In 1857, in the city of New York, a dozen young architects met in the office of Richard Upjohn, for the purpose of considering the organization of a society of architects, whose object should be the promotion of schools for architecture, the publication of journals and raising the standard of public taste in regard to it. This was the genesis of the American Institute of Architects, which now numbers eight hundred members and ten past presidents, of whom Richard Upjohn was the first; another, Thomas U. Walter, designed the present wings of the Capitol, and another, Richard M. Hunt, designed the Administration Building, at the World’s Fair, and the famous “Biltmore,” at Asheville, North Carolina. The circular room on the second floor of the Octagon, once President Madison’s executive office, is now the business office of the Institute, and Dolly Madison’s bedroom has been converted into an exhibit room for the American Academy in Rome. Through the courtesy of the secretary, the writer was permitted to explore the back yard and peep into the stable lot, in which is located a large stone block—“whereby hangs a tale.” A granddaughter of Colonel Tayloe’s, who spent much of her youth at the Octagon, affirms that this stone was used by the postilions in mounting. Yet to the frenzied fancy of more than one chronicler of local history, this was the “slave block,” from which were auctioned some of those five hundred slaves ascribed to John Tayloe, and is referred to in pompous and melodramatic phrase as “doing satanic duty through the years.” Opposed to this is the well authenticated fact that Colonel Tayloe never sold any of his dusky retinue, and his wife’s reply when questioned as to the number of her husband’s slaves: “He has five hundred _servants, but only one slave. I_ am slave to them all,” is fraught with much historic truth which is pretty generally overlooked in the portrayal of ante-bellum types of Southern women. Other pious visitors to the Octagon kitchen, looking through the same lens as the discoverers of the “slave block,” beheld in the long iron “spits,” used for roasting meats, unique _instruments of torture_ for the hapless slaves! These stories indicate that other imaginations besides the inventors of ghostly legends, have been busy with the long-suffering Octagon; these encrustations of false over the true cannot, however, detract from the real interest of the history of this dignified old mansion. FATE’S IRONY He fought against his weakness; weary, Heartsick, he, amid his failures, died. Then one who knew him, knew how near he Came to conq’ring with the hurts he bore; Knew the reachings of his nature, And the sweetness of his heart at core; Knew the baffled will, the down-crushed pride; From his effort plucked up courage, Turned the failure into story, From it won renown and glory. _Amy E. Blanchard._