A man of national reputation made Cooperstown his summer home in 1903, when the Rt. Rev. Dr. Henry C. Potter, seventh Bishop of New York, who had married Mrs. Alfred Corning Clark, took up his residence at Fernleigh. In his administration of the most populous diocese in America, Bishop Potter had gained wide renown as an ecclesiastic; added to which his prominence in civic affairs, and in matters of national importance, together with a public championship of workingmen's rights at which many wealthy churchpeople stood aghast, made him one of the most notable figures in American life. He passed his summers in Cooperstown until his death at Fernleigh in July, 1908, and the near view of his big personality caused him to be as greatly beloved in the village as he was honored in the city. He entered with zest into the interests of the village, gave a new impetus to many of its activities, and made friends in all walks of life.

When Bishop Potter came to dwell in Cooperstown, the village had already made up its mind that he was a rather austere and distant man, an official person, the quintessence of ecclesiastical statesmanship,—urbane, but unyielding. He looked the part. Tall, erect, and of splendid figure, his countenance had the aristocratic beauty of a family noted for its handsome men. The noble head and the poutingly compressed lips of a wide mouth gave an impression of power, while a slight droop of the left eyelid, and a thin rim of white around the iris of the eyes, imparted a veiled and filmy coldness to his glance. The personal dignity of the Bishop, his commanding presence, a certain picturesque magnificence, the rich and well-modulated voice, the incisiveness of his manner of speech, with the clear-cut value given to every word and syllable, were characteristics that marked him as a leader of men.

But Cooperstown soon came to realize the lovable traits and real simplicity of its most distinguished resident. He placed many villagers in his debt by personal acts of kindness, and charmed all by his genial friendliness. In any company he was the chief source of entertainment. Although he applied himself intensely to official work during certain hours of every day in the summer, when the hour of relaxation came he laid aside his task. With all his cares, he was never the grim man forcing himself to be gay. His contribution to the pleasure of a company was spontaneous and contagious. Not the least highly developed of his qualities was the Bishop's sense of humor. He was an incomparable raconteur, and many an incident of village life gave him material for a story which, with certain poetic license of embellishment that he sometimes allowed himself, set his hearers in a roar. He was as ready to hear a good story as to tell one, and his ringing laugh was a delight. The Bishop talked much and well. His use of the pause in speaking, with a momentary compression of the lips now and then between clauses, heightened the effect of crispness in his felicitously chosen phrases. He was a good listener if one had anything to say, but he was not averse to presiding in monologue over a number of people, and often did so, for his fund of talk was so rich that others, in his presence, were sometimes slow to offer any contribution of their own. He was most adroit at this sort of entertainment, and had a way of apparently bringing others of the company into the conversation—usually those who seemed rather shy and overawed,—without requiring them to utter so much as a word. In the midst of his talk the Bishop would interject such a remark as, "You will understand me, Mr. So-and-So, when I say"., or "Mrs. Blank, you will be particularly interested to know"., turning earnestly toward the person addressed. Of course Mr. So-and-So and Mrs. Blank brightened up at being singled out by the great man, and beamed with pleasure at having thus contributed to the conversation.

In the morning of every week-day, just as the village clock struck nine, the Bishop could be seen issuing from Fernleigh, whence, after passing the Rectory, he pursued a slow and stately course down the curved path of the Cooper Grounds to the Clark Estate building, where he had an office on the upper floor at the southwest corner. On warm summer days, he discarded broadcloth, and was dressed in flannels of spotless white. He walked with a stick, and there was a slight limp of the left leg, due to an injury received in riding. So strong and erect was his bearing, however, in spite of his more than three score years and ten, that the slow gait seemed to be caused rather by preference than necessity, and the limp really appeared to add to the majesty of his measured pace. Anyone who joined him was obliged to walk as slowly as the Bishop, who never hastened his steps, but conversed affably; now and then, as some thought struck him forcibly, he paused abruptly in his walk, and stood still to utter what was in his mind, moving forward again, by way of emphasis, at the end of a sentence. In these walks through the Cooper Grounds, and about the village, the Bishop assumed acquaintance with everyone, and frequently stopped to enter into conversation with a neighbor, a passing tourist, or some workman toiling in a ditch. It was because of his genuine interest in everyone that the village came to regard Bishop Potter no longer as a distinguished metropolitan, but as a genial neighbor. A stable-boy who at this period drove the village rector to a country funeral expressed the sentiment of many when he said: "I used to think the Bishop was stuck up; but he is really just as common as me or you!"

