Speech At a Clover Club Dinner—A Famous New England Society Dinner—Teaching Geography in Georgia—Speaking for the United States—Old Times in Ohio—At a Grand Army National Encampment—Why He did not March to Augusta—One of His Last Letters—A Story of Grant—Congratulations to President Harrison.

General Sherman displayed his marked ability as a letter-writer early in life, as a lad at West Point. To the end of his days he wielded the same vigorous and trenchant pen. Nor was he less effective as a speaker. The graces of oratory, as taught in schools, he did not aspire to display. His eloquence was of a more impressive type than that; it was the eloquence of a man of action. Ideas were plenty in his fertile brain, and, as an omnivorous reader he had acquired a vast vocabulary. When he arose to speak, therefore, he had but one thing to do: to express his thoughts in words with the same directness and vigor with which he would, on occasion, have wrought them out in deeds. He was a spirited and dramatic story-teller, and his fund of anecdotes seemed inexhaustible. "Stage-fright" was of course unknown to him, though the circumstances of his speaking affected him much.

Some years before his death, it is related, he was a guest at a Clover Club dinner, in Philadelphia. This Clover Club was composed of newspaper men, authors, artists, etc., and its ruling idea was non-formality. No guest was too eminent to be exempt from practical jokes and guying. So when General Sherman rose to speak, having been called upon, he was greeted by a storm of applause. This applause was renewed whenever he attempted to open his mouth, until at last, surprised, indignant and hurt, he shut his teeth together like a sprung rat-trap and sat down. A moment later the Club struck up the tune "Marching Through Georgia," and they all joined in the song with a will. As the ringing words of that song filled the hall and the compliment contained in them went into the heart of the old warrior, he saw that the joking was all good-natured. He grew mellow again, and as he looked about the board and saw good-fellowship, good-nature and admiration in every countenance, the tears came to his eyes and he rose and made one of the best speeches that has ever been delivered before them. He made his speech without interruption, and the applause which followed it at the end was genuine enough and not facetious.

One of Sherman's most notable and most characteristic speeches was made at the dinner of the New England Society, in New York, on December 22d, 1886. It was as follows:—

Mr. President and Gentlemen of the New England Society of New York.—Were I to do the proper thing, I would turn to my friend on the left and say amen, for he has drawn a glorious picture of the War, in language stronger than even I or my friend Schofield could dare to use. But looking over the Society to-night, so many young faces here, so many old and loved ones gone—I feel almost as one of your forefathers. [Laughter and applause.] Many and many a time have I been welcomed among you. I came from a bloody civil war to New York in years gone by—twenty or twenty-one, may be—and a committee came to me in my room and dragged me unwillingly before the then New England Society of New York, and they received me with such hearty applause and such kindly greetings that my heart goes out to you now to-night as their representatives. [Applause.] God knows, I wish you, one and all, all the blessings of life, and enjoyment of the good things you now possess and others yet in store for you, young men.

"I hope not to occupy more than a few minutes of your time, for last night I celebrated the same event in Brooklyn, and at about two or three o'clock this morning I saw this hall filled with lovely ladies waltzing [laughter,] and here I am to-night. [Renewed laughter. A voice—You're a rounder, General.] But I shall ever, ever recur to the early meetings of the New England Society, in which I shared with a pride and satisfaction which words will not express, and I hope the few words I now say will be received in the kindly spirit they are made in, be they what they may, for the call upon me is sudden and somewhat unexpected.

"I have no toast. I am a loafer. [Laughter.] I can choose to say what I may—not tied by any text or formula. I know when you look upon old General Sherman, as you seem to call him [Oh, oh!]—pretty young yet, my friends—not all the devil out of me yet, and I hope still to share with you many a festive occasion—whenever you may assemble, wherever the sons of New England may assemble, be it here under this Delmonico roof or in Brooklyn, or even in Boston, I will try to be there. [Applause.]

