On the west bank of the Hudson some ninety miles from New York lies Malden, a forgotten metropolis of the early nineteenth century, with scarce a reminder of its former greatness save the frequent appearance on its streets of blue stone. A century ago Malden dreamed dreams, and saw herself the London of the new world.

Were not the great capitols of Europe situated on the banks of the great rivers miles from the mouth? Would not history repeat itself? What of that upstart New York? It was wrongly situated geographically. Circumstances had combined temporarily to give it a start. But Malden, with unlimited land North, South and West, Malden with the great highway would soon show what was what in cities. And were there not mountains and mountains of blue stone in and all around it? So Malden built great wharves and all the steamers stopped there. She laid out a city in a plan based on the same lines as the Commissioners of New York, which was started in the same year, 1807. Houses were built on city lots. Streets were laid out on the familiar checker board plan. Grandfather Bigelow being a learned man knew the whys and wherefores of City building and gave to the newly born metropolis the benefit of his experience.

But something happened to the Blue Stone industry. The steamers no longer stop at Malden. The streets echo not to the tramp of millions of feet but only to the lowing of cattle and the cackle of hens. If it has no Great White Way, it has one with reverse English. The Stygian darkness of other towns is like the rosy dawn compared to the darkness of Malden at night. Even "culled pussons" look white when you meet them in the dark.

Across the river from the Bigelow Homestead can be seen the blackened walls and charred remains of historic Clermont, the old home of Chancellor Livingston. From the front porch John Bigelow witnessed Lafayette's arrival at Clermont and the reception accorded him by the Chancellor and his friends.

John Bigelow's life spanned but a few years short of a century. He was the last connecting link with the Golden Age of "Old New York." It seems strange to speak of a man scarcely gone, who was the contemporary and friend of Washington Irving, Fitz-Greene Halleck, William Cullen Bryant, Fenimore Cooper, Charles Dickens and Thackery. In the Library there is still the copy of the "Life of Washington__With the kind regards of your friend Washington Irving" in the clear cut regular penmanship of New York's greatest author. A copy of Praed's poems, a very popular writer in the mid-Victorian era, is inscribed "From Charles Dickens on his departure from America with many kind wishes." It recalls the visit of this distinguished novelist , while a complete roster of the autographed books would read like a page of American Bibliography.

Scarcely a generation had passed since the death of Franklin when his biographer was born. Franklin's memory was still a mighty influence in public affairs and the great American philosopher grew daily in the esteem of the people.

The latter years of Franklin's life were largely spent abroad, chiefly in Paris, and it was John Bigelow's good fortune to live also for many years in the same atmosphere. As Lincoln's great minister to France during the dark days of our civil war he underwent to a startling degree an experience similar to Franklin's in the Revolution. It was perhaps only natural therefore that he should become the biographer of the great statesman. Fortune threw in his way most of the private papers of Franklin, among them his diary. The latter is now in the library of Mr. Henry E. Huntington who regards it as among his most valued treasures. A cast steel medallion head of the great philosopher graces the Bigelow garden. It is the only one of its kind in the world having been molded by Capt. Zalinski, inventor of the dynamite gun, during one of his experiments with the latter.

Another interesting item, also in the garden, is the first seal for the Public Library made by the Academy of Munich. It was rejected by the Trustees but is an interesting souvenir of the great institution of which Mr. Bigelow was President and of which as Trustee of the Tilden Will he did so much to create.

But perhaps the most striking memento in all the many interesting and historic memorabilia with which the garden abounds is the marble bust of Samuel J. Tilden which stands at the left of the porch. Notwithstanding the vast sum which was received by the City of New York from the Tilden estate, there is nowhere a statue to the memory of this public spirited citizen. It would seem that the Library at least should have one. The statue at Malden is today the only one in existence to the memory of the Sage of Greystone.

The Old Home To-day

The Bigelow Homestead is now owned and occupied by Poultney Bigelow, his distinguished son. it is maintained in the same primitive style as when grandfather Bigelow brought Miss Isham there as a bride in 1807. There is the same Dutch oven. The same candles to light the way to bed. The same pans and the same four posted bedsteads. The old well sweep still furnishes water as it has done for over a century, and the same Franklin stove supplies heat for the Library, and old grandfathers' clock still chimes out in cathedral tones the passing of the hours, and a wood lot still provides fuel for domestic uses. An old fashioned vegetable and flower garden, sleek, well-fed, pedigreed Jersey cattle, and the Orpingtons, Leghorns and Rhode island reds furnish the main table supplies, while the fruit trees provide dainties long after the season has passed. Everything is as it was. The sun dial marks only the shining hours and life passes quietly in the old homestead.