Bishop Potter took great delight in amusing occurrences in which he shared as he went about the village. In fact he seemed deliberately to invite them, and afterward described the incidents with contagious merriment. One day as he was about to enter a car of the trolley road on Main Street, an enormously fat countrywoman was standing on the platform, bidding farewell to her her friends. She had much to say, and completely blocked the entrance to the car. After waiting patiently for some moments the Bishop addressed the woman in his most gracious manner. "Madam," said he, "I don't wish to interfere with your conversation, but if you will kindly move either one way or the other, so that I may enter the car, I shall be greatly obliged." The woman glared at him. "Are you the conductor of this car?" she snapped, "Because if you be, you're the sassiest conductor that ever I see!"

In the late summer of 1904, "Doc" Brady, a lovable old Irish heart, who used to peddle portraits of the Pope, corn salve, and various trifles, encountered Bishop Potter in front of the Village Library, and invited a purchase of his wares, which at this time included campaign buttons of Col. Roosevelt and Judge Parker, attached to packages of chewing-gum. "Here ye are, Bishop," he cried; "Get a button for your favorite candidate!" The Bishop impartially selected a button of each kind, and pushed the chewing-gum aside. "Take your goom, Bishop, take your goom," urged Brady, as the Bishop moved away. "No, certainly not," was the firm reply. But Doc Brady was insistent, and hurrying after the Bishop forced the gum upon him. "There," said he, "if you don't chew it yourself, take it home to Mrs. Potter!" The Bishop's laugh rang aloud through the Cooper Grounds as he slowly ascended the path, taking home the chewing-gum to Fernleigh.

The Bishop usually left his office in the Clark Estate building toward one o'clock, and Mrs. Potter often walked down to join him on the way home. Sometimes, as she passed the office, she hailed the Bishop, and conversed with him as he stood at the open window above. On one occasion, when Mrs. Potter had several ladies as guests, they all chatted with the Bishop through the window on their way to Fernleigh. A moment later, recalling something that he had neglected to mention, he summoned a gardener who was at work close at hand, and asked him to request the ladies kindly to step back to the window, as the Bishop had something to say to them. Shortly afterward, in response to the gardener's summons, there was lined up beneath the window a happy group of female excursionists carrying lunch-baskets, entire strangers to the Bishop, and in a quite a flutter of anticipation of what the distinguished prelate might have to communicate. The Bishop was equal to the situation. He gave them some information concerning points of interest in and about Cooperstown, with a brief summary of the history of the Cooper Grounds in which they then stood, and sent them away rejoicing in knowledge that added greatly to the pleasure of their visit.

A frequent guest at Fernleigh at this time was the Rev. Dr. W. W. Lord, formerly rector of Christ Church, and for many years one of the most beloved friends of the Clark family. This aged clergyman and poet was a scholar of the old-fashioned type, well-versed in the elder philosophies, and fond of quoting Greek, Latin, and Hebrew authors in the original tongues. Dr. Lord admired Bishop Potter, but the two men were of different schools, and the old priest was inclined to stir up good-humored controversies in which he pitted his scholasticism against the Bishop's more facile and modern if less profound learning. The New York prelate entered with great zest into the contest of wits, and let slip no opportunity to score a point on Dr. Lord.

Although usually numbered among the evangelicals, Bishop Potter in his latter years was sympathetic with certain aspects of Catholic ceremonial. He believed in the enrichment of the services of the Church by light, color, and symbolism, so far as might be consistent with the law of the Anglican communion in America. Dr. Lord belonged to the school of churchmanship which abhorred anything beyond the most severe simplicity in the services of the Church, and had a large contempt for the badges and symbols of ritualism.

