when the world expected retreat, he ordered an advance. He fought
another day, and on the third day ordered an advance. Lincoln said, "At
last I have a general." Grant never rested. After every battle he
advanced, inexorably closing around Lee. It took him a year, but in the
end he won. He captured Lee's army, and ended the war on the 9th of
April, 1865. His terms with the captured general of the Southern forces
were so chivalrous and generous that it gained for him the respect and
even admiration of the Southern people. They could not forget that he
was conqueror, but they acknowledged his greatness of heart. He had no
petty revenges.
Nothing in human history exceeds the contrasts in the life of Ulysses
Grant. When Lee surrendered to him, he controlled a battle line from the
Potomac to the Rio Grande, composed of a million men. His lightest
command had almost inconceivable power; and yet he was the same man who
had hauled wood in St. Louis and sold awls and shoe-pegs in Galena,--he
had been developed by opportunity. Personally he remained simple to the
point of inconspicuousness. His rusty blouse, his worn hat, his dusty
boots, his low and modest voice, gave no indication of his exalted
position and his enormous power. At the grand review of the armies in
Washington in May, he sat with musing eyes while the victorious legions
passed him, so unobtrusive in the throng that his troops could hardly
distinguish his form and face; and when he returned to Galena, his old
home, he carried no visible sign of the power and glory to which he had
won his way step by step, by sheer power of doing things so well that
other and greater duties were intrusted to his keeping.
He presented a new type of soldier to the world. He was never vengeful,
never angry in battle. When others swore and uttered ferocious cries,
Grant remained master of himself and every faculty, uttering no oaths,
giving his commands in full, clear, simple, dignified phrases. He hated
conflict. He cared nothing for the pomp and circumstance of war; it was
not glorious to him; and when it was all over he said, "I never want to
see a soldier's uniform again."
He was the chief citizen of the republic at the close of the war, and
when Lincoln was assassinated he was the mainstay of the republic. Every
eye was turned upon him, and his calmness was most salutary upon the
nation. He became inevitably a candidate for President, and was elected
with great enthusiasm in 1868. In 1872 he was re-elected, and during his
two terms his one great purpose was to reconstruct the nation. He did
all that he could to heal the scars of war. He stood between the
malignants of the North and the helpless people of the South, always
patient and sympathetic. His administrations ran in turbulent times, and
corruption was abroad in official circles, but there is no evidence that
he was touched by it. His administration was attacked; he was acquitted.
In 1878, two years after his second term had ended, he went on a trip
around the world, visiting all the great courts and kings of the leading
nations. He received the most extraordinary honors ever tendered to one
human being by his fellows, but he returned to Galena and to his boyhood
home, the same good neighbor, just as democratic in his intercourse as
ever. He never forgot a face, whether of the man who shod his horses or
of the man who nominated him for President, though he looked upon more
people than any other man in the history of the world.
In 1880 he mistakenly became a candidate for a third term, and was
defeated. Shortly after this he moved to New York City, and became a
nominal partner in the firm of Grant & Ward. His name was used in the
business; he had little connection with it, for he was growing old and
failing in health.
In May 1884, through the rascality of Ferdinand Ward, the firm failed,
and General Grant lost every dollar he owned. Just before the crash, in
the attempt to save the firm, he went to a wealthy friend and borrowed a
large sum of money. After the failure the grim old commander turned over
to his creditor every trophy, every present which had been given him by
his foreign friends, even the jeweled favors of kings and queens and the
swords presented to him by his fellow-citizens and by his soldiers; he
reserved nothing. He became so poor that his pew rent became a burden,
and the question of earning a living came to him with added force, for
he was old and lame, and attacked by cancer of the tongue.
Now came the most heroic year of his life. Suffering almost ceaseless
pain, with the death shadow on him, he sat down to write his
autobiography for the benefit of his wife. He complained not at all, and
allowed nothing to stand in the way of his work. He wrote on steadily,
up to the very day of his death, long after the power of speech was
gone, revising his proofs, correcting his judgments of commanders as new
evidence arose, and in the end producing a book which was a marvel of
simple sincerity and modesty of statement, and of transparent clarity of
style. It took rank at once as one of the great martial biographies of
the world. It redeemed his name and gave his wife a competency. It was a
greater deed than the taking of Vicksburg.
