leaders and papers continued to depreciate Grant, and his column of "306," supporters was placarded with ridicule. He did not condescend to meet these flings, but at an important and critical hour in the campaign went into it with spirit, and by his presence at political meetings in New York State especially, which always served to attract great crowds and beget intense enthusiasm, he lifted the cloud of doubt from victory and at the same time placed his party and the country under a new burden of obligation for his quiet forbearance amid misrepresentation, his fresh and timely evidence of unselfishness, and firm adhesion to principles which were broader than mere men or written platforms.

From the beginning to the end General Grant comported himself with that becoming spirit which had always characterized his conduct, whether in military or civic station, or in the shades of private life. He scorned to misrepresent, and to answer detraction. He had no contention himself, was not identified personally with the move which bore his name, was actuated by no ambition, had no feelings nor resentments, entertained no anxiety about results in the convention, was willing to lend his presence and the prestige of his name to help ratify at the polls the choice of his party. We fail to see how he could better have observed all the proprieties of a delicate situation, how better have conserved the great interests at stake, or how added more to a respect already unbounded. Looked at as an episode or ordeal which fate had in store for him, and judged in the light of a moment long after feelings have had time to cool, one cannot propound a line of conduct fuller of cautious wisdom, more entirely consistent with his whole life, nor more honorable to his memory.

CHAPTER XXVI.

PERSONAL HISTORY-HOME LIFE-MEMOIRS-REMINISCENCES—

ANECDOTES.

N following General Grant's history we have endeavored

IN following General Gr

to illustrate the man. But there are touches that can be added which will serve to bring the picture into stronger relief, and which were impossible amid the recital of events which crowded his active military and political life.

The magnitude and importance of his deeds united with his characteristics, have given him a peculiar fame. Some even hesitate to call it fame, so destitute is it of the arts which lend brilliancy and win applause. However admirable his performances, he could never dazzle because of his remarkable reticence and utter abhorrence of the tricks of the demagogue. He was never his own herald, either on the field, in state or in private life. Furthermore, he was ever so generous in crediting others with praise, that in many instances the world has heard more of his subordinates than of himself.

The growth of his name was not meteoric. It was slow and clouded. It had no career, no friends, to start or back it. It had no one, not even himself, to defend or advance it. The ambition of others could take advantage of it with impunity. Misrepresentation and detraction could deal with it without fear of retaliation. He was early the victim of ruthless stories about his intemperance. Time alone vindicated him. His first military essay at Belmont was persistently reported as a failure. He remained silent. As a blow at armed rebellion, Donelson was so audacious and staggering, and as a victory it

was so marvellous and incomprehensible, that people were not willing to attribute it to his genius and daring, but rather to fate, to accident, to anything that justified their ignorance of military situations and gratified their credulity. He modestly handed over as a trophy an entire Confederate army, and went on silently as before.

Newspapers turned his victory of Shiloh into a defeat. He said: "Wait, time will vindicate me." When suspended at Fort Henry, and disgraced by Halleck before Corinth, he said: "My conscience approves my acts; remove me if you think I am wrong." When silenced for daring to suggest that Corinth could be captured, and that if a prompt move were not made the enemy would escape, he quietly rode over the ground after the evacuation, and proved by actual observation the correctness of his theory. All this time there were doubts and discussions of his genius and ability. Even when Vicksburg electrified the nation, it was others who had furnished the brains, others who had led his forces, others who had organized and achieved the victory. He claimed nothing for himself, but gave all the honor and the glory to his subordinate officers and his brave men. He answered no detractions, spoke no word of defence, solicited no promotion, sought no praise. Such indifference was unnatural, said the world. It was stolidity. A man without ambitions could not be a genius. Such modesty must be a species of stupidity. Plainness amid the panoply of war, silence amid the huzzas of victory, muteness in the face of personal attack, refusal to reach out and pluck the honors that hung ripened for his hand, these were so contrary to the popular notion of an epauletted genius and born strategist, to titled organizer and high-sounding commander of victorious armies, that he who possessed them as characteristics must lack all native originality and power, must be unfit for responsibility of any kind.

Vicksburg began to turn the popular scale. It threw light

on the mystic problem Grant, by which the people might begin their solution. The hush of detraction was sudden. Chattanooga followed. Grant at last had merit of his own, genius of the highest order, strategic vigor undreamed of, action beyond compare. That the most thoughtless could see now, and that all were far more ready to confirm than formerly to deny. They could read whole chapters of a record now in the plain light of events, that had before been enigmas. They could understand what they read, see that to which they had been blind. Grant had been slowly carving fame without any favoring circumstances, had been building greatness in spite of enemies, had been proving genius without any friend to appreciate. Chance had, after all, nothing to do with the sublime character that needed but an unveiling to bring it into bold and happy relief. It was not accidental, but sterling; not a roughly thrown together pile, like the result of some upheaval, but a symmetrical monument, the result of close study and persistent effort.

Often trial, sore emergency, had been proving to the country the need of a man of certain quality and character. It had failed in its generals. Why? it is not for us to say; but it had failed. After Chattanooga, the judgment of the nation lifted Grant out of all obscurity and doubt, confirmed him in universal confidence, loaded him with its gravest responsibilities, added the honors which were commensurate with lofty trust. None other had ever so fully met the country's ideal. Would he maintain the trust, vindicate the judgment, meet the responsibility, add a personal lustre to the paper honors? Let Appomattox be the reply; or, now that he is dead, let the answer be a nation's lament over his departure, and a world's respect for his memory.

In personal appearance General Grant was somewhat under medium height, with square shoulders, and a compact, wellrounded and powerfully built form. His feet and hands were

small and well shaped. He dressed with severe plainness, and sometimes even carelessly. When in military service his clothes were often those of the private soldier, with the addition of the stars to designate his rank. His features were regular, his forehead broad and square, his head large and well-set on a strong muscular neck. His eyes were large, light blue, deep set, and of benevolent expression when in repose, but blazing with leonine resolution when in action. His fibre was hard, elastic and enduring. In temperament, he was a compound, always sanguine, at times nervous, yet both so toned and balanced by the lymphatic, as to make his mental and physical composure simply wonderful.

His resistive forces were enormous. Neither physical nor mental labor, no matter how protracted or taxing, seemed to worry, wear or weaken him, when in his prime. He could ride hour after hour, and day after day, at a dashing speed, over all kinds of surfaces and in all kinds of weather, without succumbing to fatigue. Loss of sleep, irregularity of meals, the excitement of great occasions, did not disturb him. He could plan a battle, issue a dozen important orders, partake of a biscuit, and snatch an hour's rest, with the serenity of a man who had made philosophy a life study. No occasion ever made him noisy or fussy. His voice was as gentle as a woman's. His words were always brief and fitting. In the midst of deep provoca tion he, preferred absolute silence to angry retort. In counsel, he was a listener. In plan, he was deep, earnest, reticent; in execution, unwavering, persistent. There was no rudeness in either his word or manner. No oath nor fiery imprecation ever escaped his lips. He never thundered an order down the lines, never hurt feelings by indignant retort or command, and, however much he disapproved of an act, never engaged in illnatured criticism of it. He seldom showed anger, except by compressed lips and fiery flashes of the eyes. No amount of passion ever changed the measure or tone of his speech, except