On the festival of St. John the Baptist, in 1903, Bishop Potter and Dr. Lord were the chief figures at a service held in Christ Church to which the Masonic lodges of Cooperstown and vicinity were invited. Both the Bishop and Dr. Lord were thirty-third degree Masons. Dr. Lord, because of the infirmities of age, at that period seldom officiated in church, but for this occasion was to have a place of honor in the chancel, and to pronounce the benediction. Bishop Potter was to deliver the sermon.

Dr. Lord came early to the sacristy of the church, and, having vested in his long flowing surplice and black stole, seated himself to await service time. In conversation with the rector, Dr. Lord recalled the days when more of the clergy were simple in their apparel, and he deplored the tendency to adopt brilliant vestments, colored stoles, and academic hoods. A hood, said Dr. Lord, echoing the sentiments of a witty English prelate, was often a falsehood. Any man could wear a red bag dangling down his back, but nothing except sound scholarship could really make a Doctor of Divinity. For his part, said Dr. Lord, he was content to be a Doctor of Divinity, by virtue of scholastic learning, without wearing a hood to proclaim it.

At this moment the Bishop appeared, having walked from Fernleigh to the church fully arrayed in his vestments. He was a resplendent figure. In addition to the episcopal robes of his office, he wore an Oxford cap, and a hood of flaming crimson, which an expert in such matters would have identified as belonging to Union College, or Yale, or Harvard, or Oxford, or Cambridge, or St. Andrew's, all of which institutions of learning had conferred the doctorate on Bishop Potter.

It still lacked a few moments of service time, and when the Bishop was seated in the bright light of the sacristy, another feature of decoration in his dress appeared. Depending from a chain about the neck there glittered upon his breast what the Masons call a "jewel." To the non-Masonic eye it was more than a jewel. It suggested rather a shooting star, emitting a shower of scintillations from the facets of a hundred jewels. When the coruscations of this Masonic emblem caught the eye of Dr. Lord, he became uneasy, and began to finger an imaginary token of rank upon his own breast. "I ought to have a jewel to wear to-night," he said musingly, and muttered of the splendid jewel that he had forgotten to bring, given to him years before by the Grand Lodge. By this time the hour of service had come; the aproned Masons had marched to their seats in the nave of the church, and all available space was thronged by an expectant congregation. Nevertheless Dr. Lord requested the rector to go forth from the sacristy, and ask the master of the Lodge whether any of the brethren present had a jewel to lend for the occasion. This was done, but no jewel was forthcoming. The Bishop seemed absorbed in his own thoughts.

The choir and clergy entered the chancel, and the service began. Dr. Lord had a seat of honor in the sanctuary at the right of the altar. When evensong was finished, Bishop Potter preached the sermon, after which he returned to the sanctuary, and stood at the left of the altar opposite to Dr. Lord. Just before the benediction, which Dr. Lord was to pronounce, the Bishop caught the rector's eye, and beckoned. When the rector came near, the Bishop removed the Masonic jewel, with its chain, and handed it to him.

"Put it around the old man's neck," the Bishop whispered.

This was done, and the venerable clergyman, decorated with the flashing symbol, seemed to grow in stature beyond his usual great height, as he ascended the steps of the altar, where he uplifted his hands, and in an age-worn but magnificent and sonorous voice pronounced the solemn blessing.

In the early autumn of 1904 the Rt. Hon. and Most Rev. Dr. Randall T. Davidson, Archbishop of Canterbury and Primate of all England, the first occupant of the chair of St. Augustine to visit America, was a guest at Fernleigh. The Archbishop and Mrs. Davidson, with the Archbishop's two chaplains, were met at the station by Bishop Potter together with a delegation of Cooperstown citizens. The first carriage that left the station contained the English and American bishops; the second carried the two chaplains, escorted by the village rector. As this carriage left the station, David H. Gregory, the perennial wit of the summer colony, called out,

"Don't forget to show the gentlemen the Indian in the Cooper Grounds."