"My friends, I have had many, many experiences, and it always seems to me easier to recur to some of them when I am on my feet, for they come back to me like the memory of a dream, pleasant to think of. And now to-night, I know the Civil War is uppermost in your minds, although I would banish it as a thing of trade, something too common to my calling: yet I know it pleases the audience to refer to little incidents here and there of the great Civil War, in which I took an humble part. [Applause.] But I remember, one day away down in Georgia, somewhere between, I think, Milledgeville and Milan, I was riding on a good horse and had some friends along with me to keep good fellowship, you know. [Laughter.] A pretty humorous party, clever good fellows. [Renewed laughter.] Riding along, I spied a plantation. I was thirsty, rode up to the gate and dismounted. One of these men with sabres by their side, called orderlies, stood by my horse. I walked up on the porch, where there was an old gentleman, probably sixty years of age, white-haired and very gentle in his manners—evidently a planter of the higher class. I asked him if he would be kind enough to give me some water. He called a boy, and soon he had a bucket of water with a dipper. I then asked for a chair, and called one or two of my officers. Among them was, I think, Dr. John Moore, who recently has been made Surgeon-General of the Army, for which I am very grateful—even to Mr. Cleveland. [Laughter and applause.] He sat on the porch, and the old man held the bucket up to me, and I took a long drink of water and may have lighted a cigar [laughter], and it is possible I may have had a little flask of whiskey along. [Renewed laughter.]

"At all events, I got into a conversation; and the troops drifted along, passing down the roadway closely by fours, and every regiment had its banner, regimental or national, sometimes furled and sometimes afloat. The old gentleman says: 'General, what troops are these passing now?' As the color-bearer came by, I said: "Throw out your colors. That is the 73d Iowa."

"The 73d Iowa! 73d Iowa! Iowa! 73d! What do you mean by 73d?"

"Well," said I, "habitually a regiment when organized, amounts to 1,000 men."

"Do you pretend to say Iowa has sent 73,000 men into this cruel Civil War?" [Laughter.]

"Why, my friend, I think that may be inferred."

"Well," says he, "Where's Iowa?" [Laughter.]

"Iowa is a State bounded on the east by the Mississippi, on the South by Missouri, on the west by unknown country, and on the north by the North Pole."

"Well," says he, "73,000 men from Iowa? You must have a million men."

Says I: "I think about that."

Presently another regiment came along.

"What may that be?"

I called to the color-bearer: "Throw out your colors and let us see," and it was the 17th or 19th—I have forgotten which—Wisconsin.

"Wisconsin! Northwest Territory! Wisconsin! Is it spelled with an O or a W?"

"Why, we spell it now with a W. It used to be spelled 'Ouis.'"

"The 17th! that makes 17,000 men?"

"Yes, I think there are a good many more than that. Wisconsin has sent about 30,000 men into the war."

Then again came along another regiment from Minnesota.

"Minnesota! My God! where is Minnesota? [Laughter] Minnesota!"

"Minnesota is away up on the sources of the Mississippi River, a beautiful territory, too, by the way—a beautiful State."

"A State?"

"Yes, has Senators in Congress, good ones, too. They're very fine men—very fine troops."

"How many men has she sent to this cruel war?"

"Well, I don't exactly know; somewhere between 10,000 and 20,000 men, probably. Don't make any difference—all we want." [Laughter.]

"Well," says he, "now we must have been a set of fools to throw down the gage of battle to a country we didn't know the geography of! [Laughter and applause.] When I went to school that was the Northwest Territory, and the Northwest Territory—well," says he, "we looked upon that as away off, and didn't know anything about it. Fact is, we didn't know anything at all about it."

Said I: "My friend, think of it a moment. Down here in Georgia, one of the original thirteen States which formed this great Union of this country, you have stood fast. You have stood fast while the great Northwest has been growing with a giant's growth. Iowa to-day, my friend, contains more railroads, more turnpikes, more acres of cultivated land, more people, more intelligence, more schools, more colleges—more of everything which constitutes a refined and enlightened State—than the whole State of Georgia."

