not approve of this man or of his methods, and the fellow went over to
the Locofocos, bag and baggage. He took with him an ugly grudge against
the Whig Boss and vented his spite in lies, slanders and defamations of
the foulest kind. For years he made all the trouble he possibly could,
but being a drinking man, he meanwhile drifted down hill, deviously but
without a stop. When he had reached the bottom, in utter destitution, he
came to Mr. Weed begging for aid--and he got it. More than that, after
his death his children were supported until they could take care of
themselves, and the costs, as we could not help knowing, were paid by
our Beaver Street neighbor.

A final memory of Mr. Weed lingers in my mind, to the discredit of those
who should have been his grateful friends. The last time I called on him
was when he was living in New York with his daughter, I think in Broome
Street. On greeting him I noted that he was much disturbed by some
annoyance which he could neither conceal nor throw off with his old-time
buoyancy of spirit.

His agitation was so evident and so unusual that I ventured to inquire
as to the trouble which so vexed his serene temper. In reply he took up
a copy of a prominent New York morning paper and pointed to a
sub-editorial in which he was referred to by name as "a veteran lagging
superfluous on the stage."

That was the most unkindest cut of all. Mr. Weed was at that time living
in retirement, but he still contributed vigorous and timely articles to
the editorial columns of this same journal. He was grievously hurt by
the gratuitous affront to which he had been so rudely subjected, but all
he said was, "I may be superfluous, but no one can truthfully say I ever
was a laggard."