsome animal's speed. I called (55) on him and he responded by a fine burst of vSpeed, a test I had never put him to before. As I reached Flushing, five miles from Little Neck, I began to think his gait was not as easy as it had been. I rode a little further; surely, he was lame. I got off, looked at his front legs, but could see nothing. The lameness was in his shoulders. The dreadful truth flashed upon me then. Patsy and his "horsey" friend had "done" me! The beautiful animal, had he not been a patched-up, foundered horse, could never have been bought for three hundred dollars. The burst of speed had brought out the truth, and a more bitter disappointment I never had in my life. He grew lamer and lamer, and as I went up the Little Neck hill I had to get off and lead him. Miss Beare met me at the Rectory gate — but how different from the meeting I had so long anticipated! The only comfort I could get was that, when I told her my stor}^, she was so full of kindness and sympathy that she made up to me for much of my bitter disappointment. The horse had been well doctored up, but he never was good for anything again and I exchanged him for a common, useful animal, getting only seventy-five dollars for the hand- some bay. A year before I was graduated from the Medi- cal School Miss Beare allowed me to announce our engagement. Her friends and family evi- dently thought she was sacrificing herself, and (56) treated me very coldly. My friends and my uncle's family, I know, wondered how she could take such chances as to marry a man who went with such a fast set and had little prospect of earning a living, but their disapproval didn't worry me in the least. I was certainly care- free in those days, and the horizon and the future were always brilliant and rose-colored. About this time I unexpectedly received a pay- ment of twelve hundred dollars from my grand- father's estate. Lou Livingston had for two years owned the finest pair of little mares I had ever seen. He drove them to a light Brewster trotting wagon, and the turnout had long been my admira- tion and envy. Many were the good drives we had had together behind the beautiful little pair, both in the summer at Rhinebeck and when in New York through the Park to Harlem Lane, where we raced with the best and stopped at Johnny Florence's, near High Bridge, for refresh- ments. Lou Livingston, I knew, was very hard up and had talked of selling his turnout, and when the money came in unexpectedly it seemed to me the most natural and satisfactory use I could possibly make of it would be to buy Lou's turnout with it. I pictured to myself how pleased and proud I should be to take Miss Beare out driving behind these fine animals. The turnout had cost Lou Livingston over two thousand dollars, but I bought it for my twelve hundred. The cost or its future maintenance didn't weigh at all heavily (57) on me; that would take care of itself somehow. And it did, as I received more money from my grandfather's estate a few months later. When I went to the hospital I kept the mares near by, and when Miss Beare was in town at her aunt's, would call for her there on fine after- noons and take her to the park with my new turnout. I imagined with what disapproval her staid friends and family must have looked on when she appeared in an up-to-date trotting rig with me; but as the little mares picked their way through crowded Fifth Avenue, and later when we flew up Harlem Lane at a two-forty gait, no one could have been prouder or happier than I was. When we were married, from Mr. William P. Douglas's place at Little Neck on June 29, 1871, the little mares, harnessed to a borrowed coupe and driven by my Irish boy, James Burke, in livery, took us to New York on our wedding journey. One of the little mares broke down tvv^o years later and I sold her to old Mr. Livingston as a brood mare; the other I took to the Adiron- dacks with me, and she drew our cutter on a memorable trip from Malone to Paul Smith's when I brought my little family into the mountains in January, 1875, Six of the seven horses in our party gave out in the deep snows and had to be unharnessed and left to follow as best they could, but the little mare held out and drew my wife (58) and me in the cutter, coming in with her head up on the night of the third day, when we reached Paul Smith's. As I reached the end of my college work I could not make up my mind to try for a hospital position at the New York Hospital or Bellevue, for that involved eighteen months of service and I really could not wait eighteen months longer to be married. I was in a state of indecision as to what I should do, when Dr. Sands told me a Mr. Kaiser had built a small hospital on the corner of Tenth Street and Avenue A, called The Strangers' Hospital, which was to be opened on January- i ; and that as it was a new hospital, all three positions — House Physician, Senior and Junior Assistants — would be open for com- petitive examination and the positions awarded at once, according to the standing of the suc- cessful candidates. Although I was not to be graduated until March i, I decided to try for this hospital. If I got the position of house physician or senior assistant I would serve, as the first would be for six months and the second for one year only. If, however, I got the junior's assistant's place, which would keep me eighteen months, I would resign it and get married with- out a hospital experience. The examinations were to be given orally at the offices of the four physicians who composed the Visiting Staff — Dr. William H. Draper, Dr. H. B. Sands, Dr. T. Gaillard Thomas, and Dr. (59) Fessenden Otis. It required all the courage I could summon to ring the doorbells of these prominent men and, when shown into the office, to announce calmly that I was a candidate for the house staff of The Strangers' Hospital. I lived through the ordeal, however, and Dr. William H. Draper, who was the first one I called upon, was especially kind to a terrified young man and conversed with me a few minutes to put me at my ease before asking me any ques- tions. I was much elated when, a few days later, I received an official note stating that I had passed the best examination and had first choice of the open positions. Of course I took the one of House Physician, which would keep me on duty only six months. Dr. Matthew D. Mann got the place of Senior Assistant and Dr. Hugo Kunstler that of Junior Assistant. (60) V THE Strangers' Hospital covered half a block on Tenth Street and had been built by remodel- ling and converting former business buildings into a hospital building. It accommodated about a hundred and twenty patients; had two wards for surgical cases, in charge of Dr. H. B. Sands; two for medical cases, which constituted Dr. William H. Draper's service; a genito-urinary ward, a ward for diseases of women and a l^ang-in ward as well, under the charge of Dr. Fessenden Otis and Dr. T. Gaillard Thomas respectively. When I qualified as House Physician, January I, 1 87 1, I had not yet passed my examination for M.D., which took place in March. I found myself at once in charge of all the wards, and yet it is quite true that I had never before that time had the slightest practical experience in seeing and treating illness and injuries at the bedside. I realized my unfitness for the place the first time I was called up by the night nurse in the women's ward for a case of hemorrhage. As I entered the ward a stream of blood was running across the floor from under the woman's bed, and I had never seen anything of the kind before. I remem- (61) bered, however, what I was to try to do, and whether I did it, or nature was kind to me and the patient, I don't know, but the hemorrhage stopped, and I was quite pleased with myself as I left the ward. The patients may have suffered somewhat, but I certainly got a good deal of valuable expe- rience during my six months in the hospital, because I was thrown on my own resources and had to do the best I could in emergencies with no other aid in most cases at first than my assis- tants, neither of whom had any more medical experience than I had. The hospital work was at times pretty strenu- ous, but after the last attending physician had taken his departure, I would several times a w^eek rush down to Little Neck and spend the evening with Miss Beare. This necessitated a five-mile drive back to Flushing at twelve o'clock at night to catch the one o'clock train to New York, and often on returning to the hospital I would find Dr. Mann asleep in my room, while a newly made ether cone and a box of instruments on the table showed me he was waiting for my return to do some operation or put up a fracture, and I wouldn't get to bed before three or four o'clock A.M. All this constant and intense activity, loss of sleep and indoor life began to tell on my health, and I was very thin and worn out when I ended my hospital service. I must have had excellent (62) resistance to have kept perfectly well so long, under such trying conditions, after the positive evidence of tuberculous infection given by the cold abscess eighteen months before. The rules at the hospital gave the resident physicians two weeks' holiday every six months. I was so anxious to get married at as early a date as possible that I took my holiday at the end of my service, left the hospital about the twentieth of June and we were married on the twenty-ninth. Mr. W. P. Douglas, whose country seat was at Little Neck and who had known Miss Beare since she was a child, offered his beautiful place at Douglaston to Mr. and Miss Beare for the wedding reception. The rectory was part of Mr. Douglas's estate and only a short walk from his country home, where he entertained constantly. Miss Maxwell, my Aunt Aspinwall's sister, pre- sided over the Douglas Manor household, as Mr Douglas was her nephew. From childhood Miss Beare had been a great favorite of Miss Maxwell's and she was constantly invited to all the dinners and parties at Douglas Manor — festivities in which I was also often invited to share. A more attractive place for a country wedding could hardly be imagined. The grounds stretched along the shore of Little Neck Bay up to the fine old-fashioned mansion, which commanded a beau- tiful view of Long Island Sound. Willie Douglas's yacht, the "Sappho," was often anchored at some distance out, as the water in (63) the bay was too shallow; but we young people had some good trips on her when Miss Maxwell would ask my girl cousins and Miss Beare, as well as her inevitable young man, on sailing trips. To me, who loved every rope in a good boat, every minute on such a grand yacht as the "Sappho" was a keen joy. I remember during one of Dr. Clark's lectures in my last year at college when, having already listened to four lectures that day, life seemed rather wearisome, I was handed a brief note from Willie Douglas, and life suddenly became any- thing but wearisome. The note read as follows: ''The 'Sappho' is to race with the rest of the Yacht Club tomorrow against the English yacht 'Cambria' to defend the America's Cup in the International Race. Would you like to go? If so, be at Forty-second Street, North River, at 8:00 P.M. where a boat will meet you." Would I like to go? I thought Dr. Clark's lecture never would end, but it did finally and at 7:00 P.M. I was on the deck of the "Sappho" at anchor in the Horseshoe. We had a pleasant evening, and the next morning before daylight I was up on deck conversing with the captain. The challenging English yacht "Cambria" and all the boats of the Yacht Club that were to take part in the race were anchored about us, and one by one I saw them trip their anchors, make sail and drop down the bay to the starting-point off the light-ship. I began to be impatient, and (64) ** appealed to the captain. Why did we not start? He informed me Mr. Douglas was still asleep and he could not start without Mr. Douglas's order. I dove down the companion- way, and Willie Douglas was soon awake. He came on deck in his pajamas, looked around for a few seconds, told the captain to get under way, and then went back to bed. When we reached the Sandy Hook lightship the wind was rising, and the blue sea was covered with all the yachts of the Club under their tower- ing white canvas. Most of them, including the "Cambria," had already started, and to my cha- grin we were the last boat to cross the line. When I expressed my regret at this to the Captain he only smiled, and said twenty miles to windward was a long bit and we wouldn't be the last to turn the windward stake-boat. Soon we were on the open ocean; the sheets were trimmed flat and the great schooner, then the fastest sailing vessel in the world, heeled over on her side, with her lee rail awash as the strength- ening breeze filled her big sails. The twenty men who composed her crew lay flat on the deck under the windward rail; the hiss and rush of the waters drowned our voices, and the spray flew over us as we dashed through the great swells at top speed. At every tack we dropped several yachts, and long before reaching the stake-boat, which we had to turn before heading back, we passed the "Cambria." After we turned and (65) began to run for home before the wind, we had only two yachts just ahead of us — Mr. James Gordon Bennett's large schooner "Dauntless" and Mr. Osgood's "Fleetwing." The big balloon kites were crowded on, and within half an hour we w^re well in the lead, and the "Sappho" crossed the line a very easy winner. The next morning I was on the College benches as usual, wondering if it had all been a dream. The wedding came off on the twenty-ninth of June, 1 87 1, in the Little Neck Church whose Rector Mr. Beare had been so long, and was a grand affair. Not only did all the Long Island people come — old and young, poor and rich, who had known Mr. Beare and Miss Beare for many years — but my friends and the Aspinwalls' friends came from the city on a special train. Douglas Manor was decorated with the flags from the "Sappho" and the yacht herself was decked out in bunting. After the wedding breakfast in the large dining-hall at the Manor, my wufe and I stood up for two mortal hours and shook hands with, and were kissed by, scores of men and women of all classes and ages. I drew the line only at big, black Eliza, who wept very wet tears as she kissed "Miss Charlotte," whom she had cared for from childhood, and who seemed on the point of including me in her muscular and voluminous embrace. My wife, however, finally escaped, soon re- (66) MRS E. L. TRUDEAU '1910) appearing at the foot of the stairs in travelling dress. My little trotting mares, with white rosettes in their head-stalls, attached to a little coupe borrowed from Mr. Douglas's stable and driven by Jim Burke resplendent in a borrowed livery, were waiting at the door. We raced to the coupe amidst a shower of rice and old slippers, and were soon making good time toward the city on the New York turnpike; and this was the red-letter day of my life! After a short trip to the White Mountains we sailed for Europe on the Cunarder "Russia," re- turning in October on the "China." We went to London first, and then to Paris, Switzerland and Germany. While in Paris I took my wife to show her my grandfather's apartment in the Rue Matig- non where my boyhood had been spent. The porte cochere and the courtyard looked just as they did when we left for America. The concierge's wife had died but he was still living, a decrepit, deaf old man. When I told him who I was and intro- duced my wife he turned to her, and putting up both hands said, no doubt referring to me and my friends, "lis etaient tous mauvais — mais celui la!!" My wife was delighted with everything she saw, as she had never been abroad, and we both greatly enjoyed the three weeks we spent in Switzerland. Heidelberg was full of interest, but neither of us could speak German and the people did not seem especially cordial, so we made a very short stay in Germany. (67) Our return voyage on the "China" was a very trying one. We had a series of gales from the time we started and were fourteen days in cross- ing. My wife was terribly frightened, I know, but with her usual wonderful self-control