"My God!" says the man, "it's awful. I didn't dream of that."

"Well," says I, "look here, my friend, I was once a banker, and I have some knowledge of notes and indorsements, and so forth. Did you ever have anything to do with indorsements?" Says he: "Yes, I have had my share. I have a factor down in Savannah, and I give my note and he indorses it and I get the money somehow or other. I have to pay it in the end, on the crop."

"Well," says I, "now look here. In 1861, the Southern States had 4,000,000 slaves as property, for which the States of Pennsylvania, New York, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and so forth were indorsers. We were on the bond. Your slaves were protected by the same law which protects land and other property. Now, you got mad at them because they didn't think exactly as you did about religion and about that thing and t'other thing; and like a set of fools you first took your bond and drew your name through the indorsers'. Do you know what the effect will be? You will never get paid for those niggers at all. [Laughter.] They are gone. They're free men now.

"Well," says he, "we were the greatest set of fools that ever were in the world." [Laughter.]

"And so I saw one reconstructed man in the good State of Georgia before I left it. [Laughter and applause.]

"Yes, my friends, in those days things looked gloomy to us, but the decree came from a higher power. No pen, no statesman, in fact, no divine could have solved the riddle which bound us at that time; nothing but the great God of War. And you and your fathers, your ancestors, if you please, of whom I profess to be one [applause], had to resort to the great Arbiter of Battles, and call upon Jove himself. And now all men in America, north and south and east and west, stand free before the tribunal of the Almighty, each man to work out his own destiny according to his ability, and according to his virtue, and according to his manhood. [Applause.] I assure you that we who took part in that war were kindly men. We did not wish to kill. We did not wish to strike a blow. I know that I grieved as much as any man when I saw pain and sorrow and affliction among the innocent and distressed, and when I saw burning and desolation. But it was an incident of war, and was forced upon us—forced upon us by men influenced by a bad ambition, not by the men who owned those slaves, but by politicians who used that as a pretext, and forced you and your fathers and me and others who sit near me, to take up arms and settle the controversy once and forever. [Cries of "good," and loud applause.]

"Now, my friends of New England, we all know what your ancestors are recorded to have been; mine were of a kindred stock. Both my parents were from Norfolk, Conn. I think and feel like you. I, too, was taught the alphabet with blows, and all the knowledge I possessed before I went to West Point was spanked into me by the ferule of those old schoolmasters. [Laughter.] I learned my lesson well, and I hope that you, sons of New England, will ever stand by your country and its flag, glory in the achievements of your ancestors, and forever—and to a day beyond forever, if necessary—giving you time to make the journey to your last resting-place—honor your blood, honor your forefathers, honor yourselves, and treasure the memories of those who have gone before you." [Enthusiastic applause.]

At the New York Chamber of Commerce dinner, on November 20, 1888, General Sherman responded to the toast. "The United States—with an educated community and patriotic people her success will continue to be commensurate with her opportunities and her power coextensive with her vast domain." He said:

"Mr. President and Gentlemen—When I first received your invitation I felt almost overwhelmed at the idea of being brought into the presence of the old merchants of New York, who guide the destinies of your city. Every man who loves his country, or who professes to do so, honors the merchant, the far-seeing man of affairs, who takes the whole universe into his calculations, and brings here the things we need and sends forth the things that we can spare and sell, and every man who honors the merchant must think with pride of New York, which exercises an influence over civilization, I am inclined to think, second only to London and greater than either Paris, Vienna or Berlin. [Applause.] And I believe, gentlemen, your influence will continue to grow—provided always that you deserve it. [Applause.]"

