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wine shops filled with jars which contain no wine-past the baker's, whose loaves are no longer in demand-past the thrifty merchant's, with his sign warning idlers away, a warning that has been well heeded by generations of men-past the house of the Tragic Poet, whose measures no longer burden the multitude, and down the smooth, slippery steps that once led through the gate opening to the sea-steps over which fishermen trailed their nets and soldiers marched in stern procession-into the doors of a very modern tavern. Pompeii was behind us, and a smiling Italian waiter welcomed us to wine and corn, meat and bread, olives and oranges. Around his wholesome board we gathered, and talked of the day and the many marvels we had

seen.

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W

E arrived in Palermo at noon on the 23d of December, 1877. We found Palermo attractive enough, especially as the town was in the full glow of Christmas finery. Here we celebrated our Christmas festival. The officers of the "Vandalia" dedicated their festival as a special honor to Mrs. Grant. The day was colder than usual in this sunny climate, and those of us who had remembered to bring winter apparel did not find it out of place. Palermo, although under the dominion of the liberal King Victor Emmanuel, still contains enough of the Bourbon and ecclesiastical element to give a festival like Christmas especial value. On Christmas Eve a delegation of ship captains, now in port, plying between Palermo and New England, called and paid

their respects to the General. Christmas morning their ships were radiant with bunting in honor of our guest. The morning came with the ringing of multitudinous bells, whose peals came over the bay, telling us that the good people of Palermo were rejoicing in the Nativity. The effect of this bustle and tumult of sound—bells in every key and tone, ringing and pealing and chiming, their echoes coming back from the gray hills, under whose shadow we were anchored, was unique, and as every bell awakened a memory of home, the day brought a feeling of homesickness, visible on many faces, as they came into the wardroom, interchanging the compliments of the season. The General remained on board until noon to receive the visit of the prefect, who came in state, and was honored with a salute of fifteen guns. His Honor remained only a few minutes, in which he tendered the General all the hospitalities and courtesies of the town. But the General declined them, with thanks. After the departure of the city authorities, the General and Captain Robeson went on shore and sauntered about for two or three hours, looking on the holiday groups who made the day a merry one in their Sicilian fashion. There were spurts

of rain coming from the hills, which dampened the enthusiasm of this lazy, happy, sun-loving people.

There was nothing in the rain to deter any one accustomed to our cold, gray northern skies, and the General continued his walk without even paying the weather the tribute of an umbrella. Some of the officers went to the pretty little Episcopalian church, and others busied themselves in preparing for the Christmas dinner. I never knew the capacities of a narrow wardroom until I saw what Lieutenant Miller and his assistants achieved on the "Vandalia." The hatchway became an arbor, the low ceiling bloomed with greenery, the mast seemed about to return to its original leafage. The table became a parterre of flowers and trailing vines, and although the limitations of the service were felt in the candles and candlesticks, the whole room was so green and fresh and smiling when we came down to dinner, that it seemed like a glimpse of far, dear America. The hour for dinner was half-past five, and we assembled in the

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wardroom with naval promptitude. I give you the names of the hosts: Chief-Engineer J. Trilley, Surgeon George H. Cooke, Lieutenant-Commander A. G. Caldwell, Lieutenant E. T. Strong, Past Assistant-Engineer G. W. Baird, Past Assistant-Engineer D. M. Fulmer, Lieutenant Jacob W. Miller, Paymaster J. P. Loomis, Lieutenant Richard Rush, Captain L. E. Fagan, commanding the marines; Lieutenant H. O. Handy, Lieutenant W. A. Had

den, and Master J. W. Dannenhower.

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In this list you have the names of the wardroom officers of the "Vandalia," and if it were not so soon after the feast as to excite a suspicion of my disinterestedness, I would tell you what a gallant, chivalrous company they are. The guests of the evening were: General Grant and wife; Commander H. B. Robeson, commanding the ship; Jesse R. Grant, and the writer of these lines. The General looked unusually well as he took his seat between Lieutenant-Commander Caldwell and Paymaster Loomis, his face a little tanned by the Mediterranean sun, but altogether much younger and brighter than I have seen him for many years. The abandon of ship life, the freedom from the toils of the Presidency, the absence of the clamor and scandal of Washington life have driven away that tired, weary, anxious look which marked the General during his later years as President. And, as he sat under the green boughs of the Christmas

GENERAL GRANT AND CAPTAIN ROBESON IN PALERMO,

decoration, the center of our merry company, it seemed as if he were as young as any of the mess, a much younger man by far than our junior Dannenhower, who looks grave and serious enough to command all the fleets in the world. Mrs. Grant was in capital health and spirits, and quite enchanted the mess by telling them, in the earliest hour of the conversation, that she already felt when she came back to the "Vandalia" from some errand on shore as if she were coming home. I wish I could lift the veil far enough to show you how much the kind, considerate, ever-womanly and ever-cheerful nature of Mrs. Grant has won upon us all; but I must not invade the privacy of the domestic circle. She was the queen of the feast, and we gave her queenly honor.

This was the company, and I give you our menu, as an idea of what a ship's kitchen can do for a Christmas dinner :

Potage.
Tomate purée.

Bouchées à la reine.

Cabellon à la Hollandaise.
Purée de pommes.
Dindonneau aux huitres.

Haricots verts.

Filets aux champignons.
Petits pois.

Punch à la Romaine.
Salade.

Plum pudding.
Mince pies.
Dessert.

It was nearly six when the soup made its appearance, and it was half-past eight before the waiters, in their cunning white canvas jackets and black silk scarfs, brought in the coffee. The dinner went with the cadence of a well-rehearsed opera. There was no hurry-no long pauses. The chat went around the table, the General doing his share of talk. I wish I could tell you many of the things that were said; but here again the necessities of my position fall in the way. Suffice it to say that it was a merry, genial, home-like feast, and when Mrs. Grant suggested that we remember in our toast, "Loved ones

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