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Updated: May 17, 2025
He had a big warm heart that bound all his friends to him with hooks of steel. I first met him on the platform of a grand temperance banquet, in Tripler Hall, New York, thirty-nine years ago where he and Mr. Beecher, and Dr. Chapin, Hon. Horace Mann, Gen. Houston, of Texas, and myself were the speakers. A gold medal was presented that evening to the Hon.
The sound of angry voices came through the gloom, then out into the light came Still Bill Stover, Willie, and Carara, dragging between them a globular person who was rebelling loudly. "Stover, what is this?" questioned Miss Chapin, stepping to the edge of the veranda. "This gent stampedes in the midst of our welcome," explained the foreman, "so we have to rope him before he gets away."
Chapin has been called to the presidency of the Association, under circumstances precisely similar to those under which he had twice before assumed the duties of the position. Mr. Chapin was married October 15th, 1849, to Matilda, daughter of John Fenno, of Boston.
The thought of it, even now, sends cold, prickly chills along my spine. That time trouble came out of a clear sky, but sometimes a bit of innocent curiosity betrays one. Thus one day, with sunshine overhead and peaceful murmurs below, I stood upon a rock spire upthrust from the slope of Mount Chapin, watching a band of Bighorn sheep above timberline.
Chapin, in his discourse over the coffin of Horace Greeley, "can lift himself above himself." He who repudiates the humanity of which he is a part will inevitably come to sorrow and ruin.
Let us not be misunderstood. There are able men in the New York pulpits. We have Vinton, Chapin, Frothingham, Adams, Osgood, and many others, but we have some weak-headed brethren also. A few clergymen get rich in this city, the wealthy members of their flocks no doubt aiding them. Some marry fortunes. As a general rule, however, they have no chance of saving any money.
"I didn't last time neither," Skim roared. After the loud laugh, old Whybarne of Gale Anstey piped feebly, "Well, dirt or no dirt, there's no denyin' Chapin knows a good job when he sees it. 'E don't build one day and dee-stroy the next, like that nigger Sangres."
Chapin," Cowperwood replied, simply, remembering his name from the attendant, and flattering the keeper by the use of it. To old Chapin the situation was more or less puzzling. This was the famous Frank A. Cowperwood whom he had read about, the noted banker and treasury-looter. He and his co-partner in crime, Stener, were destined to serve, as he had read, comparatively long terms here.
He had been unable to ship another boy in Tony's place, and when he let it be known among the dock laborers and loungers about Luiz Wharf that there was a berth open in the Seamew's forecastle, nobody applied for it. "What is the matter with those fellows?" the skipper asked Mason Chapin. "They were tumbling over each other a few weeks ago to join us, and now there isn't an offer."
Chapin would lend a helpin' hand." "No chance!" said Stover, grimly. "He's sore on foot-racin'. Says it disturbs us and upsets our equalubrium." Carara fetched a deep sigh. "It's ver' bad t'ing, Senor. I don' feel no worse w'en my gran'mother die." The three men loped onward through the darkness, weighted heavily with disappointment.
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