"When I got the toast, I was somewhat startled. I didn't know whether to take it in its grand sense or in its minor sense, like the motto in the copy-book that we used to pass around in our school-rooms; "Be virtuous and you will be happy." [Laughter.] That is a self-evident proposition, and so is the toast. Nevertheless, I turned to "Cosmos" and thought of Humboldt, and then to Burghaus, and then to my old friend William Gilpin. I don't know whether you know my old friend William Gilpin, but not to know him is to be yourself unknown. [Laughter.] He lectured in London, and he proved to the satisfaction of his small audience that wherever he was was the centre of creation. [Laughter.] I remember him when he lived in St. Louis—and of course that was the centre of the world [laughter], and when he moved up to Independence the world went with him. Finally, President Lincoln made him Governor of Colorado, and the centre of the world was easily transferred to Colorado. [Laughter.] So it was to the Garden of the Gods, when he subsequently went there.

"Well, he was a graduate of West Point and traveled once with me across this continent to San Francisco. Gentlemen, did it ever strike you that when you get to San Francisco you are only half-way across the United States? The Aleutian Islands, which we got with Alaska, extend further toward Asia than the continent of North America does to the east of San Francisco; and that was the fact that startled Gilpin. Every foot of that land, too, we have honestly come by.

"As to Canada, we want no part of that, any more than we do of Mexico. We have enough poor land already. [Laughter.] Our present domain comprises about 3,700,000 square miles, and that is bigger than the civilized domain of any country except Russia. In Belgium and parts of France the population is forty times denser than ours at present; so we see what room we have to grow. I can remember when we used to cross the San Joaquin valley, twenty or thirty years ago, and thought it was a poor, miserable place, because our cattle suffered so in the passage, but now the land is worth there $100 an acre, while I wouldn't have given two cents for 1,000 acres then. [Laughter.]

"But the country is growing in other ways. Up here at Harvard, we have college youths spending $10,000 a year—more than the pay of a Lieutenant-General, by the way [laughter]—and if De Witt Clinton, who is entitled to the credit of building the Erie Canal, the first great artery of internal commerce, were to rise and look around him to-day, he would see many things to surprise him. Among others, he would be startled at the spectacle presented four years ago in these United States, of the election of a man to the Chief Magistracy and the appointment of others in his cabinet, representing the opposition that confronted us twenty years ago in the Civil War, when we fought to save the country. The people submitted to that without one single whimper. [Applause.] But they have again chosen a man of our own style and stamp, and I, for one, say openly that I am glad of it. [Renewed applause.] I am not only proud of Ben Harrison as one of our soldier-boys, but I am glad that in the hour of our danger he stood by the American flag and was true to it."

At an Ohio Society dinner in New York, April 7, 1888, he made this address, on old times in his native State:

"My young friends from Ohio, whilst you bear your honored State in memory, honored memory, never reflect upon others. [Laughter.] There were good men born long before they were in Ohio. [Renewed laughter.] There are a great many good men born in other States out of Ohio. [Continued laughter.] I have encountered them everywhere on this broad continent and in Europe. There seems to be a pretty fair representation of Ohio in this great city of New York, and I claim you have the same right here as the native-born citizens [laughter], not by sufferance but by right; and I hope you will bear in mind that you are citizens of a greater country, the United States of America. [Loud applause.] As your president has well told you in eloquent words to-night, our friends in Marietta are celebrating a past of vast importance in the history of Ohio, and the United States, and of all mankind. One hundred years ago there landed at Marietta that little body whose influence was then felt and is now felt all over the earth's surface; an organized body of men with discipline, seeking to make homes for themselves and their families and to rear up a State, free, where all men could enjoy liberty and the pursuit of happiness in their own way and at their own time. Ohio was the first of the States created; not the first of the thirteen, but it was the child of the Revolution, although the ordinance of 1787 preceded the Constitution by two years. Yet it was made by the same men, breathing the same spirit of freedom and nationality.

