The Captains Toll-Gate | Page 6

done under his own roof-tree. He loved his home; it
had to be a country home, and always had to have a garden. In the care
of a garden and in driving, he found his two greatest sources of
recreation.
[Illustration: CLAYMONT, MR. STOCKTON'S HOME NEAR
CHARLES TOWN, WEST VIRGINIA.]
I have mentioned Nutley, which lies in New Jersey, near New York.
His dwelling there was a pretty little cottage, where he had a garden,
some chickens, and a cow. This was his home in his editorial days, and
here Rudder Grange was written. It was a rented place. The next home
we owned. It stood at a greater distance from New York, at the place
called Convent, half-way between Madison and Morristown, in New
Jersey. Here we lived a number of years after Mr. Stockton gave up
editorial work; and here the greater number of his tales were written. It
was a much larger place than we had at Nutley, with more chickens,
two cows, and a much larger garden.
Mr. Stockton dictated his stories to a stenographer. His favorite spot for
this in summer was a grove of large fir-trees near the house. Here, in
the warm weather, he would lie in a hammock. His secretary would be
near, with her writing materials, and a book of her choosing. The book
was for her own reading while Mr. Stockton was "thinking." It annoyed
him to know he was being "waited for." He would think out pages of
incidents, and scenes, and even whole conversations, before he began
to dictate. After all had been arranged in his mind he dictated rapidly;
but there often were long pauses, when the secretary could do a good
deal of reading. In cold weather he had the secretary and an easy chair

in the study--a room he had built according to his own fancy. A fire of
blazing logs added a glow to his fancies.
I may state here that we always spent a part of every winter in New
York. A certain amount of city life was greatly enjoyed. Mr. Stockton
thus secured much intellectual pleasure. He liked his clubs, and was
fond of society, where he met men noted in various walks of life.[1]
[Footnote 1: Edward Gary, the secretary of the Century Club, in the
obituary notice of Mr. Stockton written by him for the club's annual
report, says of Mr. Stockton as a member: "It was but a dozen years ago
that Frank R. Stockton entered the fellowship of the Century, in which
he soon became exceedingly at home, winning friends here, as he won
them all over the land and in other lands, by the charm of his keen and
kindly mind shining in all that he wrote and said. He had an
extraordinary capacity for work and a rare talent for diversion, and the
Century was honored by his well-earned fame, and fortunate in its
share in his ever fresh and varying companionship."]
I am now nearing the close of a life which had had its trials and
disappointments, its struggles with weak health and with unsatisfying
labor. But these mostly came in the earlier years, and were met with
courage, an ever fresh-springing hope, and a buoyant spirit that would
not be intimidated. On the whole, as one looks back through the long
vista, much more of good than of evil fell to his lot. His life had been
full of interesting experiences, and one of, perhaps, unusual happiness.
At the last there came to pass the fulfilment of a dream in which he had
long indulged. He became the possessor of a beautiful estate containing
what he most desired, and with surroundings and associations dear to
his heart.
He had enjoyed The Holt, his New Jersey home, and was much
interested in improving it. His neighbors and friends there were valued
companions. But in his heart there had always been a longing for a
home, not suburban--a place in the real country, and with more land.
Finally, the time came when he felt that he could gratify this longing.
He liked the Virginia climate, and decided to look for a place
somewhere in that State, not far from the city of Washington. After a
rather prolonged search, we one day lighted upon Claymont, in the
Shenandoah Valley. It won our hearts, and ended our search. It had
absolutely everything that Mr. Stockton coveted. He bought it at once,

and we moved into it as speedily as possible.
Claymont is a handsome colonial residence, "with all modern
improvements"--an unusual combination. It lies near the historic old
town of Charles Town, in West Virginia, near Harpers Ferry. Claymont
is itself an historic place. The land was first owned by "the Father of his
Country." This great personage designed the