The chaplains of the Archbishop exchanged glances of pleased anticipation. What they had heard suggested that Cooperstown kept a live Indian on view as a symbol of its history and romance, just as Rome maintains always its pair of wolves at the Capitoline hill. The rector tried in vain to divert their thoughts toward other objects. When the carriage rolled through the Cooper Grounds the chaplains insisted upon seeing the Indian. There was nothing to do but to point out J. Q. A. Ward's sculptured Indian which stands in the midst of the park, a replica of the one in Central Park, New York, and better mounted, altogether a fine work of art, but—

"Oh, I say," exclaimed one of the chaplains, as they looked at one another in deep disappointment, "Not alive; not alive!"

During the Archbishop's stay in Cooperstown he attended daily services in Christ Church, and enjoyed visiting points of interest on the lake and in the village. That a souvenir of the visit might be preserved the Archbishop and the Bishop were photographed together on the front porch of Fernleigh. Apparently some prosaic adviser had represented to the Archbishop that his usual costume would make him undesirably conspicuous in America, for during his tour of this country the Primate of all England abandoned the picturesque every-day dress of an English bishop, with its knickerbockers and gaiters, in favor of the international hideousness of pantaloons. At the time of the photograph Bishop Potter was wearing leggings, having just returned from riding, so that the two bishops appeared to have exchanged costumes.

The Archbishop desired not to have anything like a public reception, but it was intimated to a few neighbors that they would be welcomed at Fernleigh on a certain evening. At this gathering the most regal figure, who, in the ancient finery of her apparel, wearing a headdress topped with an ostrich plume, may be said to have eclipsed the most distinguished guests, was Susan Augusta Cooper, granddaughter of the novelist, representing, as it were, the very foundation of the village. Miss Cooper was one of the most characteristic survivals of the old rÉgime in Cooperstown. She lived next door to Fernleigh in Byberry Cottage, which had been built as a home for the two unmarried daughters of the novelist shortly after the burning of Otsego Hall, and largely out of material rescued from it, including the oaken doors, the balusters of the stairway, and two bookcases from Cooper's library which were transferred to the cottage. Susan Augusta Cooper took up her residence there with her mother and aunts in 1875, and when she died in 1915 had been the sole occupant of the cottage for many years. She was a type of old-fashioned neighborliness, and made a specialty of ministration to the needs of sick and poor throughout the village. One frequently met her on some errand of mercy; the basket on her arm contained good things prepared with her own hands for the needy; the large and stately figure had grown rather mountainous with advancing years, and the dignity of her slow and measured pace suggested the steady progress of a ship moving in calm waters. The solemnity of her countenance, and the grave manner of her carefully chosen words, were lovably familiar to those who knew her warm and generous heart.

When Miss Cooper's health failed she was obliged to undergo an operation which left her a cripple, unable to get about except in a wheel-chair propelled by an attendant. Always a faithful communicant of Christ Church, her disability occasioned what came to be almost a parochial ceremony, for when Miss Cooper made her communion she was wheeled to the chancel steps, and the priest came forward to administer to her, while the other communicants respectfully waited until she had withdrawn.

Added to her other infirmities, an affection of the eyes gradually darkened her vision until she became totally blind. In a condition of helplessness which would seem to make existence unendurable, Miss Cooper found much to make her happy, and life was sweet to her to the end. She enjoyed the society of friends, and it gave her keen pleasure, blind and crippled as she was, to be seated in state at large social functions. Such was her habitual solemnity of manner that few gave her credit for the sense of humor which lightened many of her dark days. She uttered her jests with so much gravity that they were often taken in earnest. Now and again she made sport of her own infirmities. Meeting her one day in her wheel-chair, after her eyesight had begun to fail, a neighbor inquired for her health. "Quite comfortable," replied Miss Cooper, in solemn tones, "except for my eyes. They tell me it is a fine day, with beautiful blue sky. The sky is blue, but to my eyes it is shrunk to the size of a bachelor's-button!" Miss Cooper was very reluctant in consenting to the amputation which prolonged her life for several years. Even after the surgeons stood ready in the operating-room she for a time declined to submit to the ordeal. There was a prolonged discussion which resulted at last, on the advice of friends, in obtaining her consent. The chief surgeon entering the room approached the bedside rubbing his hands and, grasping at something to say to reassure the patient, remarked in silken tones, "Well, Miss Cooper, I'm glad to hear that you prefer to have the amputation." The situation seemed desperate, and nerves were at a high tension among Miss Cooper's friends. "Well, doctor," was her tart rejoinder, "I must say that 'prefer' is hardly the word that I should use!" With this she gave a chuckle that proved her spirit undaunted, and relieved the strain.

