In the autumn of 1900 a strange disaster befell the beautiful city of Galveston. A mighty wave lifted its crest far out at sea and marched straight on until it engulfed the city. It all happened suddenly, in a night. Thousands of men, women, and children perished. Hundreds of babies were born that night, and picked up alive, floating on the little mattresses to which drowning mothers had consigned them. The Catholic sisters and their orphan charges all perished. The Protestant Orphan Asylum, on higher ground, had been built around its first room, and in this central chamber the children were gathered, and spent the night in singing their little hymns. The outer rooms received the shock of the waves, but this small sanctuary remained intact. For many days after the waters subsided, children were found wandering in the streets—some did not know their own names, others anxiously questioned the passer-by—"Where is my mother? Have you found my papa yet?"

The country rushed to the rescue, not to save—it was too late—but to succor the homeless, relieve the destitute.

I was summoned one morning to my reception-room, where I found a committee awaiting me from one of the large newspapers in New York. They bore a message from the proprietor and editor to the effect that he wished to open a great bazaar for the relief of Galveston, and begged I would consent to manage it. My success for Jacksonville had brought me this honor.

I saw at once that I had an opportunity to accomplish great good. I also realized the difficulties I should have to encounter. The bazaar was to be worked up from the beginning, and three weeks were allowed me for the task. My personal influence in gaining patronage and material could not be great—and newspaper influence was an unknown quantity to me. However, "nothing venture nothing have." The very fact of difficulty stimulated me, and I consented.

Accordingly, next day I repaired to my "place of business," a room in the Waldorf Astoria, and found myself equipped with stenographers, typewriters and type-writing machines, a desk for myself, a desk for my assisting manager, and plenty of pens, ink, and paper. After a rapid consultation, a plan of procedure was adopted: we must have influential patronesses, we must have competent managers for fifteen booths, and enlist in our service willing hearts and hands to solicit contributions of material. This was a great work, but we set about it with energy. Our troubles soon arose from the number of offers of assistance which poured in upon us, and the difficulty of selection. Committees were out of the question. There was no time for any such machinery. To avoid delay and complications, I was appointed a committee of one; a die of my signature was cut, and everything relative to the booths passed under my own supervision—every paper was signed with my name, every appointment made by me. Our one-room office was soon too small, and three more rooms added to it, one for Mrs. Vivian's exclusive use, that she might try the voices of the singers who offered their services and decide upon the respective merits of the numbers of musicians who generously proffered help.

I wish I could tell of the splendid work my assistants accomplished—Mrs. Donald McLean, Mrs. John G. Carlisle, good "Aunt Louisa Eldridge," the actress, Mrs. Timothy Woodruff, Mrs. Gielow, Mrs. Marie Cross Newhaus, Mrs. Wadsworth Vivian, Helen Gardiner, the authoress, Mrs. John Wyeth, Miss Florence Guernsey—and many others. With such a staff success was assured.

But I knew well this city of New York. I must have prestige. I must have "stars," and bright ones, on my list of patronesses. To secure them, at a season when many people of social prominence were in Europe, or at country places, required numbers of letters and much time. Finally I made a bold dash for distinction. I remembered that John Van Buren, when asked how he could dare propose marriage to Queen Victoria, replied, "I supposed she would say 'no'—but then she might say 'yes.'" I telegraphed her Majesty, laid the cause of the Galveston orphans at her feet, and craved a word of sympathy in the effort I was making for their relief. Fate was kinder to me than to Mr. Van Buren. She said "yes." She did sympathize, and "commanded," from Balmoral, that I be so informed. I then telegraphed the Princess Alexandra, and she answered most graciously from Fredensborg. I then secured as patronesses for the bazaar the Duchess of Marlborough, the Dowager Duchess of Marlborough, Mrs. Cornwallis West, the Baroness Burdett-Coutts, Lady Somerset, Lady Aberdeen, Madame Loubet, Madame Diaz, wife of the Mexican President, Madame Aspiroz, wife of the Mexican Ambassador. All of these noble ladies sent personal answers, and many of them sums of money. Sir Thomas Lipton heard of the bazaar and sent from England, unsolicited, $500.