"I was born in the town of Lancaster, and I doubt if any town anywhere possessed a larger measure of intelligence for its numbers, about 3,000. There was General Beecher, Henry Stanbury, Thomas Ewing, William Irvine. [A voice—"Tom Corwin."] Yes; he belonged in Lebanon, and I knew him well. His name suggests to me something which I am frequently reminded of when I go to Ohio. In these modern times I don't think they're as good as they used to be in those early days. I suppose it is a common weakness with old men to view things in that way. I could recount a great many things about those early days. My memory goes back to 1826. I remember perfectly the election of General Jackson in 1828. I remember the coffin handbills put out by The Cincinnati Gazette to stigmatize Armstrong and Arbuthnot. At that time I belonged to a strict Whig family, and we all thought Jackson a tyrant. I have come to the conclusion in later years that old Jackson was a very clever fellow. There used to be a man in Columbus named Gustavus Swain, and what he didn't know about Ohio nobody did. Ohio had its fun and its serious times, and always bore in mind that they were the first free State northwest of the Ohio. Indiana, Illinois, Michigan and Minnesota followed afterward by catching the inspiration from her. [Applause.] It travelled beyond. I went with McCook to Arizona and found our fellows there from Yellow Creek. Everywhere we stopped we met them. They didn't know they were from Ohio, but he convinced them they were. [Laughter.]

"My own father was Judge of the Supreme Court in Ohio when he died in Lebanon, and 'Tom' Corwin was with him then. I remember perfectly well how we were all cast down by the news of his death, sudden and unexpected, with eleven children and a salary of $300 to bring them up on. How that task was ever accomplished I don't know. [Laughter.] You see some of us are still alive. [Renewed laughter.] I am one of those living who, owing to the kindness of his father, stand before you to-night as representative of the State of Ohio. [Applause.] Vive la bagatelle. Enjoy the hour. Take the world as you find it. It will grow vast enough, but I don't know whether it will grow better." [Applause.]

One of his last speeches was made before his Grand Army comrades, at their National Encampment at Milwaukee, August 28, 1889. "Boys," he said, "my speaking days are over. I am not going to make any more speeches. If you want a speech, take Senator Manderson. I think he can make a good speech. I am always glad to see so many soldiers looking hearty and healthy. I think we can stand on our legs yet. I like to see that our old Uncle Sam takes pretty good care of these old soldiers. Uncle Sam cannot make old men young, but he can make young men just as good as you or I ever were. I see that Milwaukee is full of them, and they are coming out of the bushes everywhere. If you think you are the only old soldiers, you are mistaken. There were old soldiers before you, and there will be again. Such is the providence of the world. Just as good men were born a thousand years ago and will be born a thousand years hence. All we have to do is to do our parts in this short period of life honorably and honestly. I think we can pass the grand tribunal and say, 'We have tried to do our best,' and the sentence will be, 'Well done.'

"We have passed through one crisis of our country's history. I don't see any chance of another, but nobody knows the future. Bring up your children to love and venerate the old soldiers who fought in 1861 and 1865, and make them uncover their heads when they see that little banner that you followed in the days which tried us to the utmost. Let us venerate that flag and love our country and love each other, and stand by each other, as long as we have heads on our shoulders and legs on our bodies. These old soldiers who marched against the enemy in those trying days, a grateful country tries its best to assist, and will, I think—in fact, I am sure—be good to you when you get too old, all that is necessary. But keep young as long as you can, and do not go into a soldiers' home if you can help it."

At about this time he wrote to the editor of The Chronicle, at Augusta, Georgia, this letter, in reply to the question why he did not, on his great march through Georgia, go to that city instead of Savannah:

"My Dear Sir: I am just back from a visit to my daughter, who resides at Rosemont, near Philadelphia, and find your letter of the 18th.