Miss Cooper had great respect for the clergy, and for a bishop her reverence was unbounded. When Bishop Potter dedicated the monument at the grave of Leslie Pell-Clarke, in Lakewood Cemetery, a terrific thunderstorm arose during the ceremonies, and Miss Cooper was taken home in the carriage with the distinguished prelate to escape the deluge. The various conveyances plunged down the hillside post-haste, with lightning crashing on every side. Some of the ladies in the party became hysterical. Miss Cooper alone was perfectly calm. "With a bishop by my side," she exclaimed, "I am not in the least afraid to die!"

In the summer of 1904 Bishop Potter unwittingly acted as the accomplice of a burglar who robbed the safe of the Clark Estate office in Cooperstown, and escaped with a quantity of jewels. The newspapers estimated the value of the stolen jewels at from $20,000 to $100,000, and the robbery became a celebrated case in police annals. The burglary was unusual in having taken place in broad daylight, with Bishop Potter calmly at work at his desk on the second floor of the small building. When the clerks left the office for luncheon at noon they locked the outside door, but did not close the vault in which the papers and valuables were kept. It was a brilliant summer day, the seventh of July; villagers and tourists were passing and repassing through the adjacent Cooper Grounds; the clerks were to return within an hour, and in the mean time the Bishop was there. Nobody dreamed of the possibility of a burglary, but it was the unexpected that happened. When the vault was to be closed and locked at the end of the day, a tin box containing a casket of jewels was missing. In the basement of the building the tin box which had contained the jewel-case was found empty, and near by was a hatchet usually kept in the basement, and with which the box had been pried open.

The news of the robbery caused intense excitement in the community. The village policeman together with the county sheriff and his deputies met in conference at the Clark Estate office; knots of people gathered upon the streets in earnest discussion; the village press was busy turning out handbills announcing the robbery and offering a large reward for the apprehension of the thief; the telegraph wires hummed with messages to the police of the state and nation. Next morning Pinkerton detectives arrived under the leadership of George S. Dougherty, afterward deputy police commissioner of the city of New York.

The clues discovered by the detectives were not encouraging. In the office nothing appeared beyond the fact that the box of jewels had been removed from the safe. In the basement the discarded tin box that had contained the casket of jewels lay upon the floor not far from the hatchet with which it had been opened, and the only remarkable circumstance was that the floor all about the empty box was bespattered with blood. The detectives said also that they noticed the frequent appearance of a woman's footprints which were well defined and seemed to encircle the spot where the empty jewel-box lay.

The blood-stains appeared to offer the most serviceable clue, and to account for them three theories were suggested. First: The robber had been caught in the act by someone who had disappeared in pursuit, after one or the other had been wounded in the struggle. Second: There was more than one robber, and there had been a bloody quarrel over the division of the booty. Third: In opening the tin box containing the jewels the robber had cut himself either with the hatchet or with the jagged tin. Since the Bishop, who had been in the building during the robbery, heard no sound of any struggle, the first two theories were abandoned, and the third alone seemed probable. Advices were accordingly telegraphed to the police of various cities to look out for a man with a bandaged hand. For several days thereafter suspicious-looking men in remote parts of the country who had had the misfortune to injure a hand suffered the added misfortune of being detained by the police; but nothing came of it.