never gave any evidence of it. At one time we shipped so much water that our little steamer trunk floated about the stateroom. We were both standing then on the little lounge to escape the water. I jumped down and put the little trunk in the upper berth. My wife merely remarked, "What did you do that for? We shall never want it again!" Soon the water ran out under the door and I heard a steward in the hall. I called to him, and he seemed much amused to see us both standing on the lounge. I asked him if the ship was going to the bottom. A broad grin overspread his jovial British face and he said, "Go to the bottom, sir? — Why, don't you know you can't sink a Cunarder!" After that we had better weather, but between my general run-down condition and fourteen days of seasickness I was a wreck when we reached New York. While in England I had had some swelling of the lymphatic glands on the side of my neck, but so ignorant where we about the mechanism of tuberculous infection at that time that this symp- tom gave me no alarm. My wife, however, urged me to see a well-known English physician in Liverpool. He told me the glands were an (68) evidence of a run-down condition and a tendency to scrofula; advised me to paint them with iodine, eat plenty of bacon at my breakfast, and gave me a tonic with iron in it. This second warn- ing of tuberculous infection went as unheeded as the first, and I never realized that I was already infected with the same disease that had run so rapid and fatal a course in my brother's case. As we both loved the country we hired the little cottage at the gate of Mr. Douglas's place and I decided to try to get some practice on Long Island. My wife had some money of her own, and by that time I had received all that was coming to me by my grandfather's will, and we could live comfortably, though very modestly, in the country on our joint income. Our little daughter Charlotte, always known as "Chatte", was born in the Douglas Cottage, and we spent a very happy and peaceful year there. I soon tired, however, of the monotony of countr>^ prac- tice and the lack of opportunity for advancing in my profession, and a year after our return from Europe we moved to New York. I realized that we could not live in New York on our income, but decided to spend some of my principal until I got started in practice. After a long time I secured a three years' lease of a six- teen foot house. No. 8 West Forty-sixth Street, as the price was low, owing to its being next to a livery stable, but the location was excellent. (69) We furnished it, and had not been settled there two months when one of my attending physicians at the hospital, Dr. Fessenden Otis, offered me a partnership which I gladly accepted. He was retiring from practice and would send me in his place whenever he could, giving me one-half the fee which he collected. I was soon making from three to six calls daily for him, and had a class for diseases of the chest at the Demilt Dispensary with my friend Dr. Luis P. Walton, where we examined and prescribed for patients together for two hours, three times a week. Besides, I attended clinics at the hospital. While at Little Neck I had had on two or three occasions attacks of fever, but as nearly everybody had malaria I was told it was malaria and took quinine which, however, did little good. After we moved into town I felt tired all the time, but thought it was the confinement of city life and paid but little attention to it. One afternoon I was at the dispensary with Dr. Walton, and he insisted that I looked ill and took my temperature. To my astonishment it was ioi.° Walton advised me to go to Dr. Janeway and have my lungs examined, but I laughed at the idea. Of course there could be nothing the matter with my lungs! His insistence worried me, however, and next morning as I went by Dr. Janeway's office on West Fourteenth Street the idea struck me that I would go in and have my lungs examined, so that next time Walton berated me about my health (70) I would be able to tell him there was nothing the matter. Even at that early date Dr. Janeway's great skill in physical diagnosis was recognized, and he had a class at Bellevue for physical diagnosis to which I belonged. He received me cordially and began the examination at once. When this was concluded he said nothing. So I ventured, "Well, Dr. Janeway, you can find nothing the matter?" He looked grave and said, "Yes, the upper two- thirds of the left lung is involved in an active tuberculous process." I think I know something of the feelings of the man at the bar who is told he is to be hanged on a given date, for in those days pulmonary consump- tion was considered as absolutely fatal. I pulled myself together, put as good a face on the matter as I could, and escaped from the office after thank- ing the doctor for his examination. When I got outside, as I stood on Dr. Janeway's stoop, I felt stunned. It seemed to me the world had suddenly grown dark. The sun was shining, it is true, and the street was filled with the rush and noise of traffic, but to me the world had lost every vestige of brightness. I had consumption — that most fatal of diseases! Had I not seen it in all its horrors in my brother's case? It meant death and I had never thought of death before! Was I ready to die? How could I tell my wife, whom I had just left in unconscious happiness with the little baby in our new home? And my (71) rose-colored dreams of achievement and profes- sional success in New York! They were all shattered now, and in their place only exile and the inevitable end remained ! How little I could have realized then how many thousand times it would fall to my lot in a long professional life to tell other human beings the same dreadful truth! I think my own experience that day in Dr. Janeway's office was never for- gotten and helped, every time I made a positive diagnosis of tuberculosis, to make me as merciful as was compatible with truthfulness and the wel- fare of the patient. Besides, it was not many years before a new hope, a hope which it was part of my life's work to help develop and demonstrate, could honestly be held out to patients; for the diagnosis of tuberculosis does not now carry the sinister meaning that attached to it in the early seventies. (72) VI I WAS still stunned when I reached home, and though I tried to make the result of Dr. Jane- way's examination as encouraging as possible, my wife soon realized the ominous import of what he had found, and together we discussed the future calmly. We were in the month of February and Dr. Janeway had advised me to go South at once, so we started for Aiken within a few days. I had been told to live out of doors and ride on horse- back, and no doubt I made matters much worse by the horseback riding, for I developed daily fever and was no better when I returned to New- York early in April. I was allowed and even urged to exercise daih', in the misguided belief that it w^ould improve my appetite and keep me from losing strength; but the result naturally enough was that my fever kept up and that I lost weight and strength steadily. Another baby was expected soon in our house- hold and we decided to make no plans for the summer until after its arrival. My friend Dr. Walton was a great help in these days, and by his interest and daily calls did what he could to cheer us both. I had to give up work, howcv^er, and (73) as sickness was a new experience to me at that time I rebelled and struggled against it and was thoroughly unnerved by it. I have had ample opportunity in the past forty years to get used to illness and suffering; but it took me a long time to learn, imperfectly though it be, that acquiescence is the only way for the tuberculous invalid to conquer fate. To cease to rebel and struggle, and to learn to be content with part of a loaf when one cannot have a whole loaf, though a hard lesson to learn, is good philosophy for the tuberculous invalid, and to his astonishment he often finds that what he considers the half- loaf, when acquiesced in, proves most satisfying. It was many years, however, before I learned this great lesson, but when once learned it made life fuller and happier. Lou Livingston did all he could to cheer me up in his own way, which was generally to take me off somewhere and amuse me. I remember on one beautiful spring day he called with the stirring announcement that I was to drive down with him to Union Track, Long Island, where a wonder- ful shooting match was to take place between Paul Smith, the well-known guide and hotel keeper, and, as I remember it now, a gentleman called Harry Park, who was prominent on the Stock Exchange. Neither of the contestants, both middle-aged men, had ever shot a bird on the wing, and the match was to be for one thousand potatoes, and followed by a dinner and a general (74) pigeon-shooting sweepstakes, open to all comers at the entry of five dollars, "miss and out." Lou Livingston was a crack pigeon shot and expected to take part in the sweepstakes and win some money. On a trip to the Adirondacks two years before with my good friend Mrs. Livingston and Lou Livingston, I had been at Paul Smith's and knew him personally; so though I felt miserably ill I got into the trotting wagon with Lou Livingston and we started. A goodly collection of sports had gathered on the main track for the event, and much fun was occasioned by Paul Smith's and Mr. Park's futile efforts at stopping the swift pigeons as they flew from the traps. Liquid refreshments were in order, and a glass of cham- pagne seemed to obliterate my ill feelings. I had never shot pigeons from a trap, and had no idea as to whether or not I had any skill with a shot- gun, except that I had killed a fair proportion of ducks and snipe on the few occasions I had been hunting with the Livingstons. Mr. H. D. Pol- hemus, a big, warm-hearted sportsman whom I had met at Paul Smith's on my trip to the Adiron- dacks two years before, seemed very sympathetic as to my evident illness, and insisted that I take a wonderful gun he had and enter the sweepstakes with the rest, and finally I consented. It was a handicap match, and as I had never shot pigeons before, I was put at sixteen yards, while Lou Livingston had to stand at thirty-two yards from (75) the traps. It was five dollars for each man to enter, and as soon as a man missed his bird he went "out," the last man "in" taking the stakes. From eight to ten men entered the first sweepstake and, to my astonishment, the "miss and out" business didn't seem to apply to me, for I didn't miss any of my birds and was handed the stakes, much to Lou Livingston's and Mr. Polhemus's de- light. I was moved four yards back and we began another sweepstake, which ended in the same way. I was so weak I could hardly stand, but the excitement of my unexpected success and an occasional glass of champagne seemed entirely to steady me, and it appeared to me easy to cover the fast flying pigeons. After I had won the third sweepstake I was put back six yards further. Lou Livingston came to me and said some of the men thought he had played a trick on them by presenting me as a novice while I probably was an old hand at the traps, and he advised that I should spend the money I was winning as freely as I could for food and drink for the participants. I announced that food and wine would be free for the rest of the afternoon, and, with assurances from Mr. Pol- hemus and Paul Smith, who knew me, good feeling was again restored. I shot one more sweepstake and won that and then we went home. Although I won a number of matches in my life afterward, I don't think I ever shot so well as I did on that day, sick as I was. (76) Of course I was exhausted the next day and had to remain in bed with a high fever. I grew steadily worse and had to keep my bed most of the time. My doctor friends all urged an immediate change to the mountains, but I decided to stay until the baby was born and my wife safely through the ordeal. Lou Livingston stood by me as usual, and said he was ready to take me to Paul Smith's as soon as I would go and stay with me until I was better. Our boy was born on May i8, 1873, and a week later Lou Livingston and I set out for Paul Smith's. Dr. Walton was the greatest comfort at that time, and assured me he would look after my wife and "those dreadful little Trudeau brats", and he certainly kept his word. After my wife and babies were moved down to her father's rectory at Little Neck, Walton all through the summer made regular pilgrimages to Little Neck and reported to me of their welfare, while assuring me what a nuisance it w^as to have to look after another man's family. His friendly watchfulness of my dear ones and his letters were the greatest comfort. I was influenced in my choice of the Adiron- dacks only by my love for the great forest and the wild life, and not at all because I thought the climate would be beneficial in any way, for the Adirondacks were then visited only by hunters and fishermen and it was looked upon as a rough, inaccessible region and considered a most inclement (77) and trying climate. I had been to Paul Smith's in the summer on two occasions before on short visits with my friend Lou Livingston and his mother, and had been greatly attracted by the beautiful lakes, the great forest, the hunting and fishing, and the novelty of the free and wild life there. If I had but a short time to live, I yearned for surroundings that appealed to me, and it seemed to meet a longing I had for rest and the peace of the great wilderness. It was a sad home-leaving, as my wife and my friends considered me most seriously if not hope- lessly ill, and she was still in bed with the baby at her side and little Chatte in the nurse's arms. Dr. Walton saw me off and comforted me by his promises to look after "the wife and kids", and help my little family to move down to the rectory at Little Neck for the summer. I finally tore myself away and was helped into the cab by my friend Lou, who at once began to dilate on what sport we should have at Paul's; but my heart was heavier than it had been since by brother's death. The first day we went to Saratoga by train and rested there overnight, and the next day by train to Whitehall and by boat through Lake Cham- plain, reaching Plattsburg at supper time. I had a raging fever all day, went to bed at once on reaching the Fouquet House, and was too ill and weak the next morning to attempt the long trip into the wilderness to Paul Smith's, so we (78) had to wait at Plattsburg two days. Lou Living- ston told me afterwards that the hotel people had tried to dissuade him from taking me on such a long journey and to such a rough and remote place as Paul Smith's, and had urged him to induce me to return home. Whenever he hinted at a return home, however, I was evidently so upset at the idea that he decided to go on with me. On the third day we started on a little branch iron-ore road for Ausable Forks where the mines were, and from there we had to drive forty-two miles to Paul Smith's, most of which was over a rough corduroy road. While I was resting Lou hired an old-fashioned two-horse stage-wagon, put a board between the seats, and with a mattress and a couple of pillows arranged me so that I could lie down all the way quite comfortably. All day long we crept up the hills at a snail's pace, and trotted down the hills and on the level road until I thought we must have gone fifty miles at least. I stood the jolting pretty well until afternoon, when the fever and the fatigue made the rough shaking of the wagon almost unbearable. Lou Livingston smoked innumer- able pipes, conversed with the driver, with whom he made friends over occasional little nips from his flask, and they seemed very happy and com- fortable; but for me it certainly was an afternoon of misery. The sun was just setting as I caught sight of the great pines around Paul Smith's, and in a (79) minute we were driving up to the door of the hostelry, a swarm of guides and fishermen were clambering off the steps and the horse-block, and many hands extended in welcome. Fred Martin, Mrs. Paul Smith's brother and one of the most splendid, sturdy specimens of manhood I have ever