go at his nod, purvey flowers, afternoon tea, sparkling wines, and other luxuries unknown at home, which give to this memory of my first hotel a rich flavor of careless expenditure in strong contrast to the New England thrift I knew.
Uncle Sam was the most agreeable man I have ever known. He threw a spell over me in those days at Islip that still holds, though he has been dead more than thirty years. I knew, even then, that on most subjects his views were directly opposed to my father’s. He was suspected of having southern sympathies, and if not an out-and-out “copperhead”, he was equally far from being an abolitionist.
He was rather French than American in appearance and manner, sparkling, effervescent, full of laughter, motion, gesture. His dress was striking. He wore handsome rings and scarfpins, checked trousers, superb waistcoats, an overcoat of pale gray box cloth with large white pearl buttons, unmistakably from London. I have heard men of fashion say that his brilliant cravats suited him to a T, but could not have been worn by any other living man.
On the train a gentleman spoke to him, calling him by name.
“You must excuse me, Sir,” said my uncle, “if I cannot remember your name.”
“I am ——, to whom you were so kind in London.”
Still Uncle Sam could not remember.
“But, Mr. Ward, you must remember me—you saved my life!”
This was no help. Embarrassed and annoyed, the stranger pulled a gold watch from his pocket.