In this final illness his thoughts dwelt much upon the differences
between the North and the South. From Mt. McGregor, where he was taken
in June 1885 to escape the heat of the city, he sent forth repeated
messages of good-will to the South. In this hour the two mighty purposes
of his life grew clearer in men's minds. He had put down the Rebellion,
and from the moment of Lee's surrender had set himself the task of
reuniting the severed nation. "Let us have peace," he said; and the
saying had all the effect of a benediction.
He died on July 23rd, 1885, at the age of sixty-three; and at his grave
the North and the South stood side by side in friendship, and the great
captains of opposing armies walked shoulder to shoulder, bearing his
body to its final rest on the bank of the Hudson River. The world knew
his faults, his mistakes, and his weaknesses; but they were all
forgotten in the memory of his great deeds as a warrior, and of his
gentleness, modesty, candor, and purity as a man. Since then it becomes
increasingly more evident that he is to take his place as one of three
or four figures of the first class in our national history. He was a man
of action, and his deeds were of the kind which mark epochs in history.
[Signature: Hamlin Garland]
EARLY LIFE
From 'Personal Memoirs of U. S. Grant.' Copyright by Ulysses S. Grant,
and reprinted by permission of the family of General Grant
In June 1821 my father, Jesse R. Grant, married Hannah Simpson. I was
born on the 27th of April, 1822, at Point Pleasant, Clermont County,
Ohio. In the fall of 1823 we moved to Georgetown, the county seat of
Brown, the adjoining county east. This place remained my home until at
the age of seventeen, in 1839, I went to West Point.
The schools at the time of which I write were very indifferent. There
were no free schools, and none in which the scholars were classified.
They were all supported by subscription, and a single teacher--who was
often a man or a woman incapable of teaching much, even if they imparted
all they knew--would have thirty or forty scholars, male and female,
from the infant learning the A B C's up to the young lady of eighteen
and the boy of twenty, studying the highest branches taught--the three
R's, "Reading, 'Riting, and 'Rithmetic." I never saw an algebra or other
mathematical work higher than the arithmetic, in Georgetown, until after
I was appointed to West Point. I then bought a work on algebra, in
Cincinnati; but having no teacher, it was Greek to me.
My life in Georgetown was uneventful. From the age of five or six until
seventeen, I attended the subscription schools of the village, except
during the winters of 1836-7 and 1838-9. The former period was spent in
Maysville, Kentucky, attending the school of Richardson and Rand; the
latter in Ripley, Ohio, at a private school. I was not studious in
habit, and probably did not make progress enough to compensate for the
outlay for board and tuition. At all events, both winters were spent in
going over the same old arithmetic which I knew every word of before,
and repeating, "A noun is the name of a thing," which I had also heard
my Georgetown teachers repeat until I had come to believe it--but I cast
no reflections upon my old teacher Richardson. He turned out bright
scholars from his school, many of whom have filled conspicuous places in
the service of their States. Two of my contemporaries there--who I
believe never attended any other institution of learning--have held
seats in Congress, and one, if not both, other high offices; these are
Wadsworth and Brewster.
My father was from my earliest recollection in comfortable
circumstances, considering the times, his place of residence, and the
community in which he lived. Mindful of his own lack of facilities for
acquiring an education, his greatest desire in maturer years was for the
education of his children. Consequently, as stated before, I never
missed a quarter from school, from the time I was old enough to attend
till the time of leaving home. This did not exempt me from labor. In my
early days every one labored more or less, in the region where my youth
was spent, and more in proportion to their private means. It was only
the very poor who were exempt. While my father carried on the
manufacture of leather and worked at the trade himself, he owned and
tilled considerable land. I detested the trade, preferring almost any
other labor; but I was fond of agriculture, and of all employment in
which horses were used. We had, among other lands, fifty acres of forest
within a mile of the village. In the fall of the year, choppers were
employed to cut enough wood to last a twelvemonth. When I was seven or
eight years of age, I began hauling all the wood used in the house and
shops. I could not load it on the wagons, of course, at that time; but I
could drive, and the choppers would load, and some one at the house
unload. When about eleven years old, I was strong enough to hold a plow.