seen, was about to give my hand a squeeze that would, no doubt, have finished me, when I whispered to him I was sick and wanted to be carried up to my room. He picked me up as if I had been an infant, and went up two flights of stairs, two steps at a time, opened the door of a room I had occupied before, and put me down on the bed with a pained expression and the com- forting remark, "Why, Doctor, you don't weigh no more than a dried lamb-skin!" We both laughed, and indeed I was so happy at reaching my destination and seeing the beautiful lake again, the mountains and the forest all around me, that I could hardly have been depressed by anything Fred Martin could have said. During the entire journey I had felt gloomy forebodings as to the hopelessness of my case, but, under the magic influence of the surroundings I had longed for, these all disappeared and I felt convinced I was going to recover. How little I knew, as I shook hands with the great, strong men who came up to my room that evening to say a word of cheer to me, that forty-two years later most of them would be dead and that I should still (80) be in the Adirondacks and trying to describe my first arrival at Paul Smith's as an invalid! Soon Katie Martin, Mrs. Paul Smith's pretty sister, came in with a word of welcome and cheer and a tray on which were eggs, brook trout, pan- cakes and coffee, and I ate heartily and with a real relish for the first time in many a long week. Paul Smith's at that time was a very different place from what it has become in these days of Pullman trains, automobiles, speed launches and parlor camps. Things were very primitive but most comfortable. There was no running water in the hotel, and a trip to the spring under the bank with a pail supplied the drinking water; but Mrs. Paul Smith's influence was seen every- where in the house, in the clean and comfortable rooms, the good beds, the excellent cooking which she did or supervised herself, and the feeling of welcome and home with which she impressed all her guests. Paul Smith's strong personality also pervaded the place. He had a keen, incisive sense of humor and was a jovial host, abounding in jokes and good stories which he told at the expense of guides and sportsmen alike. He divided his time then between his duties as host, and, especially during the hunting season, his duties as guide. His duties as host sat very lightly on him, however, as he had learned that with Mrs. Smith at the helm his responsibilities need give him no anxiety; but he derived much pleasure from his guiding (81) experiences, not so much because he was keen about the sport as because he enjoyed the com- panionship, the pecuharities and the mistakes of the city sportsmen he guided, whom he looked upon as curious specimens of mankind. I can see him in the center of the Httle dining-room, after having put out his hounds in the morning hunt, beaming with good nature and standing in his shirt-sleeves, with four or five dog-chains still slung over his shoulders, carving the venison or roast for his guests and joking with everybody around him. This was before his shrewd land transactions had made him a rich man; but his riches never altered his personality in the least. Paul Smith was no respecter of persons, though he was very fond of his fellow-men. He was always inclined rather to laugh at their faults than to condemn them, and this was because his estimate of humanity was not very high. He thought that in most men, as in most things in life, there was a good share of humbug. Most men might be honest or might think they were, but as a rule his estimate of his fellow-beings was like that of the Irishman who said his friend was "perfectly honest but would bear watching". He had little respect for the learned professions: clergymen, lawyers, doctors were in his opinion more or less inclined to humbug the public. He had little faith in any of them, or in high education. He thought a man was born ''smart" and that no amount of "book-learning" could make him smart, (82) though it might enable him to hoodwink the pubhc into thinking him so and thus redound to his advantage. His low opinion of "book- learning" was admirably shown one day when a gentleman well known in New York society — who had been graduated from several universities and had every advantage education could give him — came up to us as we sat talking on the verandah, and began to point out to Paul what mistakes he had made in the management of several matters connected with his business and how he could rectify them. Paul shut one eye and nodded his head in apparent acquiescence; but when the gentleman had gone he turned to me and said, " Doctor, there is no fool like an educated fool". Paul, though not highly educated, was certainly no fool, and his business ventures proved him a match for the shrewdest and best-trained minds. His land speculations and his buying of all the water powers on the Saranac River before anyone else had suspected their value, was a striking example of his far-sightedness. A man of unusual ph^^sical strength, he was rather apathetic and indolent in temperament, but when once aroused, the personification of vigorous and forceful activity. In a memorable journey through the snow from Malone, in 1875, with my family, had it not been for his resource- ful energy we certainly would have all suffered terribly. (83) When death and sorrow came to us, and Chatte and Ned were taken, Paul and his sons made us feel they were indeed true friends. My wife and I will never forget their acts of friendly and helpful sympathy at these times. Paul Smith's was then only a sporting hostelry, the resort of hunters and fishermen, and few ladies and no children were ever seen among the guests. When Lou Livingston and I reached there about the first of June, W. C. Prime and his friend, W. Bridge, two picturesque sporting figures, were at their usual post doing their spring fishing; and most entertaining companions they proved to be, for Mr. Prime had travelled all over the world and had seen many strange coun- tries. I slept well and woke full of hope and anticipa- tion and interest in my new surroundings. The first thing I did was to secure a guide, and Warren Flanders was engaged by me and George Martin by Lou Livingston. The old Adirondack guides were most striking personalities and an interest- ing lot of men, like children about many things, a happy, easy-going lot, who took no care for the morrow and enjoyed life for life's sake. Although as in all other callings there were good guides and poor guides, they generally knew their business pretty thoroughly in those days. Some of them, however, never could learn to find their way in the woods, as this seems an attribute that a man is born with, which cannot well (84) be learned. In one well-known family at St. Regis several of the young men were good guides in every other respect, but not one of them could "put out dogs" — that is, travel in the woods all day in constantly varying directions and return at will. On the other hand, some of the most uneducated seemed to know always just where they were and in which direction to travel to reach camp in a straight line. Most of them carried compasses to help them keep their direction. I had a guide the first winter I spent at Paul Smith's who, like many of his mates, would occasionally drink more than was good for him. So keen was his sense of locality that several times while hunting for me, after walking for half a day, starting each dog after a separate deer and celebrating each event by a drink from his flask, he would be overcome by his indul- gences and could walk no further. He would then lie down and sleep wherever he happened to be late in the afternoon, but he never lay out all night. He would come straight back, through miles of unbroken forest, guided only by an instinct which was born in him and which even his confused wanderings while under the influence of alcohol could not eff"ace. He was a strange personality, always poor, and thoroughly ignorant and superstitious. A good idea of his reasoning powers and methods in life was shown by the way he treated his hounds. I noticed during the winter I was at (85) Paul Smith's that the six dogs he had were very thin and always ravenous, and I spoke to him about it. He gave me, as a perfectly good reason, the information that his wife always baked one pan of corn-meal each day for the dogs. Last year he had only three and they did very well, but this year he had six and the corn-cake cut in six pieces made a thin meal for the hungry hounds; but then he said, ''You know if my dogs can't live on that pan of corn-cake, why they can starve if they choose!" I don't think it ever occurred to him to cook two pans of corn- meal instead of one when he had six dogs. Each guide had his specialty. Some were bet- ter fishermen and others, who were the real woodsmen, better hunters. A really good guide could contribute greatly to the success and com- fort of a hunting or fishing trip, while a poor guide would make it a discomfort and a failure. Really good guides w^ere certainly experts at their busi- ness, and easily earned their two and a half or three dollars a day. A good guide was first of all a truthful man whose word could be relied upon; he was a skilled oarsman, and often car- ried his boat on his back for miles from one lake to another; a thorough woodsman, with all that implies of fishing, hunting and wood-lore; a good cook, resourceful in emergencies, and an excellent companion. One or two of them — Fitz Greene Hallock and Albert McKenzie — besides possessing all these qualities to the full, (86) have been for a lifetime the best and truest of personal friends to me. Warren Flanders came to my room after break- fast and told me he had fixed the boat "comfort- able" with balsam boughs and blankets so that I could lie down in it, had put my rifle in, and if I felt up to it we would row down the river to Keese's Mill "kind of slow" and see what we could see. My hunting blood responded at once and I was soon in the boat. It w^as a beautiful sunny June day, the sky and water were blue, and the trees resplendent in their spring foliage; and as I lay comfortably on the soft boughs in the stern of the boat, with my rifle in reach across the gunwale, my spirits were high and I forgot all the misery and sickness I had gone through in the past two months. The guide kept looking ahead from time to time. All at once he stopped, suddenly turning the boat sidewise. On a point about two hun- dred yards away I saw two deer: a buck and a doe were feeding. I never sat up, but rested my rifle on the side of the boat and fired at the buck who, after a few jumps, fell dead at the edge of the woods. Warren went ashore, loaded the deer in the boat and we returned to the hotel. If any game laws existed in those days they didn't apply to the Adirondack wilderness, for it was the cus- tom to shoot game and catch fish at any season, provided they were used as food and not sent out of the woods for sale. (87) I got back quite triumphant to the hotel, and Lou Livingston, Paul Smith and the guides, who were very sympathetic about my illness, seemed delighted that I had had such good sport on the first day of my arrival. (88) VII THIS was my first personal experience as a patient in the Adirondacks, and rather differ- ent from the first day spent by most patients who come now to Saranac Lake as ill as I was then! The change, the stimulus of renewed hope and the constant open-air life had a wonderful effect on my health. I soon began to eat and sleep, and lost my fever. At that time we had no idea of the essential value of rest, but as I often spent the entire day in the boat, fishing or being rowed about from place to place or watching the lake for deer, I unconsciously was kept at rest. My anxiety about my family was entirely relieved by frequent letters from my wife and good friend Walton, who sent me regular reports of "the brats" every two weeks, in which he fulminated, after his usual manner, on the nuisance of having to go out into the country to see them; but the reports were all good, and my improvement day by day became more manifest. At the end of July Lou Livingston had to return home. I saw but little of this good friend of my youth in after life, though he came to see me for two days during the winter we spent at (89) Paul Smith's. He continued to live in New York for many years and as far as I know never had a day's illness, but died suddenly of heart disease. How different our experiences in life! This strong man, who never came in contact with illness or knew what it means to be ill, has been dead many years, while I have spent forty years in the midst of the sick, ever in poor health, and for the past ten years so ill as to be entirely incapacitated for months at a time. Another friend of mine and the Livingstons, E. H. Harriman, offered to come up and look after me and spend most of the month of August with me. A telegram which read, "Head me — here I come. E. H. H." preceded his arrival by a few hours. Paul Smith had purchased some- where a gilt ball which with great pride he had had placed on the flag-pole in front of the hotel. I told Paul that I knew if Ed Harriman caught sight of that ball when he arrived the first thing he would do would be to shoot at it. As the stage stopped Ed Harriman jumped out, rifle in hand, caught sight of the bright ball at the top of the flag-pole, and put a bullet through it before shak- ing hands with us all. This was before Mr. Harriman had begun his wonderful career as a railroad organizer and a great financier — for I believe he still was a clerk in the oflice of D. C. Hays & Company at that time — and a more light-hearted and better com- panion and friend I could not have had. Many (90) DR. TRUDEAU. THE HUNTSMAN (1873) THREE MONTHS AFTER ARRIVAL AT PAUL SMITHS were the joyous, beautiful summer days we spent floating over the lakes in our boats, hunting, fishing, and camping together wherever we fan- cied to stop for the night. Mr. Harriman was an excellent shot with a rifle and we soon became rivals, especially in the sport of loon hunting. The loon is a sort of avian submarine when hunted from a boat, never flying, but diving and coming up unexpectedly at constantly vary- ing distances, and then showing only his head above the water for a few seconds before diving again. The loon is as elusive a mark to shoot at with a rifle from a moving boat as anybody could possibly wish for. We were both light-hearted young men in those jo3'ous days, and little did either of us know what responsibilities and struggles the future held in store for us and how absolutely divergent would be the paths Fate had marked out for us to walk in. Many years afterwards, when the financial and railroad world was ring- ing with Mr. Harriman 's name, he came to Paul Smith's in his private car to see me, and at Dr. Seward Webb's invitation he went down to inspect some of the lakes on Dr. Webb's won- derful forest preserve, taking me along with him. A special engine was sent up by the New York Central at his order to take the car where- ever he wanted to go, and Dr. Webb's guides and saddle-horses were to meet us when we arrived. As I remarked upon the beauty and (91) comfort of his car some recollections of the old days must have crossed his mind, for he looked up at me with his keen smile and said, "This is not half as much fun, Ed, as the way we travelled about in the old days that sum- mer at Paul Smith's." And he was right, for it certainly was not. However divergent our paths and interests in life proved to be, and in spite of the fact that we saw each other only at rare intervals, the old friendship between us through a lifetime ever remained the same, and he never neglected an opportunity to show me that it was so. In spite of his fame and power and riches, his manner toward me never changed in the least. If I called on him when I went to New York, and found as usual many influential financiers and great railroad presidents waiting for an inter- view with him, he would keep them all waiting no matter who they were, until he had taken time to greet me and hear how things were