Memories of the days at Potsdam and San Souci seem far away. Turbulent scenes in Borneo, Java and the Phillipines seem never to have been and the war-like implements gathered the world over seem strangely out of place. Poisoned arrows, cruel looking scimitars, blood curdling machetes, swords of Sumari days, countless trophies of a soldier of fortune, strike a jarring note in the present pastoral surroundings. The Iron Gates of the Danube, strenuous days in South Africa, and on the Bulawayo with the ill fated Roger Casement, ship wrecks and moving accidents by floods and field are all very unreal, yet very much in evidence. Viscount Bryce writes in a note, "I have always had a great fondness for the Danube and were I twenty years younger, I would follow your example and take the same delightful way of seeing its romantic shores." In the Library one sits down to write on a table, an exact model of the one on which Luther translated the Bible. it came from Castle Warthburg in the Thuringen Forest.

 On the wall is a portrait of Emperor William dated 1888, the end of his first year as Kaiser of Germany. It bears a message: "With my very best thanks for your kind sketch of me Wilhelm" and refers to the article in the Century by Bigelow reviving the events of this apparently auspicious reign. In the hallway is still earlier portrait, 1880, of the Emperor with a frank, open, boyish face in his student days. Many others of still earlier and perhaps more interesting days, are about the house but never shown. They cover the period of Bigelow's personal friendship with the Emperor, which continued uninterruptedly till the trend of Prussianism became unmistakable and a parting of the ways inevitable. it is an undoubted fact that Emperor William never had, nor was it in his power to have, a more unselfish, genuine friendship with any human being on earth than he had with Poultney Bigelow. Rainy afternoons in the attic of the old Palace at Sans Souci, when Prince William, Prince Henry, Poultney and another boy played Indians, when Bigelow was the Heap Big Chief and delighted the two little German boys with his realistic rendering of the redskins war cry, those are the memories that puzzle one and throw a strange glamour on the sinister events of the present day. What would not the historian of the future give for a personal first hand account of these memorable days! It is hard to get. I led gently up to the subject on a recent visit. Bigelow sat at the piano idly strumming a vagrant air. "Yes," he replied, which was no reply at all, "I think some of the folk lore songs I have heard sung by the natives of Borneo deserve preservation__listen." And off he went into as delightful a medley of curious airs as I have never before been privileged to hear. One had to admit the weirdness, the tragedy, the joyousness of the strange music as it unfolded. But you listened in vain for an answer to your query.

Near the piano is the photograph of a slim almost frail looking young man and below it is a letter. It is dated Oyster Bay, L.I., Aug. 2nd, 1882, and begins "Dear Poultney" and reads in part "By jove old man you had a narrow escape." Elsewhere in the letter referring to an invitation for an outing, the writer bewails the fact that "he is now a married man and does not know how Mrs. R. would treat such a desertion in spite of her fondness for the instigator of it." Needless to say the writer is none other than our hero T.R.

A beautiful bronze bust of Sitting Bull who slew General Custer, and probably the only one ever modeled from a living Indian is a present from the late J. Kennedy Tod. It is by Kemeys whose group in Central Park is still so much admired. All around the walls are remembrances from famous men and women. Mark Twain inscribes his books, "To Poultney Bigelow with the love of Mark Twain." Henry W. Stanley is seen as a White Friar and his portrait recalls the fact that it was taken at the club dinner given him at Anderton's in London in 1890, just when he had emerged from darkest Africa. He is shown holding a lighted candle against that part of the world which his labors had just illuminated.

It is fitting that Gertrude Atherton, the great, great niece of Benjamin Franklin, should be represented by a portrait in her girlish days indebted to the "One and only Poultney Bigelow," nor is it strange that Frances Hodgson Burnett should say "From the keeper of the Deer Park to one of the Dears."

Carroll Beckwith is remembered with a painting of the original Gibson Girl taken from the model Gibson was then using in Paris and from which this famous series originated. R. Caton Woodville who painted the last portrait of King Edward, sends a spirited drawing of a horse inscribed "To my friend." Mrs. E.R. Thomas is represented by a charming portrait of Billy Burke. Miss Dewing Woodward by Autumn Voices, Samuel Isham by a painting ultimately designed for the Malden Library. Thure de Thulstrup, Alfred Parsons, R.F. Zogbaum are among the other artists who have delighted to honor this friend of theirs by some little personal memento. James Russell Lowell, John Hay, Elihu Root and many others must be mentioned ere the list of friends is closed.

One must not forget the medallion bust of John Bigelow which occupies the place of honor in the front court. Nor the curious little headstone which flanks the front stoop inscribed to "Corporal Peter Snyder of Co. H., N.Y. Infantry."

Snyder was the name Joe Jefferson bestowed upon Rip Van Winkle's dog and, as the scene of Rip's long slumber is right back of the house. Mr. Bigelow gave the homeless headstone a final resting place.

The master of the house arrayed in the picturesque costume of the French peasant, blue shirt, loosely fitting corduroy trousers, the whole surmounted by an immense towering Mexican sombrero, bids you a friendly farewell. And you depart with the curious sensation of having lived for a time in a world strangely different from the one that awaits you in New York.