From that age until seventeen I did all the work done with horses, such
as breaking up the land, furrowing, plowing corn and potatoes, bringing
in the crops when harvested, hauling all the wood, besides tending two
or three horses, a cow or two, and sawing wood for stoves, etc., while
still attending school. For this I was compensated by the fact that
there was never any scolding or punishing by my parents; no objection to
rational enjoyments, such as fishing, going to the creek a mile away to
swim in summer, taking a horse and visiting my grandparents in the
adjoining county, fifteen miles off, skating on the ice in winter, or
taking a horse and sleigh when there was snow on the ground.
While still quite young I had visited Cincinnati, forty-five miles away,
several times, alone; also Maysville, Kentucky,--often,--and once
Louisville. The journey to Louisville was a big one for a boy of that
day. I had also gone once with a two-horse carriage to Chillicothe,
about seventy miles, with a neighbor's family who were removing to
Toledo, Ohio, and returned alone; and had gone once in like manner to
Flat Rock, Kentucky, about seventy miles away. On this latter occasion I
was fifteen years of age. While at Flat Rock, at the house of a Mr.
Payne, whom I was visiting with his brother, a neighbor of ours in
Georgetown, I saw a very fine saddle horse which I rather coveted; and
proposed to Mr. Payne, the owner, to trade him for one of the two I was
driving. Payne hesitated to trade with a boy, but asking his brother
about it, the latter told him that it would be all right; that I was
allowed to do as I pleased with the horses. I was seventy miles from
home, with a carriage to take back, and Mr. Payne said he did not know
that his horse had ever had a collar on. I asked to have him hitched to
a farm wagon, and we would soon see whether he would work. It was soon
evident that the horse had never worn harness before; but he showed no
viciousness, and I expressed a confidence that I could manage him. A
trade was at once struck, I receiving ten dollars difference.
The next day, Mr. Payne of Georgetown and I started on our return. We
got along very well for a few miles, when we encountered a ferocious dog
that frightened the horses and made them run. The new animal kicked at
every jump he made. I got the horses stopped, however, before any damage
was done, and without running into anything. After giving them a little
rest, to quiet their fears, we started again. That instant the new horse
kicked, and started to run once more. The road we were on struck the
turnpike within half a mile of the point where the second runaway
commenced, and there was an embankment twenty or more feet deep on the
opposite side of the pike. I got the horses stopped on the very brink of
the precipice. My new horse was terribly frightened, and trembled like
an aspen; but he was not half so badly frightened as my companion Mr.
Payne, who deserted me after this last experience, and took passage on
a freight wagon for Maysville. Every time I attempted to start, my new
horse would commence to kick. I was in quite a dilemma for a time. Once
in Maysville, I could borrow a horse from an uncle who lived there; but
I was more than a day's travel from that point. Finally I took out my
bandanna--the style of handkerchief in universal use then--and with this
blindfolded my horse. In this way I reached Maysville safely the next
day, no doubt much to the surprise of my friend. Here I borrowed a horse
from my uncle, and the following day we proceeded on our journey.
About half my school days in Georgetown were spent at the school of John
D. White, a North-Carolinian, and the father of Chilton White, who
represented the district in Congress for one term during the Rebellion.