going in the Adirondacks. His friendship for me was always expressed in deeds and not in words. At intervals in life when great sorrows swept over me and nearly crushed me, I felt at once his helpful hand and strong and sustaining person- ality, and all that a good friend could do to help he quietly did for me. When my health broke down almost completely in 1902, he urged me to go to California in February for a two months' trip. He placed at our disposal (92) a private car, in charge of one of the best stewards on the Union Pacific Railroad, provisioned it thoroughly, put orders on board to other roads to convey us wherever we might want to go, and told me to go and rest and amuse myself awhile. Unfortunately I was taken ill in Red- lands, and though we enjoyed every minute of the trip, it seemed to do my health little good. Beset on all sides by keen enemies who plotted his overthrow, and by seeming friends who were too often ready to betray his confidence, Mr. Harriman no doubt learned the wisdom of keeping his own counsel and trusting very few men. He showed me, however, on many occasions that he trusted me, and I believe he never had any reason to think that his confidence had been misplaced. People often tried to learn his views on financial matters by questioning me, but I could always tell them frankly, what was really true, that if there was one thing that we did not discuss when together it was his business and his railroads. He had a keen sense of humor, and I think was often much amused at my ingenuousness about business matters. We both belonged to a little hunting and fishing club at Little Rapids, with two other friends of mine. Mr, Harriman rarely went there, but insisted, as did my other two friends for the same reason, on holding his member- ship for many years, paying his share of the expenses of the little Club, because he knew I loved to go there with my family for rest and (93) recreation when the strain of my work was too much for me. On one occasion I wanted to add to our small land holdings so as to get more hunt- ing and fishing ground, and asked him if he would care to invest a few thousand dollars in such wild land. He said he would, and listened to me as I enthusiastically dilated on the advantages of the proposed purchase. When I ended by saying, "It seems well worth the money to me, but you must decide, as I don't want you to 'get stuck' if you buy it, " he smiled as he touched me on the arm and said, "Ed, don't you ever worry about my getting stuck." He left for Alaska a few days later with the expedition he had organized, which he had invited Mrs. Trudeau and me to join, taking my son Ned with him. To show how keen his memory was for detail and how good a friend he was to me, in spite of the pressure of the great responsibilities to be adjusted and arranged for before his depar- ture for so long an absence and the cares of preparation for his large expedition, he did not forget me. A few days after his departure I had a note from his secretary, saying Mr. Harriman had left instructions that if I decided to buy any land I could draw on his office for any sum needed up to forty thousand dollars. I was afraid of "getting him stuck," however, and did not avail myself of his friendly offer. I never knew a calmer or more self-contained man than Mr. Harriman, and until physical com- (94) plications broke down his health he seemed abso- lutely unruffled by the stress and strain of the great business struggles in which he constantly took so prominent a part. I remember I happened to be in town on the day before Wall Street's great panic in 1907, and I got a telephone message from him saying he was going down to his country place at Arden early in the afternoon to stay over night, and asking me to accompany him and we could have a good drive together. We spent the afternoon driving and the evening smoking and talking, and at ten o'clock started for bed. Not a word had been said about business, but I knew from scare headlines in the newspapers that a panic was imminent. As we parted at the foot of the stairs I said, "Good night to you; I hope you will have a good night's sleep and that things will straighten out in Wall Street tomorrow. " He smiled, and said, "Ed, I never stayed awake a night in my life about business and I'm not going to begin now." Next morning at the breakfast table he was as fresh and cheery as usual, though he knew better than anyone that the ver>^ foundations of great business concerns and of Wall Street itself would totter on that day, and that ruin might come to the most powerful. He became a trustee of the Sanitarium at my request in 1891, and remained on the board until his death in 1909. He always gave the work while on the board his time, interest, advice and sup- ■ (95) port, and on several instances induced his friends to join him in subscriptions to the Endowment Fund. He loved a joke, and always pretended to me that his responsibilities as a trustee of the Sanitarium were a great burden — greater than any others he had — and that he must sacrifice all other business to be present at these meetings, which he nevertheless always found time to attend no matter how pressing his engagements. He would always make it a great point to come from New York to Paul Smith's to attend the summer meetings which were always held in the Adiron- dacks, and after the meeting he usually remained and visited me for a few days. On the one occasion when he was in Japan during the summer he sent me a cable on the day of the meeting which was characteristic of him: "Sorry I cannot come to meeting. It is a long way around to you, but not so far in a straight line through the earth. Best wishes." Mr. Harriman was obliged to return to his business in New York toward the end of August, and James Livingston volunteered to come up and take his place in looking after me, though by that time I was feeling almost well again. Jim Livingston remained with me three weeks, and about the end of September I decided I was so well that I would go down and join my wife and babies at the Prospect House, Catskill, where she and her father had gone for a little (96) change. I was sunburned, had gained fifteen pounds in weight, was apparently in my usual health, and was so anxious to see my little family again that I could hardly wait for the day set for m}^ departure for Catskill. It was a happy reunion at the Catskill hotel, where I became better acquainted with little Chatte and Ned and the faithful nurse, Annie Gaffney. After we all got back to town again I tried hard to get my physicians and friends to let me stay at home, but a return of the fever soon showed me the folly of such a course. The doctors decided for some reason to send me to St. Paul, Minnesota, which was considered by some an excellent place for pulmonary invalids in the winter on account of its large proportion of sunny days, and we started at once. The winter at St. Paul was not a success, and as I was allowed to drive and walk and go duck hunting when I felt equal to it, I had some fever most of the time. By spring I was nearly as sick as the year before and the Adirondacks seemed my only hope; so we left St. Paul in May, and early in June, accompanied by my wife, the two children and two nurses, I arrived at Paul Smith's to my intense joy, for I always loved the place. Of late years on several occasions I have been taken to Paul Smith's from Saranac Lake in the spring so ill that my life was despaired of; and yet little by little, while lying out under the great trees, looking out on the lake all day, my fever (97) has stopped and my strength slowly begun to return. Last spring — 19 14 — at Saranac Lake I was so ill and weak that I had ceased, for the first time in my life, even to care to live any longer. I arrived at Paul Smith's at the end of June on a mattress, which had been placed in the auto- mobile of a good friend, and the same feeling of hope and courage came back when I was carried up to my airy porch in the little cottage, with the stillness of the great forest all about me, the lake shimmering in the sunlight, and a host of recollec- tions of many happy days and many good friends crowding in on me from every side. Again, imper- ceptibly the fever began to fall, and strength — and with it the desire to live — to return. During the previous two months in the spring at Saranac Lake I did not w^ant to live from day to day; much less did I ever dream I should be willing to live over again in retrospect the long years of the past and write about them. The magic spell of the old place, however, seemed again able to restore the failing spark of existence, and must be respon- sible for whatever may result, even my writing my autobiography. Many of the sportsmen at Paul Smith's criticised me for bringing such young children to so rough and remote a place, but the children seemed to thrive all summer. It was different with me, and this time I did not improve as I did the first summer. The fall found me still having fever and able to do very little. (98) It was then that I first met Dr. Alfred Loomis, who was in camp with a hunting party at Bay Pond. When he returned to the hotel on his wa}' to New York I asked him to examine me, and his report was most discouraging. I told him I was tired of going from place to place; that I loved the Adirondacks; that I would like to stay all winter and take my chance. He seemed to think there was no reason why I should not tr>' it, and told me he had advised a Mr. Edgar, who was a patient of his and wanted to stay through the winter, to remain also. I heard indirectly after- wards that he felt little or no hope of my recovery and thought I might as well spend the remaining days of my life where I was happiest. I lived, however, to induce him to become a trustee of, and to examine patients in New York for, the Adirondack Cottage Sanitarium, when I opened that institution in 1884 at Saranac Lake. He always took a keen interest in my experiment, and gave the Sanitarium the support and approval of his great name up to the date of his death in 1895. The good result of the winter's stay in my case, as well as in that of Mr. Edgar who stayed at Saranac Lake during the same winter I spent at Paul Smith's, drew Dr. Loomis's attention to the value of the Adirondack climate for tuberculous patients and induced him to advise other such patients to remain through the winter. In 1876 he published a paper in The Medical Record, draw- (99) ing attention for the first time to the chmatic value of this region for pulmonary invalids. When with some hesitancy I proposed to my wife my plan of our remaining in the Adirondacks all winter she acquiesced at once, though in those days wintering in the Adirondacks was much like wintering in the Klondike now. I never realized until later how selfish my decision to remain in such a remote place was, and how hard it must have been for her. If this plan were carried out, not only would she be cut off from all intercourse with friends, but in my precarious state of health she knew if I were taken very ill no help could be secured, and she must carry the anxiety alone. The nearest doctor was at Plattsburg, a sixty- mile drive, often through unbroken roads. My wife, however, has never been the nervous, over- anxious type, but always self-contained, meeting quietly and bravely all the ills and sorrows that have come to us in life. We were young and happy together with our children, and were not inclined to borrow trouble; thus it came about, thanks to her quiet courage, that we decided to face the terrors of an Adirondack winter, sixty miles from a doctor or a railroad and entirely cut off from all connection with the outside world. We could, however, send for the mail, which was carried by a stage sleigh three times a week to Bloomingdale, a ten-mile drive from Paul Smith's, The first difficulty we met in carrying out our plan was a positive refusal from Paul Smith and (100) his wife to take us for the winter. The Httle hos- telry usually closed at the end of October, when the last hunter took his departure. Paul and his wife, their three little boys, Henr^^, Phelps and Paulie, a man to look after the barn and a woman to help Mrs. Smith with the cooking and house- keeping, were the only human beings who remained through the winter. No "outsider" had ever passed a winter at St. Regis Lake before. The truth, I imagine, was that Mrs. Smith feared I never would live through the winter, and I know they both thought it a most rash and foolish thing for such a sick man to do. In those days the belief that cold and storm were the two things to be avoided by the consumptive, and that he should in winter seek a warm and sunny climate, was so gen- eral and deep-rooted that my staying in so rough a climate seemed to them little short of suicide. First I got Paul to say that he was willing to keep us if Mrs. Smith would consent; and then I got my wife, whom Mrs. Smith was very^ fond of, to do her best to win her over, and finally she gave a reluctant consent. Mrs. Smith was a wonderfully fine character, a very hard worker, capable, just, and with fine ideals which she certainly lived up to. Before the winter was over we both had learned to respect and love her, and she did all she could to help us and make us comfortable. We found Paul Smith an excellent companion, always taking ever^'body and everything in life as a joke. (101) VIII ABOUT this time I received a letter from my k^ dear mother, who for many years had Hved in her Httle cottage home in Fontainebleau, saying she felt most anxious about me and would take the next steamer and come and spend a month or six weeks with me, wherever I might happen to be. Such a long journey in the beginning of winter was at that time a great undertaking for a woman alone, but Mother was a brave woman. The ties of affection in spite of separation had ever bound us to each other very- closely, and I looked forward to seeing her again with the keenest anticipation. My wife was to go down with the children at the beginning of November and visit her father at Little Neck, and my mother was to come up and spend six weeks with me while they were all away. This plan we carried out; and what a pleasure it was when, after what seemed to me an inter- minably long wait, my dear, brave, little mother drove up with Paul Smith and I helped her out at the old horse block! She had lived in France so long and travelled and seen so much that she was a perfect type of a refined French lady, and a most agreeable com- (103) panion. In a few days she had completely won Paul and his wife over, so that they came into my room every evening to listen to her, and she would entertain them with stories of her experi- ences and her travels in foreign lands. They formed the habit of coming every evening after supper, and we would play whist until bedtime. These whist parties were continued throughout the entire winter, after my mother left and my wife returned, and I still have most joyous recol- lections of those happy evenings when, by a big wood fire in the cozy little room, the great snow- covered wilderness extending for miles around us and the mercury many degrees below zero, we would play cards and listen to Paul's yarns. Paul was a keen whist player, but he did not hesitate to cheat a little if he thought he could do it safely. I found this out for the first time on one occasion when we had played whist all the evening, and it suddenly occurred to me as I was going to bed that I had not dealt once that evening. My mother was delighted with the wild beauty of the snow-covered woods and mountains, and as she had a good deal of talent and had painted all her life she at once got out her paint tubes and palette. The first thing she painted was the old hostelry as it was then, with the gigantic pines on all sides of it and the frozen lake in front of it. Mrs. Smith took such a fancy to the picture that Mother gave it to her, and it still hangs in the parlor at Paul Smith's. (104) Of course I thought I should Hke to paint also, and Mother, after the manner of mothers who readily see an embr>'o genius in their sons, gladly began to teach me, so that every day