"The 'March to the Sea,' from Atlanta was resolved on after Hood had got well on his way to Nashville. I then detached to General Thomas a force sufficient to whip Hood, which he, in December, 1864, very handsomely and conclusively did. Still I had left a very respectable army, and resolved to join Grant at Richmond. The distance was 1,000 miles, and prudence dictated a base at Savannah or Port Royal. Our enemies had garrisons at Macon and Augusta. I figured on both and passed between to Savannah. Then starting northward, the same problem presented itself in Augusta and Charleston. I figured on both, but passed between. I did not want to drive out their garrisons ahead of me at the crossings of the Santee, Catawba, Pedee, Cape Fear, etc. The moment I passed Columbia the factories, powder mills and the old stuff accumulated at Augusta were lost to the only two Confederate armies left—Lee's and Hood's. So if you have a military mind, you will see I made a better use of Augusta than if I had captured it with all its stores, for which I had no use. I used Augusta twice as a buffer; its garrison was just where it helped me. If the people of Augusta think I slighted them in the winter of 1864-'65 by reason of personal friendship formed in 1844, they are mistaken; or if they think I made a mistake in strategy, let them say so, and with the President's consent I think I can send a detachment of 100,000 or so of 'Sherman's bummers' and their descendants, who will finish up the job without charging Uncle Sam a cent. The truth is, these incidents come back to me in a humorous vein. Of course the Civil War should have ended with Vicksburg and Gettysburg. Every sensible man on earth must have then seen there could be but one result. The leaders of the South took good care not to 'die in the lost ditch,' and left brave men like Walker, Adams, Pat Clebourne, etc., to do that.

Yours truly,
W.T. Sherman."

One of the last letters he ever wrote was as follows:

"No. 75 West Seventy-first Street, N.Y.
Thursday February 5, 1891.

E.J. Atkinson, Esq., Secretary Memorial Committee, G.A.R.

"Dear Sir:—Your communication inviting me to share in your memorial services of Decoration Day, May 30, 1891, is received. I hereby accept and have marked my engagement book accordingly, so that I may not fall into the error of two years ago, which actually compromised me.

"The only probable interference is in the unveiling of General Grant's equestrian statue in Lincoln Park, Chicago, on a day not yet determined, when I must attend as President of the Society of the Army of the Tennessee. This unveiling was to have occurred in October, 1890, was postponed to this spring by reason of a failure in the casting, and I believe it will not be ready till this autumn. Therefore I beg you to remind me early in May, 1891, of this, my promise.

Sincerely yours,
W.T. Sherman."

When General Beauregard wrote a letter accusing him of cruel practices, in requiring prisoners of war to dig up torpedoes which the Rebel army had planted, Sherman made no reply; but some time later he said to a friend:

"I did not take any notice of Beauregard's letter. He is a very clever gentleman, and I like him personally; but he is wrong in his ideas of civilized warfare. It was no new thing to require prisoners to remove torpedoes which had been buried by the enemy. Wellington did it in Spain, and history furnishes a number of similar instances. I was justified not only by the rules of war but also by the best of humane principles. In the first instance where I had prisoners to perform such service, we were near a little town about forty miles from Savannah. The name of the place escapes me just now. News was brought to me that a gallant young officer had been frightfully wounded and his horse killed by the explosion of a torpedo buried by the rebels in the middle of the road. I filed my army to the right and flanked that part of the road where the explosives were supposed to be planted. The wagon trains had to pass over the dangerous ground, however, and I knew that the tramping of the mules and the heavy weight of the loaded wagons would surely explode any torpedoes which had been planted. I ordered a detail of prisoners to be sent ahead of the train, and with picks and shovels to dig up all explosives that could be found. It was not to protect my soldiers that I did this, but to save my train. My army had already obviated the danger by a right flank, and was safely out of harm's way. Prisoners should be protected, but mercy is not a legitimate attribute of war. Men go to war to kill and get killed, if necessary, and they should expect no tenderness. Each side protects itself as far as possible, and does all the harm it can to the opposing forces. It was, I think, a much better show of mercy for me to have the enemy do this work than to subject my own soldiers to so frightful a risk. At McAllister, when I made Major Anderson remove the torpedoes that had been planted there, he pretended that it was not civilized war to make him perform such a perilous feat. I told him he knew where the torpedoes were, and could safely remove them, while my men, in hunting for them, would be blown to pieces. He replied that the engineer had planted them, and he did not know where they were. I told him he knew better how to locate them than I did, and therefore he should do it. The fact that every torpedo was found and safely removed showed that my reasoning was right. I am not afraid to be judged either by contemporary or future historians on this subject."

