Dr. Janvier received a message from his wife stating that “Mr. Sage has caved and is satisfied.” Now, I maintain that if Mr. Sage had caved he ought to have been satisfied. But not so with Janvier. He demanded a repetition, and the telegram read, “Message received and is satisfactroy.” I have no patience with your modern Galens, and I never doubted for a moment that Janvier was prejudiced.

The occasion of the memorable Army of the Republic celebration in Boston, in 1868, found Tip a night operator at Titusville, Pa. It was on that night he demonstrated to a coterie of friends the feasibility of reciting “Casabianca” and receiving “press” simultaneously. The next morning the Journal announced in its telegraphic columns that “Post No. 1 was commanded by an Irishman from New Bedford;” and the New Bedford Standard hastened, a day or two later, to copy the dispatch, and explain that Post No. 1 was really commanded by A. N. Cushman, from New Bedford. It added, moreover, that Mr. Cushman was less a Milesian than the telegraph. This was evidently a fling at Tip’s nationality, and I have never ceased to despise the carping nature of a newspaper that would make such an observation.

When the Pacific Railroad was opened Tip and Jim Lawless joined the numerous company who, pinning their faith on the star of empire, followed it across the Missouri, through the land of sage brush and alkali, and beyond the snow capped heights of the Sierras. I never heard of McClosky but twice during the whole western tour, and his sojourning on the Pacific coast. He was put off of a train, and came sauntering into the office at Wasatch, in Utah, one morning, and depositing on the counter an old enamelled cloth satchel, tied up with a piece of line wire, he said to the operator: “Just you keep you eye skinned for that trunk, George, and I’ll go out and lie down.” The satchel was empty; that was obvious at the first glance. The operator tossed it on an adjacent shelf and went about his business. The budding season ripened into glorious summer, those delicious days when the sun is up early and goes not down till late, came and went, but Tip came not. One afternoon, however, when the grains and fruits were bending with their wealth, and all nature had grown magnificent in her abundant harvest, he swaggered jauntily from an eastern bound train, and called for his satchel with an air indicating that his absence had merely extended over an hour or two. He had not improved in personal appearance in the interval. A red shirt, a pair of jean pantaloons, an old felt hat, and a suspender long separated from its mate, constituted what

adorned his person. He had been “down to ’Frisco,” he said, “and had seen trouble.” Slowly he unwound the line wire from his shabby satchel, cautiously he opened its widely gaping mouth, then plunging in his hand and feeling all around, he observed with considerable emphasis; “I should like to know the name of the black-hearted Mormon who went through me for that red velvet vest.” It was not with out difficulty that he was persuaded to quit Wasatch; and when he did shake the dust of that polygamous section from his honest shoes, he mentioned privately to the train dispatcher, as the train glided haughtily away, that probably he would find that “cylinder escapement” vest in Omaha. But my correspondent makes no mention of his wearing in New Orleans a garment resembling the ruby wine, so I fear he never found it. Perhaps he goes now to seek it in the land of the Montezumas.