we had painting lessons together. She kept a hideous white hare which was my first production, and I still have an absurd painting of St. Regis Mountain at sunset which I executed at that time, and which I prize for its association and for its very ugliness. We had very many happy days together, Mother and I, in our wild and remote environment, and it is well we had. Their recollections warmed my heart for many years afterwards, for after she left Paul Smith's and returned to Fontainebleau I never saw her again. In spite of an enforced and unbroken separation of nearly a quarter of a century which followed, however, the ties of affection never loosened between us, and I wrote her a long letter, describing our interests, our sorrows and our joys every Sunday night, with only one or two exceptions, through all those long years, until she passed away in 1900 in her little cottage at Fontainebleau. My love for hunting had free play from that winter on, as the Adirondacks then were a real hunter's paradise. I tried all the hounds in the neighborhood and bought the best one of them, a beautiful, long-eared black and tan with a voice like a fog-horn; and every morning I would walk right out in the woods about the house, start a big white hare with him almost at the very door (105) of the hotel, and stand about, changing my posi- tion a little from time to time, until he drove the game in sight. It is a good long stretch of time from those days in the winter of 1875, when I stood every day almost in sight of the hotel and listened to the music of my hound as he chased the big white hares over the new snow, to November, 191 3, when I killed my last deer at Little Rapids from a chair in which I had been carried to my runway. I had hunted whenever I could manage to do so during those forty years. I never lost my keen interest in hunting, and it has remained an ever-enduring pleasure and relaxation of which I did not allow my physical infirmities to deprive me. As an instance of this, when I killed my last deer, in 1913, I had been brought so low by months of continuous fever that an operation which collapsed one of my lungs was done, and although it stopped the fever at once, I was so short of breath, as I could use but one lung, that I could not walk or move about to any extent. When the fall came, however, and I knew my old friend Fitz Hallock was waiting for our usual fall hunt together at Little Rapids, I could not resist the temptation of going. The guides tied poles to an old rocking chair and carried me to the different watch-grounds by this comfortable but unsportsman-like method of progression. Fitz had told me that morning that he had tracked a big buck that had crossed (106) a lumber road and gone into the swamp, and prophesied that at sundown the buck would cross the lumber road again at the same place while starting out for a night forage. The guides carried me to the lumber road and I sat for two hours in that rocking chair just where Fitz placed me, and he behind me. As usual neither of us said a word, and I enjoyed to the full the melodious stillness of the great forest, while the sun began to slant and then disappeared behind the tree tops. It was beginning to get dark and I had given up all hope of a shot that day, when right in the middle of the lumber road a ghost-like looking deer suddenly appeared in the gathering twilight, as if by magic, just where Fitz had told me to watch. The old thrill went through my nerves. I raised my rifle slowly, put a bullet through the point of the buck's shoulder, and he dropped right in his tracks. Fitz, beaming with pleasure, said, "Well, Doctor, you must love to hunt, and you haven't forgotten how to do it yet!" I hunted hares by myself that first winter at Paul Smith's, and when I varied that sport by fox hunting I usually sent for Ben Monte. He would appear with three lean and yelping hounds and we would have a fox hunt together. I found, however, I could not walk enough to stand much chance for a shot without feeling sick and feverish the next day, and this was the first intimation I had as to the value of the rest cure, which in (107) after years I applied so thoroughly and rigidly to my patients. I walked very little after this, and my faith in the value of the rest cure became more and more fully established. I had brought with me to Paul Smith's one of the little trotting mares I had bought from Lou Livingston, and Paul had a trotter of his own, so we had a track cleared of snow on the lake and we trotted many races without any audience but the tall pines on the shore. We were entirely cut off from the world, except that one telegraph wire from Plattsburg reached over the sixty miles of wilderness to us; but in the fall, after the summer operator had gone, there was no one to use this wire. I decided, therefore, that I would learn the Morse alphabet, and wrote the operator at Plattsburg soliciting his interest and help. He had little to do in winter evenings, and con- sented to practise with me for half an hour after the business of the day was over. I soon grew moderately proficient, and my evening talk with Plattsburg brought us all the outside news of any interest. Coasting, snow-balling, reading, painting, tele- graphing, playing cards, hunting, fishing through the ice for trout and driving the little mare, in all of which Mother joined, made the days fly, though we never saw a face from the outside world until Christmas, when my friend Lou Livingston turned up for a couple of days to take a look at me and have a Httle hunt. When he (108) left us he went off on a snowshoe trip somewhere with the guides, and it was many years before I saw him again, and then onl}^ for a few minutes in New York. Finally, about the middle of January, the day fixed for Mother's departure came. I was to drive her in my cutter with the little mare to Malone, a small station on the Ogdensburg Road, a good forty miles away and we were to wait there until my wife and family arrived the next afternoon. Paul was then to come for us with two sleighs, and the whole party, after Mother's departure, was to return to St. Regis. I have often wondered why Paul was not afraid to start Mother and me off in a cutter by ourselves on a forty-mile drive through such a wilderness, for the roads were almost unbroken and for six or seven miles in places not a habitation — not even a wood-chopper's cabin — was to be encountered. Had I got in a drift, upset or broken the cutter or harness, neither of us would ever have been able to reach shelter! But I was young and never borrowed trouble in those days; and so we started. The drive through the many long miles of snow- covered woods, in a country dotted with lakes and mountains, wild in their loneliness, impressed my mother deeply, and she often referred to it in her letters in after years. No accident happened, and we reached Malone safely about dark. The next day my little family arrived and we had a very happy reunion, as (109) Mother had never seen the children before. Paul and the teams turned up that evening and Mother took the train that night. This was the last time I ever saw her, but three weeks later I had a letter from her, written in Fontainebleau, saying she had reached home safely. (110) IX THE weather had been threatening and the wind rising. That night it stormed and snowed all night, a veritable blizzard; and next morning the snow looked very deep in the streets of Malone. On account of the snow we decided not to start back until afternoon and then to go only to Duane, a comfortable, farm-like hotel fourteen miles from Malone, and spend the night there. Paul drove the two black horses and carried in his sleigh the children, the faithful Annie Gaffney, who had cared for little Chatte since she was born, and another nurse who never went by any other name than Mary and who looked after little Ned, not yet two years old. Brink, the teamster, drove two big horses to a pair of lumber sleds on which the trunks were placed, and the little Livingston mare drew me and my wife in the cutter. We were in high spirits and made a brave start, but little did we know what was before us. As we drew clear of the houses and began to climb the hills I noticed the wind was rising and that it was getting colder. Once or twice Paul's team, which led the party, seemed to get into deep snow, and we had to walk a great share of the way. (Ill) At that season it begins to grow dark about four o'clock in the Adirondacks, and I was just wonder- ing how much farther we had to go, when the teams ahead stopped at the foot of a long, steep hill. Paul and Brink got out and trampled the snow ahead of the horses, then tried to start them again, but it was no use; they were soon wallow- ing up to their shoulders and could go no farther. The icy wind was drifting the fine snow into our eyes. The horses had been covered with sweat and in a few minutes they were covered with ice, and I had hard work to keep my face and ears from freezing. The children began to cry, and the nurses — or rather Mary — began to wail and call on the Saints for help, when Paul strode up to the cutter and said, "Doctor, the hill is solid with snow all the way up. If we don't get these children in shelter they'll soon freeze. Brink and I will dig a place in this drift, put you all in, and we will unharness the horses and do what we can to get them through the drift. We can leave the trunks where they are." And then as usual a twinkle came in his eye and he said, "I don't think anyone will steal them trunks before morning." The horses were blanketed, shovels were pro- duced from the baggage sleigh, and the two men soon had dug a large hole in the side of the drift away from the wind. Robes were put in this improvised cave, and we all were glad to take shelter there from the bitter wind that was blow- (112) ing. The children stopped crying, and we were quite comfortable while inside the big drift. Meanwhile Paul and Brink unharnessed the horses and, each man leading a horse, they struggled to the top of the hill until the four horses had been taken through the drift. Then they managed to drag Paul's sleigh, which was a light one, to the top, taking advantage of the track they and the horses had broken. Returning to the drift where we were, they each carried a child in their arms and the nurses followed in their footsteps as best they could. As I saw the track was pretty well broken by these maneuvers my wife and I got in the cutter, and though the little mare floundered and stopped several times we managed to get to the top of the hill in safety. By that time it was dark and snowing fast. The horses were harnessed to Paul's sleigh, the crying chil- dren and frozen nurses were put in and wrapped up as well as possible. Brink rode one of his horses and led the other, and so we moved on. Paul upset his sleigh twice in the drifts, and the darkness added to our troubles; but to my great relief we soon saw a light through the trees, and before long we were all in front of the hospitable Duane Farm and wilHng hands were carrying the children into the warm sitting-room where a big fire was blazing. The children's spirits as well as our own soon rose, and it was a happy party that sat down at the supper table half an hour later. I don't think any dwelling ever seemed to (113) me as comfortable as that hospitable Duane Farm did that night. We all slept like tops, and the next morning broke clear and cold (twenty degrees below zero). Paul thought it would be foolish after our experi- ence with the snow the day before to start without knowing something about the condition of the road. It was therefore decided that we should remain at Duane through the day, and that Paul and Brink should get a fresh pair of horses from the farm, go over the road for ten or twelve miles and dig out any bad drifts, so as to facilitate our progress the next day. When they returned in the evening they reported the snow deep, but they had had to dig out only one or two drifts; and so next morning we all started again. The distance to Paul Smith's was about twenty- eight miles. The first ten miles were mostly through the woods where the snow did not drift, and we made fair but rather slow progress. After we passed Meacham Lake the road showed that no one had travelled it since the storm, two days before, and the snow was very deep; but we finally reached McCollum's Farm seven miles from Paul Smith's by one o'clock, had dinner, rested the horses an hour, and then started on. For six miles from McCollum's the road ran across recently burned ground, and we began to encounter drift after drift. It seemed as if we had no sooner struggled or dug the horses through one than we were stuck in another. (114) Paul's sleigh with the nurses and children upset constantly while in these drifts, and yells from the children would announce the fact. I would stop the mare, wade through the snow, comfort them, and put them back in the nurses' laps, there to remain until another upset occurred. Finally the progress became so slow that I saw Paul was getting anxious. Brink's team was now plodding along breaking the road, as one of Paul's blacks had shown signs of giving out. Paul told Brink to drive the blacks, and jumped up on the baggage load in an attempt to carry the big team through if possible. We were then nearing Bar- num Pond and within three miles of Paul Smith's Hotel, but it was snowing hard and growing dark. I can see Paul's huge figure, clad in a big buffalo coat with a red woolen sash tied around his waist, standing on top of the trunks and urging the horses on; but as they drove down on Barnum Pond the load stopped, and I got out of the sleigh to find out what was the matter. The big horses had both simply given out and were lying on their sides, breathing hard. One of Paul's blacks was lying down also. Paul got the whip, loosened the big horses' traces and neck yokes and beat them several resounding whacks, but they took no notice: they had done all they could. I confess I was anxious as to what was going to happen to us now when Paul, turning to me, said, (115) "Doctor, don't you know Napoleon said 'The dark regions of Russia is only fit for Russians to inhabit'?" Then he laughed and lit the stump of an old cigar. His cheerfulness helped me wonderfully. He told me the horses would lie there for awhile and when rested would get on their feet again, but that none of them would be good for another drift, and we were still two miles from home. Half a mile from Barnum Pond a guide named Lant Wilcox lived, and he had a team of horses, so Paul left us all on Barnum Pond and started to get the new horses. It was a long wait, but the children slept in the nurses' arms, and we all kept as warm as we could until, to our relief, a lantern appeared through the woods. Paul and Lant Wilcox had harnessed the new team to the front bobs of a lumber sleigh ; the nurses and chil- dren were placed in this sleigh, which Paul drove himself. I followed with the little mare; behind us straggled at long intervals as best they could the poor, worn-out horses, whose instinct taught them they were not far from shelter and food ; and thus we reached Paul Smith's at ten p.m., three days after we started from Malone. My little mare was the only one of the horses that drew her load from start to finish. We were all thoroughly worn out, chilled and hungry; but oh, so thankful to see Mrs. Smith and the hospitable old place once more! Next morning I drove down with Brink to (116) Barnum Pond to get the trunks, and we found the loaded sleigh where we had left it in the dark the night before, within twenty feet of a big air hole. Many times in late years I have travelled in an hour on the New York Central from Malone to Paul Smith's, and as I looked out of the com- fortably heated Pullman over the same snow- covered wilderness I have thought, though not without pleasure, of how different the journey was when I brought my little family to Paul Smith's in 1875! The snow in February became deeper and deeper, and by the end of the month was five feet deep in the woods. The man who took care of the animals had to put on snowshoes to go to the barn, and we could drive