To this foreign list I was able to add a large number of the New York names best known and most highly esteemed with us. With such guarantee for the "tone" of the bazaar, I was assured of patronage.

When the opening night arrived, however, I was possessed with a sickening fear lest there should be no audience. A fairy village of booths filled the great ball-room at the Waldorf Astoria, and the generous merchants of New York had enriched them with rare and beautiful things. Mr. Edward Moran gave one of his famous marines. President Diaz sent a bronze group from the Paris Exposition, representing a reaper with his sickle—his two daughters binding his sheaves. Mr. Stanley McCormick purchased this for the office in Chicago of the McCormick reaper. Rich furs, tiger rugs, opera-cloaks, ladies' hats, silverware, watches, jewels, bicycles, a grand piano, and an automobile were included in our collection. I had written General Miles requesting him to open the bazaar, and he had come from Washington with Mrs. Miles. When I arrived on the opening night I was conducted to the small ball-room, where I found ten or more major-generals in full uniform, Governor Sayre from Texas, Mr. Aspiroz, the Mexican Ambassador, who had come from Washington to bring us the present from President and Mrs. Diaz, and ladies of their company. On General Miles's arm, attended by these distinguished men and their wives, we proceeded through crowds of spectators to the lower ball-room. When I entered, I found three thousand people already assembled! The head of the armies of the United States received a magnificent welcome. From Mrs. Astor's box he made the opening address, followed by a most touching narrative from Governor Sayre. My dear Mrs. Carlisle appeared in the box with a lovely wreath of laurel for General Miles. But I cannot describe the scene. Nothing like this bazaar has ever been seen in New York. There have been others—but without the cachet of military rank at home and royalty abroad. Telegrams from Mrs. McKinley; letter and a splendid silver present from Admiral and Mrs. Dewey; letter and present of rare embroidery from petite Madame Wu of the Chinese Embassy; letter and present of a silver flask from Madame Dreyfus,—these and many similar incidents cheered us in the hour of our triumph—an hour, too, of great bodily weariness.

We rang down our curtain with Éclat—our own Mark Twain just off his home-coming steamship responding at once to my letter of invitation, and making a happy speech. From my seat in the low box I looked down upon the faces of my sons Roger and Willy, who seemed in anxious conference on some subject. They gave me an encouraging nod. I found they knew, as I did not, that a committee was coming along the gallery to give me flowers, pin an emblem on my bosom, say dear things about my work. They were anxious lest their tired mother should prove unequal to the short speech of thanks demanded of her.

We sent $51,000 to Galveston! I was permitted to select a special object for this large sum. I suggested the building of an orphan asylum in which should be gathered all homeless orphan children, irrespective of creed or country.

Within a year the asylum was erected, furnished, and the hapless children gathered under its shelter. The mover in this grand charity said he could never have accomplished it without me—I could have done nothing without him! He had his friends. He also had his enemies, who rated his charity as an "advertisement." Of all this I know nothing; but I do know that this Orphan Asylum in Galveston was a grand and noble work; and my old and valued friend, Mrs. Phoebe Hearst, has reason to be grateful that it was given to her son to build it. "What can we do for you?" was asked of me by one of the managers at its opening. "Nothing," I answered; "the work is its own reward. But in the daily prayers of your orphan children, let them ask God's blessing upon all those who helped to give this home to His homeless children."

God, I humbly trust, did so bless them all—the eighty-year-old woman on the Pacific slope who sent a kerchief of her own making; the noble ladies across the Atlantic who promptly gave their honored names and their money; the little boy whose curly head I could see, moving among the crowd soliciting pennies for the orphans; the good woman whose head had grown gray beneath the crown of England.

But especially I wish, I pray, all blessings for the band of dear women who, coming often in rain and storm, worked with me from morning until night to help build a shelter for Galveston's homeless orphans.