Having already spoken of a number of Memphis’ interesting citizens, I find myself left with an ill-assorted trio of names yet to be mentioned, because, different as they are, each of the three supplies a definite part of the character of the city.  First, then, Memphis has the honor of possessing what not many of our cities possess:  a man who stands high among the world’s artist-bookbinders.  This gentleman is Mr. Otto Zahn, executive head of the publishing house of S.C.  Toof & Co.  Mr. Zahn himself has done some famous bindings, and books bound by him are to be found in some of the finest private libraries in the land.  Until a few years ago he conducted an art-bindery in connection with the Toof company’s business, but it was unprofitable and finally had to be given up.

Second, to descend to a more popular form of art, but one from which the revenue is far more certain, Memphis has, in W.C.  Handy, a negro ragtime composer whose dance tunes are widely known.  Among his compositions may be mentioned the “Memphis Blues,” the “St. Louis Blues,” “Mr. Crump,” and “Joe Turner.”  “Mr. Crump” is named in honor of a former mayor of Memphis who was ousted for refusing to enforce the prohibition law; “Joe Turner” is the name of a negro pianist who plays for Memphis to dance—­as Handy also does.  Most of Handy’s tunes are negro “rags” in fox-trot time, and they are so effective that Memphis dances them generally in preference to the one step.

My third celebrity is of a more astounding type.  While in Memphis I called aboard the river steamer Grand, and had a talk with Mrs. Nettie Johnson, who is captain of that craft.  Some one told me that Mrs. Johnson was the only woman steamboat captain in the world, but she informed me that at Helena, Arkansas, there lives another Mrs. Johnson—­no relative of hers—­who follows the same calling.

The steamer Grand is almost entirely a Johnson family affair.  Mrs. Johnson is captain; her husband, I.S.  Johnson is pilot (though Mrs. Johnson has, in addition to her master’s license, a pilot’s license, and often takes the wheel); her elder son, Emery, is clerk; Emery’s wife is assistant clerk, while Arthur, the captain’s younger son, is engineer.  Russell Johnson, Mrs. Johnson’s grandson, is the only member of the family I saw aboard the boat who does not take part in running it.  Russell was five years old when I met him, but that was nearly a year ago, and by now he is probably chief steward, boatswain, or ship’s carpenter.

The regular route of the Grand is from Memphis to Mhoon’s Landing, on the Arkansas River, a round trip of 120 miles, with thirty landings.

I asked Mrs. Johnson if she had ever been shipwrecked.  Indeed she had!  Her former ship, the Nettie Johnson, struck thin ice one night in the Arkansas River and went down.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I reached after an iron ring,” she replied, “and clumb on up into the rigging.  She went down about four-thirty A.M. and we stayed on her till daylight; then we all swum ashore.  I tell you it was cold!  There was icicles on my dress; my son Emery put his arms around me to keep me warm, and his clothes froze onto mine.”