to Bloomingdale no longer, but sent a guide on snowshoes after the mail once or twice a week. Mrs. Smith made us all very comfortable in our quarters, and as she was a wonderful cook the meals she gave us were excellent. We always had venison, trout and partridges which the guides were only too glad to dispose of, and as long as the roads were available Paul's team would bring in a load of provisions once in ten days — beef, mutton, eggs, chickens, groceries, etc. The children would often cry with cold hands and feet while playing on the floor, but they were perfectly well all winter and had none of the troublesome colds which they constantly suffered (117) from in the steam-heated apartments in St. Paul the winter before. I kept well and rarely had any fever, and on the whole I think my wife and I had a very happy winter in spite of our rough and remote surroundings. We began to long for the spring, however, and the advent of a face from the outside world; and when in the early part of May I heard over my wire that a fishing party was coming in on a stage-wagon, we were full of excitement and antici- pation. The party turned out to be Edmund and William Hall Penfold and their sister. I soon became acquainted with them, and my wife with Miss Penfold. They were astonished to hear we had wintered at Paul Smith's. We all seemed most congenial, and they have told me many times since that I talked with great fluency and seemed eager to know any news, which is not to be wondered at. This was the beginning of a life-long friendship between our two families; the kind of friendship that grows deeper and stronger and closer with long years, and which nothing ever can shake. They came to the Adirondacks every summer and sometimes in winter, and we visited them in their beautiful home in New York during the winter months. William Hall Penfold was one of the first trustees of the Sanitarium, and served on its Board until his death in 191 2. He was one of the closest and best of the many good friends I have had in life. His brother was elected a trustee of (118) the Sanitarium in his place, and is a member of the Board now. The hotel began to fill up and the regular summer guests to arrive, and many of these also became life-long friends of ours, and helped me financially through long years when I was trying to build and develop my Sanitarium. Up to this time I had almost forgotten I was a doctor. I neither read medical literature nor practised my profession, except on the rare occa- sions when some of the guides were injured or sick and could get no other medical aid. I was so imbued with the idea that life for me was to be a short experience that I had apparently lost all interest in perfecting myself in a profession I should never live to practise. The summer guests at the hotel, however, occasionally needed a physi- cian, and I got a supply of medicines and began to do a little more work as time passed. (119) X MY health did not improve the second summer and the fever came back. When Dr. Loomis came in for his hunting trip in the fall I asked him to examine me, and he said I was no worse than the year before, but had made no material progress toward recovery. He approved of my remaining another winter, and he evidently was surprised that I was no worse. We found we could not remain at St. Regis another winter, however, as Paul Smith bought the Fouquet House at Plattsburg that fall and he and Mrs. Smith were to leave St. Regis to a caretaker and run the Plattsburg house through the winter. This was a great blow to us, and I began to look about for some place to spend the winter. Finally we decided my wife should go down to her father's with the children in Octo- ber, and I would go into camp for a fall hunt; then I would look about, and when I had found a place in the Adirondacks where we could spend the winter, she would join me there. I had as guide at that time Douglas Martin, Mrs. Smith's brother, and Paul had offered to let me take a couple of his horses wherever I went for the winter; so when I returned from the hunting camp, (121) Douglas and I drove about the country looking for a place where I could bring my family. We tried Bloomingdale, but no suitable house was to be had there, so we drove on to Saranac Lake. At that time Saranac Lake village con- sisted of a saw-mill, a small hotel for guides and lumbermen, a school-house, and perhaps a dozen guides' houses scattered about over an area of an eighth of a mile. There was one little store kept by Milo B. Miller where flour, sugar, a few grocer- ies, tobacco and patent medicines were sold and where the clerk was the telegraph operator. The two best houses were owned by "Lute" Evans, an old guide, where Mr. Edgar, Dr. Loomis's patient, boarded; and opposite w^as a fairly comfortable little clapboarded house owned by Reuben Reynolds, also a guide. This was about the only house in the place at that time large enough to take in my little family, and I managed to hire it for twenty-five dollars a month, unfur- nished, for the winter. Mrs. Paul Smith had promised to help us out if we needed some furni- ture, so I sent Douglas over to St. Regis with the team and he returned with a generous load of furniture, bedding and crockery, which made the little cottage quite habitable. That afternoon, after we unloaded the furniture, I remember I went out with "Dug" rabbit hunting and killed a big hare ahead of my hound, exactly where the station of the New York Central Railroad was built in later years. (122) It was in November, 1876, that my little family joined me at Saranac Lake, and we have lived there ever since. This was the beginning of the now famous health resort known as Saranac Lake, which developed at first through a few pulmonary invalids that Dr. Loomis sent me from time to time to try the effect of the winter climate, and subsequently through my founding at Saranac Lake two institutions, the first of their kind in this country — the Adirondack Cottage Sanitarium, and the Saranac Laboratory for the Study of Tuberculosis. The pioneer work of these two institutions for the study and treatment of tuber- culosis was not without influence in initiating the great tuberculosis crusade in the United States, and helped to focus the attention of the medical profession and the public on Saranac Lake as a health resort. We had a quiet and uneventful winter in the Reynolds cottage. I raised a subscription to subsidize the two-horse stage to Ausable Forks, which Fitz O'Brien drove in those days, to run daily instead of three times a week, and in this way we got the mail regularly, except in the early spring when the roads were almost impassable and the stage ran somewhat irregularly. For forty years my wife and I have spent the winters at Saranac Lake and (with only one excep- tion, when my daughter was very ill) the sum- mers at Paul Smith's. I began to gain in weight and strength, and practised medicine a little (123) more as the years went by. In winter I had a few tuberculosis cases Dr. Loomis had sent me, and in summer I did a good deal of work among the guests at Paul Smith's and the other hotels of the region, as I became better known as a physician. It was early in May of this year that our third baby was born. Although we had no nurse, and Mrs. Smith, the cook and I were the only available attendants, my wife was as calm as ever. It had been a very dry season in the woods and forest fires had been of unusual severity and very close to the hotel. The baby was three days old when a strong south wind one morning began blowing the smoke and the flames toward the hotel. By noon the smoke was so thick that it was quite dark and nothing could be seen of the lake. Paul and Mrs. Smith were alarmed, and thought the hotel, which was surrounded on two sides with woods, surely must burn, and they began moving their more valuable things to the edge of the lake. I certainly was anxious enough that day. I got Fred Martin to put my big boat on the edge of the lake, and made him promise that he would stay there and keep little Chatte and Ned with him as long as there was any danger. My wife was as calm and self-contained as usual. I told her the children were safe; that I didn't want to disturb her unless it was absolutely neces- sary, but that if the hotel caught fire anywhere, two of the guides whom I could trust had promised to come straight to our room and carry her to (124) the boat. Then I sat by her side and we tried to make talk as best we could. From where I sat I could see the sparks falling on the barn roof, and the guides on the roof throwing water on it, and I feared the house must soon go. Just about that time the wind began to veer into the west, the sparks ceased to fall, the smoke began to blow away, and Paul came in and said he didn't think the old place would burn this time; and he was right, for although it has been on fire from within several times in the past thirty-nine years, the same wing where my wife and little baby lay through that awful afternoon is standing just as it did then. I kept pretty well that summer, and in the fall when we moved over to Saranac Lake we went straight to Mrs. Evans's cottage, where we boarded with her for the next seven winters. The cottage was very comfortable, though some- what primitive in its arrangements. Of course we had no running water in Saranac Lake in those days. A big barrel was kept behind the kitchen stove, from which with a dipper we filled our pitchers, and from time to time "Lute" Evans would walk down to the river with two pails suspended from a neck-yoke and replenish the barrel. I built a large fire-place in the sitting- room, and many long, happy winter evenings we spent around that fire-place with the children. Mrs. Evans was an excellent housekeeper and cook, and became very fond of the children. (125) She disliked dogs intensely, but she was so good to us that my hounds were always allowed in the house, and permitted to sleep, after their return from a long hunt, in front of the fire-place in the parlor. These first Saranac winters were all hunting winters, and I always kept two or three hounds. The next summer we spent at Paul Smith's again. I was quite miserable at times that sum- mer, and had fever a good deal of the time, so did little hunting and fishing. During the long winter at Paul Smith's my wife and I greatly missed any opportunity to attend church services. So strong was my desire to supply this need as far as possible for the guides' families, that during the long winter months I used to go to the little school-house on the road to Bloomingdale and hold Sunday School for the children. I don't believe I was a very competent teacher, but it quieted my conscience to try to do something to carry the blessed message to those children who had so little opportunity to hear it. Through the summer months the Reverend W. A. Leonard, Reverend Boyd Vincent, both bishops now, and Dr. John Lundy held services in the parlor of the hotel, during their visits to Paul Smith's, for the guests and guides. The possibility of building a chapel near by, where any clergymen who came to the hotel during the summer could officiate, was discussed from time (126) ST. JOHNS IN THE WILDERNESS to time, and in the fall of 1876 I started a sub- scription list for a little log chapel. I also wrote to my old friend, Mrs. Louis Livingston, who I knew loved the place, and asked her to help. She responded by holding a fair in her parlors in New York, and sent me fourteen hundred dollars as the result of her efforts. The rest of the money came from appeals to the guests. This was the beginning of a lifetime of begging money from my friends, an occupation I have carried on unceasingly, and, thanks to the con- stancy of their friendship, rather successfully for forty years. Paul Smith gave the land and the logs — and what logs they were! — the finest of white pine, of full growth. Mrs. Rosman donated the chancel window; Mr. and Mrs. A. A. Low, an end window in memory of an old guide; the Reverend T. C. Norton, the bishop's chair; Mrs. R. M. Townsend, the bell; the Reverend W. A. Leonard, the reading desk; Miss Rosman, the surplice; and the com- munion service was given by the Reverend and Mrs. John P. Lundy. Other gifts, such as a brass book- rest, linen, a font and an organ, were added as years passed. The little chapel was designed by Mr. Hathorne, a New York architect, who gave the plans. The exterior was of oiled logs with a shingled roof, almost square, with a chancel at the north end. The interior walls were stone-colored plaster, wainscoted with black walnut, and the roof a (127) dome, tinted in dark blue. The chancel window, which was single, was given by Mrs. Rosman as a memorial to her only child, and is now the central one of the three chancel windows. When first built the little chapel seated only about forty people, and services were held only when a clergyman was a guest at the hotel or when one could be secured; but finally the Rev- erend C. S. Knapp, an invalid clergyman, was put in charge for the summer. When completed the property was deeded to the Board of Missions of the Episcopal Church, and was consecrated on September 13, 1877, by the Right Reverend William C. Doane, D.D., who preached, as I remember, from the text, "Lo, we heard it at Ephrata and found it in the wood." Soon the congregations outgrew the seating capacity of the little chapel, and it was decided to alter and enlarge it. I succeeded, by appeals to the guests and my friends, in raising the neces- sary funds. The carrying out of this rather delicate architectural problem was intrusted to my cousin, Mr. J. Lawrence Aspinwall, who gave his services and who made a striking suc- cess in the transformation of this unique log chapel. All that remains of the original little chapel is the nave at the north end. Mr. Aspin- wall added a transept on each side and enlarged the chancel, so that the chapel is now cruciform and can seat one hundred and fifty worshippers comfortably. (128) St. John's in the Wilderness is known far and wide for the originality of its construction and the beauty and simplicity of its design. An excellent effect is produced in the appearance of the interior by the contrast between the simplicity of the church-like and gracefully arched white wood beams, the unvarnished, shingled walls, and the varied and rich tones of some of the fine stained- glass windows which have been put in by loving friends as memorials of my children, and of their dear ones gone before. I have been warden of the mission ever since the original little chapel was erected thirty-eight years ago, and the Bishop has left the adminis- tration of its affairs in my hands during all these years. Ever>^ Sunday my wife has herself cared for the adornment of the church, with flowers or autumn leaves, and prepared the altar for service. Here many great divines have preached sermons which have opened glimpses of the Heavenly Vision to crowded congregations. On July 7, 1914, my son. Dr. Francis B. Tru- deau, brought his bride. Miss Helen Garretson, of Morristown, New Jersey, to the altar of the little log church, where he had worshiped since boyhood. On July 25 of the following year, 191 5, the young married couple brought their baby boy, Edward Livingston Trudeau, 2d, to the font of St. John's in the Wilderness for baptism. My good friend. Dr. Edward R. Baldwin, and Miss (129) Josephine Garretson stood as godfather and god- mother for the smiling infant, while, seated in the body of the little rustic edifice, the grandfather and grandmother pondered on the great and mysterious meaning of existence! Three of my children are buried under the pines near the eaves of the little building, and when my wife and I sleep "the long sleep" it will be, we both hope, in this peaceful spot, teeming with tender memories, which has meant so much to us both through the storm and stress of life. It was not in the remodeling of St. John's alone that my cousin Mr. Aspinwall came into my life, but eVer since those early days, through many, many long years, he has done all that the very best friend could do to carry my burdens for me. When we returned to Saranac Lake that fall