I well remember the Governor, as I made my way up into his bedroom, paint-box in hand, and said: "Well, we must make the best of it, and turn this into a studio. May I move the bed a few inches?" "All right," and between us we moved the bed.

The Governor was Grover Cleveland, and the State he governed the State of New York. I had long since learnt that New York was not the capital, but that Albany enjoyed that privilege. In Albany I was making a prolonged stay, painting portraits of some very prominent people, amongst others of Mrs. V. L. Pruyn and the Erastus Cornings, who were notably amongst his warmest friends and supporters.

I was enjoying Mrs. Pruyn\'s hospitality, and in her house I had exceptional opportunities of being initiated into the mysteries of American politics. I was made very much at home, too, in surroundings which bore testimony to the consummate taste and connoisseurship of my hostess and her late husband. My wishes were not forestalled, or they could never have been so correctly carried out. But, as soon as they were expressed, some magic button would be touched, and some tutelary genius would appear to take my instructions, or some man or woman I had desired to know would be announced. So I made many pleasant acquaintances, and in due time was introduced to Cleveland.

Election time had come with all its excitement and turmoil. Good citizens wearing most picturesque uniforms were mustering by their thousands, and were drilling as if war were imminent; but it was only the true military step and swing they were practising, that they might creditably march in procession with banners flying and bands playing, and outdo the rival party in their show of enthusiasm. Sober, steady-going individuals were transformed into stump orators and agitators; the contagion spread, quickening pulse and heart-beat, till the whole nation seemed delirious. Enthusiasm begot passion, and passion frenzy. Then came the crisis. The returns were officially announced; the President was elected, and—one, two, three, as if by the touch of a magic wand, down went the pulse to its normal beat, the excitement suddenly collapsed, and the electors settled down to a well-earned four years\' rest. But before that happy consummation, there was much to see and note that was interesting to a stranger like myself.

Amid all the conflicting opinions and clamourings, there was one point the whole nation seemed to agree upon. Everybody was going about, Diogenes-like, seeking for an honest man. When found, he was to be made a President of. To be sure either party claimed to have discovered that one honest man, and thereupon commenced the main work on both sides, that of vilifying the personal character of the opposing candidate. All the dirtiest sediment at the bottom of the blackest inkstand was stirred up, all the devilry stored in the arsenals of diabolical newspaper offices was brought into action, to prove to the hilt that Mr. Blaine and Mr. Cleveland were the two most dishonest men in the United States. Under the guise of "plain truths" fanciful untruths were circulated, and the mud raked up was used to make mud pies which were greedily devoured by hungry partisans. There were curious war-cries too on either side, the deep significance of which had to be fully explained to the uninitiated, before he could appreciate their strength. In the Cleveland camp they were constantly burning pieces of paper and shouting: "Burn this letter, dearest Fisher." "Oh! you\'d better, better, better burn this letter," or up went the cry in rhythmical measure—
"James Gould Blaine, James Gould Blaine,
He\'s the continental liar from the State of Maine."

Outsiders got a little slap too, where the partisan saw his opportunity, as when one of the Irish banners paraded the sentiment: "We love James Blaine for the English enemies he has made."

I fully shared in the excitement, and wherever two or three thousand people were blocking a space really only adapted to so many hundred, I helped to make ugly rushes, and took my part in the chorus of yelling and hissing. This was in New York, on the principal day of the election. A day or two afterwards I had returned to Albany, and was calling on Cleveland with Erastus Corning.

"No," said the future President in answer to Mr. Corning\'s proposal to start the illuminations and torchlight procession that night, "don\'t hurry; I know it\'s all right, but wait for to-morrow\'s returns." He was, to all outward appearances, the one man least affected by the issue.

The next day the returns came, and the torch and other lights were allowed to blaze. All doubts had been dispelled by a certain telegram from Jay Gould. His enemies swore that that arch-grabber of millions had manipulated the telegraph wires, withholding or forging the returns expected from various parts of the States, and it was generally understood that the earliest opportunity would be taken to burn down his house and to lynch him. That morning a telegram of congratulation from the great financier, happily unlynched, had just been handed to the President-elect; he showed it to us, deliberating whether it should be communicated to the representative of the New York Herald, who was anxiously waiting to carry it away. He decided to do so, and then turned to a dear old man who stood beaming in the doorway, with a little boy clinging to his coat-tails, both looking round the big reception-room with eyes of wonder and bewilderment. There were no servants or ushers to introduce visitors; anybody could walk in unannounced, and the old man, who had tramped up with his grandson from a great distance to see the new Democratic President, found his way into the large hall of the capital. Now he was evidently much puzzled to know which in our little group of eight or ten persons was that President. He soon held the right man\'s hand, and truly touching he was in his allegiance. He had waited for many a weary year, he said, for the advent of the Democratic party, and at last this happy day had dawned upon him and his beloved country.

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

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

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

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

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

Then for a while our conversation ran on art and other peaceful pursuits of man. Seeing a good opening I led up to the question ever uppermost in my mind,—that of international arbitration as against the arbitrament of the sword, and of the institution of a permanent tribunal between the United States and England. And here let me say in parenthesis, it is a glorious profession, that of the portrait-painter; he can button-hole his man and keep him a fixture, whilst he indoctrinates and prods him with truths, from which, under other circumstances, his victim would seek to escape. Cleveland sat like a brick, and listened sympathetically. Then, he said in a few sharp concise words, that he fully agreed with me, and that he strongly felt it was high time for civilised humanity to abandon the barbarous methods of settling disputes. I told him I was sorely tempted to break my word, and to cable that welcome "message" to my friends in Europe without further delay. That temptation, however, I was not going to yield to. Finding that, as a member serving on the Executives of various Peace Societies, I was well posted up in matters rel............