The following anecdote of Grant was told, and illustrated with exquisite humor, by Sherman at a dinner:—

"Grant and I were at Nashville, Tenn., after the battle of Chattanooga. Our quarters were in the same building.

"One day Grant came into the room that I used for an office. I was very busy, surrounded with papers, muster-rolls, plans, specifications, etc., etc. When I looked up from my work I saw he seemed a good deal bothered, and, after standing around awhile, with his shoulders thrown up and his hands deep down in his trousers pockets, he said:

"'Look here, there are some men here from Galena.'

"'Well?' I said.

"Looking more uncomfortable every minute he went on: "'They've got a sword they want to give me,' and, looking over his shoulder and jerking his thumb in the same direction, he added:

"'Will you come in?'

"He looked quite frightened at the idea of going to face them alone, so I put some weights on my several piles of papers to keep them from blowing around and went into the next room, followed by Grant, who by this time looked as he might if he'd been going to be court-martialed. There we found the Mayor and some members of the Board of Councilmen of Galena. On a table in the middle of the room was a handsome rosewood box containing a magnificent gold-hilted sword, with all the appointments equally splendid.

"The Mayor stepped forward and delivered what was evidently a carefully prepared speech, setting forth that the citizens of Galena had sent him to present to General Grant the accompanying sword, not as a testimonial to his greatness as a soldier, but as a slight proof of their love and esteem for him as a man, and their pride in him as a fellow-citizen.

"After delivering the speech the Mayor produced a large parchment scroll, to which was attached by a long blue ribbon a red seal as big as a pancake, and on which was inscribed a set of complimentary resolutions. These he proceeded to read to us, not omitting a single 'whereas' or 'hereunto.' And after finishing the reading he rolled it up and with great solemnity and ceremony handed it to Grant.

"General Grant took it, looked ruefully at it and held it as if it burnt him. Mrs. Grant, who had been standing beside her husband, quietly took it from him, and there was dead silence for several minutes. Then Grant, sinking his head lower on his chest and hunching his shoulders up higher and looking thoroughly miserable, began hunting in his pockets, diving first in one and then in another, and at last said: 'Gentlemen, I knew you were coming here to give me this sword, and so I prepared a short speech,' and with a look of relief he drew from his trousers pocket a crooked, crumpled piece of paper and handed it to the Mayor of Galena, adding, 'and, gentlemen, here it is!'"

When General Harrison was elected President, Sherman was called on for a speech at the Union League Club, New York, and responded thus:

"I am not, and never have been, and never will be, a politician; but I take a deep and lively interest in everything which occurs in this country. [Cheers.] I see yonder flag and beneath it the picture of one of my old, favorite soldiers, one who learned many lessons under my leadership. I know that he was true as steel then. I believe he will be to the end. [Cheers.] As a father loves to see his children advance in the scale of life, so I rejoice to hear of the good fortune of my old soldiers. I remember General Harrison when he was a colonel. He is not naturally a military man. His grandfather was, and I remember his grandfather when he was living down at North Bend, below Cincinnati. I knew his father. I was once at the old farm at North Bend, and saw little Ben in his panta-lettes. [Laughter and cheers.] Now he has become great. He is the impersonation of a cause. He is the impersonation of the ruling spirit of America for the next four years, and of its policy, according to Mr. Depew, for the next twenty-five years."