several invalids who had consulted Dr. Loomis were there for the winter, and the place was beginning to grow. Our baby boy, Henry, had always seemed well, but during the winter he was taken suddenly ill with convulsions and died two days later. This was the first great sorrow my wife and I had to meet together, but not the last. We laid the little body at rest under the tall pines in the churchyard at St. Regis. During the winter I did more practice, not only among the visitors, but among the guides also. I never charged the guides or their families, (130) however, and owing to this and a common interest in the hunting, we were always on the best of terms. They were constantly taking me out for hunts where they thought I would have a good chance. In 1879 the Saranac Lake men "chipped in" and gave me a fine Waltham gold watch, which I now have, and which Al McKen- zie had written and asked Mr. Harriman to purchase for them. Al wrote, "We want to give the Doctor a gold watch, as he has only an old tin one now." On the inside of the hunting-case cover is the simple inscription, "E. L. Trudeau, from the Saranac boys, 1879." When, in 1883, I made up my mind to attempt to build a sanitarium at Saranac Lake for patients of moderate means, the guides again "chipped in," and having found out from Fitz Hallock the piece of land I wanted, they bought sixteen acres and presented me with the deed. It was during those early years at Saranac Lake that I met the well-known Adirondack guides, Fitz Greene Hallock and Albert McKenzie, and this was the beginning of many happy days spent in the woods with them, and of a life-long friendship. On the subject of hunting we cer- tainly were a congenial trio, and I am sure they enjoyed those days as much as I did. I remember the first winter I was at Mrs. Evans's, I had hired Al McKenzie for the entire year and so Fitz was free in the winter. I told him I would recommend him to a gentleman, one of the first (131 ) patients Dr. Loomis had advised to stay through the winter, and he received a position with this gentleman at once. Shortly afterwards he came to me and said he had decided not to hire out this winter; that this gentleman, he thought, didn't really love hunting, and that instead of working for him he would just board in the village and hunt with Al McKenzie and me when we went out. Al McKenzie, after a few years, went West and bought a ranch there, and I have never seen him since. I was able, however, very unexpectedly, many years after he left Saranac Lake, to be of help to him at a most critical period of his life. For many years I had heard nothing from him, when, in 191 2, I received a most pathetic letter from him, written in a tremulous hand. In it he told me he had now suffered with neuralgia of the face for years; it had grown steadily worse, and recently he had suffered the tortures of the damned. He had spent all his money on doctors: everything had been tried, even the injection of alcohol into the nerve as it emerges from the skull; and this had paralyzed his face on one side but had not relieved the terrible pain. He feared he would kill himself while in a bad paroxysm, and was writing to say good-bye and to tell me how he had thought of the happy days we had spent hunting together in the Adirondacks. I realized the situation at once. Light-hearted, joyous Al McKenzie, my old friend and com- panion on so many hunting trips, always cheery, (132) always happy, was stricken with the most terribly painful disease known. He evidently had the real "tic douloureux", a disease which is due to changes in the root of the nerve as it emerges from a small ganglion (the Gasserian ganglion) situated at the base of the brain, and which causes such frightful suffering that twenty per cent, of its victims take their own lives. The only hope of relief is a most difficult and dangerous operation by which the ganglion is laid bare and the root of the nerve cut. So difficult is the operation that only the great specialists in brain surgery care to attempt it, for it requires great skill and experience to reach and destroy this little deposit of brain substance without doing irreparable or fatal injury to the surrounding brain tissues. All this I knew well, and I knew that one of the few men who could save my old friend was Dr. Harvey Gushing, who was then doing brain sur- gery at the Johns Hopkins Hospital. I wrote to Al by return mail and told him not to give up; to trust me and do what I said, and he would surely get relief. I told him to write to my son Francis, who was at the Johns Hopkins Medical School completing his course there, inquiring how soon, and by what train, he could reach Baltimore from the West, and that my son would meet him and tell him what to do. Then I wrote Francis, enclosing Al's letter, and told him to read it to Dr. Gushing and let me know what he said. I got a prompt answer from (133) Francis, saying, "Dr. Gushing said, 'Tell your father if he wants me to I will operate on his guide without any charge.'" Meanwhile I had received a letter from the ranchman urging me to do something soon, as Al was getting desperate. He said Al had little ready money left, but that a Mr. Z. Hollingsworth, who lived somewhere in or near Boston, was devoted to Al and would help him financially if he knew the critical cir- cumstances. I was sick in bed with fever when I got this letter. How could I reach Mr. Hollingsworth without any address? Next to my bed, however, was the telephone, and with little hope of suc- ceeding I called up Central and said I wanted to speak to a Mr. Z. Hollingsworth "in or near Boston." In less than three minutes the answer came back "Mr. Hollingsworth is on the phone." The initial "Z" must have saved the day. I told Mr. Hollingsworth of Al's desperate condi- tion; that he needed money; that if Mr. Hol- lingsworth would send him a check I would see to the rest, and that I thought Al could be saved only by prompt work. Mr. Hollingsworth was most responsive and generous. Al had guided him out West many times. He promised he would send a check at once, and he sent a very generous one. When my son met Al upon his arrival in Balti- more he found him in a pitiful condition and took him to the hospital at once. The pain was so bad he had neither eaten nor slept, but he tried (134) to smile in his old way when he saw the six-foot- four man he had left a child in the Adirondacks. When they reached the hospital Francis was so moved by Al's appearance of terrible suffering that he went at once for Dr. Gushing and brought him to the patient's room. Dr. Gushing told Francis he never did but one such operation a day, and that he had five patients on his list ahead of Al; but he said, " I cannot let such a man suffer that long. I'll operate tomorrow." The next day he exposed and destroyed the nerve as it emerges from the Gasserian ganglion after a long and delicate operation. The following morning Francis w^ent to see Al, who looked up at him with his one unbandaged eye, smiled a broad smile and said, "Those doctors have got my head tied on, but I have no more pain." And he has never had another attack since, though three years have passed. I know few things that have happened to me in life that have given me more pleasure than this incident, and I shall always be grateful to the great surgeon whose wonderful skill could save a human being from such intolerable suffering and who gave it so freely, without money and without price. Al McKenzie returned to Colorado, where he is living at present. I wrote and asked Al if I could write this episode about him in my book and got a characteristic answer: "Yes, you can say all the mean things you choose about me!" (135) XI Up to 1880 I did little but hunt and fish, but after that my interests and activities began gradually to be divided equally between medicine and hunting. In the nineties I hunted only when I could get away from my work and, later, on the rare occasions when we all went down to Little Rapids for a few days' rest and sport. I have often been asked how I could hunt so much without fatigue or injury to my health, but I rarely had fever then unless I tired myself, and the hunting required only slight exertion and kept me out of doors all day. In winter I would hunt foxes or rabbits every day with Fitz Greene Hallock, and in the fall Al McKenzie and I would join some friend from Paul Smith's and go into camp, deer hunting. Fitz Hal- lock would occasionally join us also on these trips. The deer hunting in those days was done with hounds, which drove the deer to inlets, lakes and runways, and as I was usually rowed to my watch-ground I rarely had any walking to do or tired myself at all. In the winter Fitz and I drove in a cutter to the hunting ground and I (137) moved about only a little. I remember one winter, besides innumerable rabbits, we killed twenty-one red foxes ahead of our hounds, and the next winter, twenty-two. When the snow lies thick and white in the woods and every green bough in the swamps is powdered with white flakes, hunting the Adiron- dack hares with a hound is first-rate sport. The scenery is like fairy-land, every twig sparkles, and the musical notes of the hound echo on the stillness of the frosty air, while the big white rabbits appear and vanish like ghosts in the open- ings of the dense snow-laden evergreens. Many good days did Fitz and I spend hunting rabbits in the long winter months. The first requisite is a good rabbit hound, and they are rare. Any dog may run a rabbit, but few ever reach perfection; and of this I have had ample experience. The first requisite is that the dog must pay no attention to a fox track; and the second — a rare quality — he must not shift rabbits, but having started one he must keep to that one, no matter how many fresh tracks of other rabbits he crosses. I had many dogs, but the best dog in all these years was a cross between a beagle and a fox-hound, called "Bunnie. " He was absolutely perfect. He would not look at a fox- track, and when he started one rabbit in a swamp full of other rabbits he would never change, but run that particular rabbit all day. This enables the hunter to choose a stand intelligently, and not (138) merely trust to accident, as when a poor dog stirs up a fresh hare every few minutes. When temporarily off the scent I have often tried to start Bunnie on a fresh rabbit I had seen a little while before; but after one or two careful sniffs he would refuse to follow the track, go back to where he lost his game and work it all out patiently until he was in full cry again. I owned him from the time he was a puppy until he died of old age, and I hope in the place where good dogs go the ghosts of the hundreds of hares I killed ahead of him do not haunt him. During the winter of 1880 the visitors formed a little gun club, and on fine afternoons we often used to shoot pigeons and glass balls from a wooden stand back of Mrs. Evans's house. One day someone proposed that we make a rabbit sweep- stakes, and the proposition was enthusiastically received. Each sportsman was to put five dollars in a pool, and as there were eight of us the total reached forty dollars. The club was to offer this as a prize to the man who killed the biggest rabbit from January i to April i. Everyone in the village entered into the spirit of this curious competition. The rabbits were all weighed at the store by the store-keeper, Milo Miller; the figures as to the weight were written on a little placard with the name of the successful sportsman and attached to the rabbit, which was then hung in full view of the village in front of the store. Curiously enough, we seemed to begin with (139) small rabbits — three and a quarter; then a week, and three and a half pounds was reached; then a month, and three pounds eight ounces was for a long time the champion. The competition seemed to lie between Mr. E. J. King, Mr. E. Curtis and myself. We all killed many rabbits, but it was March 15 before King killed a four-pound rabbit. Curtis and I crept up by ounces — four pounds two ounces, four pounds three ounces, four pounds five ounces; and on March 28 Curtis took down my rabbit, which tipped the beam at four pounds five ounces, and to my great disappointment hung up a rabbit weighing four pounds six ounces. Every- body said this would take the prize. It was the biggest of hundreds of rabbits killed during the contest. Fitz was terribly disappointed ; he thought our four-pound-five-ounce rabbit would never be beaten ; but we wasted no time, and hunted almost all day for the last three days. Both of my best rabbit dogs were worn out and their feet, cut by the crust on the snow, were bleeding and sore, but Mr. Curtis's rabbit still hung up as the champion. I can see Fitz now during those last three days: a little hatchet in one hand with which, after I had chosen my stand, he cleared some of the brush and boughs which obstructed my view; a spring scale in the other hand with which to weigh the rabbit; his face stern and set as he listened to the music of the approaching hound. Curious as it may seem, this was earnest work for us both, as we certainly wanted to win, and Fitz was (140) hardly on speaking terms with Mr. Curtis's guide. Fortunately I missed few shots in those days, but I never got any commendation from Fitz but once, when I killed a rabbit that bounded most unexpectedly across a little opening in the thicket to my right. I had no time to aim, and I shot without even putting my gun to my shoulder. Fitz sprang forward to weigh the game. I heard him mutter, "I don't see how he does it!" and that was enough for me, though the rabbit turned out to weigh only a little over three pounds. On the morning of the thirtieth of March, Fitz brought the sleigh to the door, with Bunnie lying on the robe licking his feet, and we started. Dur- ing the drive Fitz informed me that John Benham had told him of a little swamp at the foot of a side hill of poplar trees; that the rabbit tracks in these poplars were the biggest he had seen, and that was the place we were bound for. Bunnie's feet were so sore he could hardly walk, but as soon as he got scent he forgot all about his feet and drove his game in his usual vigorous style. I had shot two rabbits on the side hill and they both turned out small. It was snowing and I was cold and discouraged, but dared not suggest to Fitz our going home, when Bunnie started a third hare. After a little turn in the swamp the rabbit took to the side hill, and such a long turn did he make that the dog was soon out of hearing. Fitz moved me to where they had left the swamp, and there we stood, I shivering and wishing myself (141) home, Fitz just as intent as ever. The dog was just coming in hearing again when I caught sight of the rabbit bounding down the hill. It seemed to me I never saw a rabbit take such long jumps, and as he went by me I killed him. Fitz was on him in a minute. I saw him raise the spring scale to his eye, then in a most commanding voice he simply said, "Come on!" and strode toward the place where the horse was tied. I followed as best I could. He had the horse unblanketed and was in the cutter when I reached there. He handed me the reins and said, "Run your horse; he is the biggest rabbit yet." We flew home, as the rabbit was bleeding. As we entered the vil- lage on the run the guides came to their doors, guessing something unusual had happened, and many of them were waiting on the porch of the store, into which Fitz disappeared at once. He soon reappeared among the laughing, shouting men, with my rabbit, to which was tied a tag with my name and the legend, "Four pounds eight and a half ounces." That was a proud moment for Fitz and for me! That afternoon and for many following after- noons the entire side of The Berkeley Hotel was decorated by a gigantic white paper rabbit on which was written "Four pounds eight and a half ounces. " This was done by a friend of mine, Mr. A. W. Durkee, to celebrate the great event and must have been a puzzling sight to visitors, but everybody in the village understood it. (142) Fox hunting with a good hound is a fine sport, for, as Fitz used to put it, the fox has all America to run in, and