mation" and "conflagration," vied with each other in harrowing up the reader's nerves. The suburban press took up the strain in more subdued tones and in less space, although no more grammatically—while the far-away sheets of Boom City or Dead Man's Gulch paragraphed it as the shocking self-destruction of Robert Batterman, an eccentric metropolitan hermit who had a mania for collecting old almanacs and back numbers of periodicals. "Such is fame," said Byron, "to have one's name misspelled in the 'Gazette.'"
The Masonic body of which Brathwaite had been for so many years an unobtrusive member announced a Lodge of Sorrow in memory of the deceased brother; and most imposing were the ceremonies, most impressive were the addresses upon that occasion. From the pamphlet account of this function, printed by resolution of the Lodge, I excerpt the remarks of M. W. Past Master Ashley, as showing in some degree the respect in which Brathwaite was held by those who knew him, and the veneration which his upright life, his charitable although retiring disposition, and his many and varied accomplishments, inspired.