Mr. White was always a Democrat in politics, and Chilton followed his
father. He had two older brothers,--all three being schoolmates of mine
at their father's school,--who did not go the same way. The second
brother died before the Rebellion began; he was a Whig, and afterwards a
Republican. His oldest brother was a Republican and brave soldier during
the Rebellion. Chilton is reported as having told of an earlier horse
trade of mine. As he told the story, there was a Mr. Ralston living
within a few miles of the village, who owned a colt which I very much
wanted. My father had offered twenty dollars for it, but Ralston wanted
twenty-five. I was so anxious to have the colt, that after the owner
left I begged to be allowed to take him at the price demanded. My father
yielded, but said twenty dollars was all the horse was worth, and told
me to offer that price; if it was not accepted I was to offer twenty-two
and a half, and if that would not get him, to give the twenty-five. I at
once mounted a horse and went for the colt. When I got to Mr. Ralston's
house, I said to him, "Papa says I may offer you twenty dollars for the
colt, but if you won't take that, I am to offer twenty-two and a half,
and if you won't take that, to give you twenty-five." It would not
require a Connecticut man to guess the price finally agreed upon. This
story is nearly true. I certainly showed very plainly that I had come
for the colt and meant to have him. I could not have been over eight
years old at the time. This transaction caused me great heart-burning.
The story got out among the boys of the village, and it was a long time
before I heard the last of it. Boys enjoy the misery of their
companions,--at least village boys in that day did, and in later life I
have found that all adults are not free from the peculiarity. I kept the
horse until he was four years old, when he went blind, and I sold him
for twenty dollars. When I went to Maysville to school, in 1836, at the
age of fourteen, I recognized my colt as one of the blind horses working
on the tread-wheel of the ferry-boat.
I have described enough of my early life to give an impression of the
whole. I did not like to work; but I did as much of it, while young, as
grown men can be hired to do in these days, and attended school at the
same time. I had as many privileges as any boy in the village, and
probably more than most of them. I have no recollection of ever having
been punished at home, either by scolding or by the rod. But at school
the case was different. The rod was freely used there, and I was not
exempt from its influence. I can see John D. White, the school-teacher,
now, with his long beech switch always in his hand. It was not always
the same one, either. Switches were brought in bundles from a beech wood
near the schoolhouse, by the boys for whose benefit they were intended.
Often a whole bundle would be used up in a single day. I never had any
hard feelings against my teacher, either while attending the school or
in later years when reflecting upon my experience. Mr. White was a
kind-hearted man, and was much respected by the community in which he
lived. He only followed the universal custom of the period, and that
under which he had received his own education....
In the winter of 1838-9 I was attending school at Ripley, only ten miles
distant from Georgetown, but spent the Christmas holidays at home.
During this vacation my father received a letter from the Honorable
Thomas Morris, then United States Senator from Ohio. When he read it he
said to me, "Ulysses, I believe you are going to receive the
appointment." "What appointment?" I inquired.--"To West Point; I have
applied for it." "But I won't go," I said. He said he thought I would,
_and I thought so too, if he did_. I really had no objection to going to
West Point, except that I had a very exalted idea of the acquirements
necessary to get through. I did not believe I possessed them, and could
not bear the idea of failing.
GRANT'S COURTSHIP
From 'Personal Memoirs of U. S. Grant.' Copyright by Ulysses S. Grant,
and reprinted by permission of the family of General Grant.
At West Point I had a classmate,--in the last year of our studies he was
room-mate also,--F. T. Dent, whose family resided some five miles west
of Jefferson Barracks. Two of his unmarried brothers were living at home
at that time, and as I had taken with me from Ohio my horse, saddle, and
bridle, I soon found my way out to White Haven, the name of the Dent
estate. As I found the family congenial, my visits became frequent.
There were at home, besides the young men, two daughters, one a
school-miss of fifteen, the other a girl of eight or nine. There was
still an older daughter of seventeen, who had been spending several
years at a boarding-school in St. Louis, but who, though through school,
had not yet returned home. She was spending the winter in the city with
connections, the family of Colonel John O'Fallon, well known in St.
Louis. In February she returned to her country home. After that I do not
know but my visits became more frequent: they certainly did become more
enjoyable. We would often take walks, or go on horseback to visit the
neighbors, until I became quite well acquainted in that vicinity.