In order to aid in the recovery of the property, and to make it difficult for the thief to dispose of it, a description of the stolen jewelry was given out, and summarized as follows: a pearl collar; a diamond bow-knot with pear-shaped pearl pendant; a ring set with two diamonds and a ruby; a ring set with diamond and ruby; a small diamond ring; a solitaire diamond ring; a diamond marquise ring; a ring set with two diamonds crosswise; a diamond bracelet; a diamond and pearl bracelet.

Dougherty the detective had another method of procedure in reserve. He had brought with him to Cooperstown an album containing photographs of the most noted bank-sneaks and yegg-men. After studying the "job" at the Clark Estate office he came to the conclusion that it was the work of a professional, and began to run over in his mind the various crooks who might have planned and carried out a robbery of this particular sort. Many of these were gradually eliminated for one reason or another, until he had narrowed the field to a few suspects. Dougherty then began to make inquiries about the village to learn whether anyone had noticed a stranger loitering in the neighborhood of the Clark Estate offices on the day of the robbery. His search was rewarded by finding several persons who remembered such a stranger. One of them described the loiterer as a man about sixty years old, with "pleasant, laughing eyes." Dougherty already had in mind Billy Coleman, alias Hoyt, alias Grant, alias Holton, alias Houston, a man with an international police record. He produced Coleman's photograph, and the likeness was promptly identified as that of the loiterer. Another who remembered seeing the stranger picked out from the entire gallery of rogues the likeness of Coleman.

Although he had no real evidence against him the detective was now sure of his man, and felt certain that, somewhere in the mazes of New York City, Coleman and the missing jewels would be found. Returning to New York, Dougherty roamed the streets of the city, day and night, looking for Coleman. After two weeks of fruitless search he met one of Coleman's "pals" coming up Eighth Avenue. Acting on the theory that this man would ultimately get in touch with Coleman, the detective determined to keep him in sight. He shadowed him all night, following him from haunt to haunt. The next morning, when Coleman's friend retired to a rooming-house, and asked for a bed, Dougherty put two subordinates on guard, while he himself snatched a few hours of sleep. The detective proved to be upon the right track, for within thirty-six hours the shadowed man joined Billy Coleman.

The suspected thief occupied a flat at 271 West 154th Street. From this time Dougherty or one of his deputies followed every movement of Billy Coleman. Day after day they tracked him through the city from one resort to another. In the evening they followed him home, and kept a watchful eye on the premises. Coleman's actions were provokingly innocent. At nightfall he frequently left home, accompanied by his wife, but only to take their little dog out for an airing. On a Sunday evening while Dougherty was shadowing Coleman and his wife, hoping that they might lead him to some clue to the robbery, he was amazed to see them enter an Episcopal church, where they remained throughout the service. Bishop Potter, to whom Dougherty had confided his suspicions of Coleman, laughed heartily when the detective mentioned this incident.

"Surely, Dougherty, you don't want me to believe that one good churchman would rob another, do you?" the Bishop exclaimed.

Dougherty felt that as the case stood he was making no headway. Coleman, who perhaps realized that he might be under suspicion, made no false moves. The detective resolved upon another plan of action. He decided to have Coleman charged with the robbery and arrested, after which he was certain to be released for lack of evidence. He calculated that an official discharge from any complicity in the stealing of the jewels would so reassure Coleman that he might afterward betray himself, through lack of caution, to watchful detectives. Coleman was accordingly arrested, and held for the grand jury in Cooperstown. The case against him was too weak to stand. The grand jurors were much absorbed in conclusions drawn from the blood-stains found on the floor of the basement of the Clark Estate office, and when it was shown that Coleman bore no sign of scratch or scar they promptly discharged him. Coleman left Cooperstown a free man, and chatted amicably with Dougherty as they rode together on the train to New York. On reaching the city they parted company at the Christopher Street elevated station, and Coleman rode on up town to his home, serenely confident of Dougherty's failure and of his own security.

