bility" was that in a mere spirit of jest be should describe in detail the manner of his own death months afterward.[1]
Soon after the civil war I concluded to go South by steamer, and took passage from St. Louis on the steam-ship Luminary for New Orleans. Navigation on the Mississippi River at that time was uncertain. Many old vessels were employed, the condition of the river was dangerous, and during the preceding twelve or fifteen months nine steamers had been blown up, or otherwise destroyed, resulting in great loss of life. Nearly all the accidents had been caused by the explosion of what are known as tubular boilers, and strong prejudice arose against vessels having boilers of that kind. The Luminary was of the old-fashioned sort, and a number of passengers had taken it solely on that account.
I was accompanied to the vessel by my brother, who up to that time had traveled with me, and was about to return by rail to the coast. As he was upon the point of bidding me farewell, I was seized without a moment's thought or preparation with an appalling impression that the vessel would be lost, and that I was looking upon my brother for the last time. For some time I seemed to behold with almost the vividness of an actual perception the explosion, to hear the shrieks of the passengers, and to feel myself swallowed up in the general destruction. Composing myself as much as possible, I said to my brother: "If ever a man
- ↑ Dreams without any proper authentication of detail, are published and republished. "The night that President Lincoln was murdered, a neighbor of mine," writes a physician, "declared that the President was killed, and by an assassin. It was several hours before the news reached the town." The wife of a New York clergyman made a similar statement just before the news arrived of the assassination of President