the hunter has to use judgment and experience to decide which stand to choose, and skill to be near enough for a shot. A red fox in such a wild country' is rarely pushed by the hound, and is full of the most cunning tricks to throw the dog off the scent. A first-class hound with plenty of experience is generally a match for him, but occasionally an old fox proves too cunning for the best of them. When the snow is deep, running a road is an old trick of the fox's, for a frozen, beaten road carries no scent. On one of our hunts we heard the hound come straight into the travelled road and then stop barking. We went to the place where he struck the road, but although the snow had fallen recently neither of us could discover where the fox left the beaten path. Meanwhile the old hound, after the manner of all good hounds, went back to where he had lost the scent, then began to run in widening circles, knowing that in this way he must soon cross the track somewhere. After a long hunt, however, he came back to us, and sat in the road and howled and howled his perplexity. Certainly we were all at fault that day; and yet, as Fitz said, the fox could not have flown, and if he hadn't he must have left the road and made a track somewhere in the fresh snow; but we found no track. The following day we solved the mystery! Fitz put me in a field where I could (143) see the place where the fox came to the road, and he went up on the hill with the dog. Soon the echoes of the hound's bark told me he had again started the fox. I saw the cunning old Reynard come to the road, run down the icy, beaten track about a quarter of a mile, then take a flying leap from the road and land on top of a rail-fence without ever touching the snow. He then ran on top of the fence two or three hundred yards, jumped to the ground, and disappeared behind a little knoll. To my delight, however, he came in sight again, jumped up on a big rock about sixty yards from where I stood, curled himself up comfortably and lay down, deliberately facing the direction from which the dog was coming. I could see his ears and his head move as, from the retreat which had in the past no doubt saved him from many a troublesome hound, he followed the sound of the dog's bark and waited to see the hound's discomfiture. There was such a crust I did not dare move, as one jump would land him out of sight, and sixty yards is a long shot; but I slipped in a thread-wound cartridge and ended his enterprising career on the spot. It is easy to see why Fitz and I could not find in the snow any evidence of his having left the road, and why even the old hound's cunning failed; for though his widening circles crossed the fox's track, the dog went through the rail-fence and the track was on the top rail. Another trick of an old fox is to run on a frozen (144) river, and at every opportunity take in the very edge of the swift-running water where the ice is necessarily very thin. The fox weighs about seven pounds and the dog between forty and fifty, so that the ice is pretty sure to give way with the dog and the swift current to carr>' him under the ice. The intention of the fox is plain, for he goes out of his course to take in every air hole. This happened one day when Fitz and I were hunting near the river. The fox took to the ice and all at once the baying of the hound stopped suddenly. Fitz knew what had happened, and we climbed into the cutter and ran the horse to the swift water. Sure enough, there was our old hound in the rapid water, struggling helplessly to get up on the thin ice again. I begged Fitz not to venture in such a dangerous place, but his only answer was, "Hold my gun." I watched him lie flat and crawl out carefully on the treach- erous ice, reach for the dog's collar and steady him enough to enable him to climb out. The old dog shook himself, rolled in the snow a few times, struck the trail again, gave a long, joyous bark and was off at full speed. We had the satisfaction of killing the fox an hour later while he was trying to lose the dog by running the road. The characteristics of the hounds make just as interesting a study as those of the fox. I had two hounds once whose hunting was so different that the appearance of the fox ahead of them would have told me at a glance which dog was chasing (145) him even if I had not known the difference in their bark. "Scream" was a long-eared, silver- tongued, crooked-legged harrier, that ran true every inch of the track and never neglected to put a good round measure of music with every step he took. Foxes were apparently not in the least afraid of him; they knew just where he was all the time by his constant music, and I have seen a fox he was chasing run out in a field, listen to the dog a little while, then jump on a stray mouse and run off with the mouse in his mouth! Old "Watch," on the other hand, was a tall, strongly built, pure white hound with a black patch over one eye. He barked only occasionally, but he ran so strong and steadily that when the fox came in sight his tail was generally dragging, his mouth open and his tongue hanging out. Old Watch had short runs, for the fox either had to get to his hole, which he generally did as soon as possible, or he ran the risk of getting caught. On the other hand an old fox soon knows when a puppy is after him, and I have seen the puppy get discouraged and start for home, and the old fox run toward him as though to persuade him to keep on with the chase. My dogs were always a great pleasure to me and if I was ever tempted to extravagance it was in the purchase of a noted hound. Dogs have passed entirely out of my life with one small exception. A good friend of my wife's gave her, five years ago, a most beautiful Pekingese pup, (146) and, as I have been confined to my room and much of the time to my bed during these years, "Ho Yen" became my devoted companion. Lying on a soft bed suited him admirably, and a master who was always in bed was to his mind the kind of master to tie to. So it has come about that for the past five years I have never moved with- out this absurd little play dog. I never saw any- thing incongruous in doing so until one day last winter, wrapped up in furs, I sat in the sleigh with the little fellow in my lap as usual. Billy Ring, one of my old hunting guides, walked by. He stopped, and taking his pipe out of his mouth nodded at the little dog and said, "Have you come to that. Doctor?" Certainly circumstances alter cases, for in the old days I should have despised such a little toy dog, who now is a real pleasure in my bed-ridden days. (147) XII IN answer to the demand for winter accommoda- tions the first step in the upbuilding of Saranac Lake had taken place, and a small hotel, facetiously named The Berkeley, had been built on the main street and Charles Gray put in charge of it. The Berkeley accommodated fifteen or twenty guests, and for a long time was adequate to care for all the visitors at Saranac Lake. The first guests were Mr. E. J. King, Reverend and Mrs. John P. Lundy, D.D., Mrs. Ogden Hoffman and her daughters, Mr. and Mrs. Jack Morris, and Mr. and Mrs. E. J. Tytus. The Reverend Dr. Lundy held Episcopal ser- vices through the winter in the parlor of The Berkeley, and not only the visitors but many of the Saranac Lake residents attended them. Dr. Lundy and the Berkeley colony started a sub- scription to build an Episcopal church during the winter, and many of the residents subscribed money, labor, and material. Again I was made treasurer. A committee of the visitors to which I belonged had many meetings that winter to dis- cuss just what steps should be taken to erect the chapel, but opinions on many essential points differed so that nothing was decided by early (149) spring, when the visitors all separated for the summer. One gentleman had held out that he would have nothing to do with the building of the church until every cent necessary for its comple- tion was subscribed. I told him that he would never build the church in that way, and that if it was started the money was sure to come in. But I failed to convince him, and the project was abandoned. After the visitors had scattered for the summer a committee from the residents and the guides called on me and offered to make good their sub- scriptions and add to them if I would undertake the building of the church. About half the necessary funds had been subscribed then. I told them I would do as they requested under one condition, namely, that I was to have entire charge, and that I was to be allowed to build the church steeple downward and the foundation upward if I saw fit. This they agreed to. When I told my wife of this she smiled, and said she had often noticed that I was fond of having my own way. My own way seemed to answer the purpose, however, for the work was begun at once, the money forthcoming, and the church built within a few months without the slightest friction. I began at once to beg money from my Paul Smith friends. Mrs. Thomas Smith, of Brooklyn, gave me five hundred dollars, and many others, smaller sums. Work was begun May, 1878, and the church was finished January, 1879. The (150) first service was held January 12, 1879, and the Church of St. Luke the Beloved Physician, was consecrated July 10 of the same year by the Right Reverend Wm. C. Doane, D.D., Bishop of Albany. The property was transferred to the Board of Missions of the Protestant Episcopal Church in the Diocese of Albany. Mr. R. M. Upjohn, the celebrated church architect, gave the plans. The three stained-glass chancel windows, representing the figures of Faith, Hope and Charity, were given by Mrs. R. M. Townsend in memory of her husband, who died at Saranac Lake. The front window was the gift of Miss Susie Paton. All the other windows are of ground glass, with a colored border. The land was given by Miss Arvilla Blood, of Saranac Lake; the bell by Mrs. Edgar, of New York; the altar and priest's chair by the Reverend and Mrs. John P. Lundy; the Communion linen by Miss Mary King, while Mrs. Ogden Hofi^man gave the font, and the organ was presented by the young people of Saranac Lake. The first minister in charge was the Reverend C. S. Knapp. For the past thirty-five years services have been held continuously at St. Luke's, and its ministrations have meant much, not only to the residents but also to the thousands of invalids who, sick, far away from their homes and friends, have sought health in Saranac Lake. I have been warden of the vestry ever since the church was built. (151) After the building of St. Luke's, new houses began to spring up in the village and a few more people stayed during the winter months. The number of summer visitors at Paul Smith's increased. I had more patients to attend, and began to take more interest in my profession. I subscribed to The American Journal of the Medical Sciences, the Medical News, the Medical Record, and Dr. Walton sent me, after he had read them, his copies of the English Practitioner, edited by Anstie. My health improved steadily; I lost my cough almost entirely and gained weight, though my endurance to fatigue never became normal and any active exercise made me very short of breath. This was well shown by Al McKenzie's spontaneously given opinion of my physical con- dition at that time. We were hunting together and trying to get to a road we expected the fox to cross. It was a little uphill, and the hound's bark was getting nearer and nearer. Al was ahead, but I had to stop constantly as my breath had quite given out. Al saw we were going to be too late to intercept the fox, but resigned him- self with the remark, "Oh, Doctor, if you were only half as good as you look!" How true this is of many cases of arrested pulmonary disease! It was that fall that Mr. C. M. Lea, who had brought his wife to the Adirondacks during the summer for her health, decided to have her remain through the winter. Mrs. Lea was a most attrac- tive and refined young woman, and she and my (152) wife proved very congenial companions. The Leas had one Httle girl, Marjorie, and were a great addition to our winter colony. Mr. Lea was devoted to his young wife and daughter, and though he managed in some way to keep up 'lis active interests in the large publishing business of the firm of Lea Brothers & Co., the well-known medical publishers, he spent much time in Saranac Lake. This necessitated constant trips back and forth, but his devotion never faltered at obstacles, and many times through the long winters he drove in an open sleigh either sixty miles from Plattsburg or forty-two miles from Ausable / Forks, through blizzards and snowdrifts and ^ intense cold, to spend with his wife and child ( the few days he could snatch from his business engagements. He and I had many interests in common, espe- cially medicine and hunting; he knew all about doctors and medical books, and was the only man with whom I could discuss medical subjects. On the other hand it was no doubt a comfort to him to leave Mrs. Lea with such friends during her enforced absence. A strong friendship grew up between us — the kind of friendship that is one of the best things in life, and that neither time nor space nor prolonged separation can obliterate; a friendship which continues as warm today as it was thirty-five years ago. Mr. Lea was one of the four original trustees of the Sanitarium, and he and I are the only ones (153) now living. From the first he encouraged me and helped me to carry out my plan, which then seemed quixotic enough to almost everybody else. The idea of building the Sanitarium originated on my reading, in 1882, in Anstie's English Prac- titioner, which Dr. Walton sent me regularly, an account of a visit to Brehmer's Sanitarium in Silesia and a discussion of Brehmer's views as to the value of sanatorium treatment in pulmonary tuberculosis. Brehmer was the originator of the sanatorium method, the essence of which was rest, fresh air and a daily regulation by the physician of the patient's life and habits. Brehmer, however, had an idea that tuberculosis of the lungs was somewhat dependent on, or at least related to, a small heart, and after the fever had fallen he attached much importance to graded climbing exercises for his patients to strengthen the heart. Dettweiler, a patient and pupil of his, built a sanatorium at Falkenstein in Germany, where he followed Brehmer's method, except that Dett- weiler was an ardent advocate of complete rest, and he did not believe that a small heart had any special relation to pulmonary tuberculosis. I was much impressed with the articles I read on the subject in the English Practitioner, and though I saw no reference to either Brehmer's or Dettweiler's work in my American journals, I became desirous of making a test of this new method in treating some of my tuberculous patients. (154) I was also much impressed at that time with the difficulty of obtaining suitable accommoda- tions in the Adirondacks for patients of moderate means. The rich and well-to-do could hire one of the few guides' cottages in Saranac Lake or pay them well for taking them to board, but there was absolutely no place for the working men and women who came here with short purses. It therefore occurred to me that a good piece of work could be done in helping these invalids, for whom my sympathy ever since my brother's death had always been keen, by building a few small cottages where they could be taken at a little less than cost, and where the sanatorium method could be tried. With my usual enthusiasm about money mat- ters, it seemed to me it would be quite easy during the summer at Paul Smith's for me to induce some of my patients there to subscribe something toward the running of such an Adirondack insti- tution, and, as I decided from the first to give my own work free, I could ask for money to carry out my plan. About this time Mr. D. W. Riddle came to the Adirondacks for his health, which was most seriously impaired, and became a patient of mine. I talked over with him from time to time my sanitarium project, and from the first he took a great interest, and offered to help in any way in his power. As he was a good business man and had had much experience in building, his help (155)