This was in October. From the moment of his arrival in the city Coleman was shadowed day and night. Detectives rented a room in a house across the street from Coleman's flat. Whenever he left his home they cautiously followed him. For a time he seemed to be making tests to learn whether or not he was being followed. Sometimes he would enter a large department-store, mingle with the crowds, and suddenly find his way out of a side door into a little-frequented street. But the detectives were equally wily. They adopted various disguises, and never let him out of their sight. After about two months they observed that Coleman began to make frequent trips toward Morningside Park. He made always for the same region, where he appeared to walk aimlessly about, but with his eyes fixed on the ground, as though counting his steps. On the morning of the third of January, during a heavy snowstorm, Coleman was followed to West 155th Street and Eighth Avenue, where, in a little open space near an iron-foundry, he scraped aside the snow, and began a small excavation of the earth. For some reason he failed to find the object of his search, and returned home with an air of dejection. One detective shadowed him homeward; the others did not wait for the falling snow to obliterate the traces of his excavation. They began digging in the same spot on a more generous scale, and eighteen inches below the surface unearthed a glass fruit-jar. The jar, on being lifted to the light, dazzled the eyes of the detectives, for it contained the missing jewels, which for six months had lain there in the earth where thousands of people had daily passed them by.

The detectives, having removed the jewels, placed in the jar a note addressed to Billy Coleman, signed by Dougherty and his assistants, McDonals and Wade, stating that they had the jewels, and would call upon him at the earliest opportunity. They reburied the jar, and restored the surroundings to their former condition. Coleman, as had been foreseen, afterward returned to the spot, and dug up the jar. The detectives were near enough to witness the wretched man's distress when, on reading the note, he realized that the fortune had escaped him and that the prison awaited him. He was immediately placed under arrest, and confessed all. Concerning a few pieces of jewelry that were missing from those found in the jar he gave information that led to their recovery. Coleman was once more taken to Cooperstown, and, with the additional evidence, was easily convicted of the robbery.

Coleman was a man of such remarkable intelligence and engaging personality that Bishop Potter, whose near presence at the time of the robbery the burglar little suspected, became much interested in him. There is no doubt that Coleman was really touched by the kindness which Bishop and Mrs. Potter showed to him and to his wife, and his resolution to reform was quite sincere.

"There is nothing in being a crook," he said. "I am sixty years old, and have been in prison half my life. My advice to young men is 'Don't steal.'"

At Bishop Potter's request the sentence of the court was lighter than Coleman's record might have warranted, and he was sent to Auburn prison for six years and five months, a term which discounts for good behaviour reduced to four years and four months.

Coleman's explanation of the blood-stains which had played so important a part in the various theories of the robbery was one that nobody had thought to venture. He said that before he opened the jewel-casket in the basement he really had no idea what it contained, and when he saw the fortune in gems that had come into his possession his great excitement brought on a nose-bleed.[128] His clothes were so blood-stained that he was in mortal fear of being arrested on that account, but, as he wore a black suit, the stains were not conspicuous. As to the woman's footprints, which the detectives said they found, no explanation was ever made.

Ten years later an elderly man was arrested in New York, charged with robbing a Wells-Fargo Express wagon on Broadway. With the aid of an umbrella handle he had drawn from the rear of the wagon a package containing $100,000 in cancelled cheques—not a very successful haul. His age and apparent harmlessness so much impressed the justices in Special Sessions that he would undoubtedly have been released on suspended sentence had not a detective who had been engaged in the Clark robbery case passed his cell in the Tombs. The detective recognized the famous Billy Coleman, whose police record dated back to 1869, showing thirteen arrests and a total period of twenty-eight years in prison.

Bishop Potter's last notable public appearance in Cooperstown was at the Village Centennial Celebration in August of 1907. He was the most picturesque figure in a scene rich in kaleidoscopic color and historic significance when, on the Sunday afternoon which began the week's festivities, multitudes listened beneath the sunlit trees upon the green of the Cooper Grounds, while the Bishop, mantled in an academic gown of crimson, described his vision of the future of religion in America.

J. B. Slote

The Lyric at Cooper's Grave