Sometimes one of the brothers would accompany us, sometimes one of the
younger sisters. If the 4th Infantry had remained at Jefferson Barracks
it is possible, even probable, that this life might have continued for
some years without my finding out that there was anything serious the
matter with me; but in the following May a circumstance occurred which
developed my sentiment so palpably that there was no mistaking it.
The annexation of Texas was at this time the subject of violent
discussion in Congress, in the press, and by individuals. The
administration of President Tyler, then in power, was making the most
strenuous efforts to effect the annexation, which was indeed the great
and absorbing question of the day. During these discussions the greater
part of the single rifle regiment in the army--the 2d Dragoons, which
had been dismounted a year or two before, and designated "Dismounted
Rifles"--was stationed at Fort Jessup, Louisiana, some twenty-five miles
east of the Texas line, to observe the frontier. About the first of May
the 3d Infantry was ordered from Jefferson Barracks to Louisiana, to go
into camp in the neighborhood of Fort Jessup, and there await further
orders. The troops were embarked on steamers, and were on their way down
the Mississippi within a few days after the receipt of this order. About
the time they started I obtained a leave of absence for twenty days to
go to Ohio to visit my parents. I was obliged to go to St. Louis to take
a steamer for Louisville or Cincinnati, or the first steamer going up
the Ohio River to any point. Before I left St. Louis, orders were
received at Jefferson Barracks for the 4th Infantry to follow the 3d. A
messenger was sent after me to stop my leaving; but before he could
reach me I was off, totally ignorant of these events. A day or two after
my arrival at Bethel I received a letter from a classmate and fellow
lieutenant in the 4th, informing me of the circumstances related above,
and advising me not to open any letter postmarked St. Louis or Jefferson
Barracks until the expiration of my leave, and saying that he would pack
up my things and take them along for me. His advice was not necessary,
for no other letter was sent to me. I now discovered that I was
exceedingly anxious to get back to Jefferson Barracks, and I understood
the reason without explanation from any one. My leave of absence
required me to report for duty at Jefferson Barracks at the end of
twenty days. I knew my regiment had gone up the Red River, but I was not
disposed to break the letter of my leave; besides, if I had proceeded to
Louisiana direct, I could not have reached there until after the
expiration of my leave. Accordingly, at the end of the twenty days I
reported for duty to Lieutenant Ewell, commanding at Jefferson Barracks,
handing him at the same time my leave of absence. After noticing the
phraseology of the order--leaves of absence were generally worded, "at
the end of which time he will report for duty with his proper
command"--he said he would give me an order to join my regiment in
Louisiana. I then asked for a few days' leave before starting, which he
readily granted. This was the same Ewell who acquired considerable
reputation as a Confederate general during the Rebellion. He was a man
much esteemed, and deservedly so, in the old army, and proved himself a
gallant and efficient officer in two wars--both in my estimation unholy.
I immediately procured a horse and started for the country, taking no
baggage with me, of course. There is an insignificant creek, the
Gravois, between Jefferson Barracks and the place to which I was going,
and at that day there was not a bridge over it from its source to its
mouth. There is not water enough in the creek at ordinary stages to run
a coffee-mill, and at low water there is none running whatever. On this
occasion it had been raining heavily, and when the creek was reached I
found the banks full to overflowing, and the current rapid. I looked at
it a moment to consider what to do. One of my superstitions had always
been when I started to go anywhere, or do anything, not to turn back or
stop until the thing intended was accomplished. I have frequently
started to go to places where I had never been and to which I did not
know the way, depending upon making inquiries on the road, and if I got
past the place without knowing it, instead of turning back, I would go
on until a road was found turning in the right direction, take that, and
come in by the other side. So I struck into the stream, and in an
instant the horse was swimming and I being carried down by the current.
I headed the horse towards the other bank and soon reached it, wet
through and without other clothes on that side of the stream. I went on,
however, to my destination and borrowed a dry suit from my (future)
brother-in-law. We were not of the same size, but the clothes answered
every purpose until I got more of my own.