These were the young companions
and the life-long friends of him over
whom the grass is not yet green. Who
was there among us worth knowing
whom he did not know! Who that
knew Boston on its higher levels did
not know him?
We are not thinking of pleasant
books in which his always active
mind and happy nature show them
selves in every page. We are not
thinking of him in his ralation to art
and artists, though he gave so much
of his time and thought and money
to these. It is as a living presence in
this Boston air which we breath—in
the bright saloon, under the elms of
the common, amidst the flower beds
of the public garden, in the noisy
street, the silent library, the memory
haunted picture gallery—everywhere,
he comes before us. No man, no man
of his generation certainly, pervaded
the social atmosphere of this breezy
center of life so completely. He was
tue favorite guest of every banquet.
A day whithered its flowers, but age
could not wither him. The sparkle
left.
‘‘The foaming grape of Eastern France,”
but his wit buboled up inexhaustible.
VANDERBILT’S STRONU B)Y.
A Vault Xliat Holds 000,000
By John Swinton.
I stood the other day in the vault of
the formidable fortress of iron aud
masonary on Forty-second street,
where last year the richest nabob in
the world locked up his $200,000 000
iu stocks, bonds and other securities.
