My Memories of Eighty Years [28]
he became very felicitous in public speaking. He paused a moment until I was seated and then said: "If Chauncey Depew stood in my shoes, and I in his, I would be a much happier man."
I immediately threw away the speech I had prepared during the six hours' trip from Washington, and proceeded to make a speech on "Who can stand now or in the future in the shoes of General Grant?" I had plenty of time before my turn came to elaborate this idea, gradually eliminating contemporary celebrities until in the future the outstanding figure representing the period would be the hero of our Civil War and the restoration of the Union.
The enthusiasm of the audience, as the speech went on, surpassed anything I ever saw. They rushed over tables and tried to carry the general around the room. When the enthusiasm had subsided he came to me and with much feeling said: "Thank you for that speech; it is the greatest and most eloquent that I ever heard." He insisted upon my standing beside him when he received the families of the members, and took me home in his carriage.
From that time until his death he was most cordial, and at many dinners would insist upon my being assigned to a chair next to him.
Among strangers and in general conversation General Grant was the most reticent of men, but among those whom he knew a most entertaining conversationalist. He went over a wide field on such occasions and was interesting on all subjects, and especially instructive on military campaigns and commanders. He gave me as his judgment that among all the military geniuses of the world the greatest was General Philip Sheridan, and that Sheridan's grasp of a situation had no parallel in any great general of whom he knew.
I was with General Grant at his home the day before he went from New York to Mount McGregor, near Saratoga, where he died. I learned of the trip and went immediately to see him, and was met by his son, General Frederick D. Grant. I said to him: "I learn that your father is going to Mount McGregor to-morrow, and I have come to tender him a special train."
After all the necessary arrangements had been made he asked me to go in and see the general. Before doing this I asked: "How is he?" "Well," he answered, "he is dying, but it is of infinite relief to him to see people whom he knows and likes, and I know he wants to see you. Our effort is to keep his mind off from himself and interest him with anything which we think will be of relief to him, and if you have any new incidents do not fail to tell him."
When I entered the room the general was busy writing his "Memoirs." He greeted me very cordially, said he was glad to see me, and then remarked: "I see by the papers that you have been recently up at Hartford delivering a lecture. Tell me about it."
In reply I told him about a very interesting journey there; the lecture and supper afterwards, with Mark Twain as the presiding genius, concerning all of which he asked questions, wanting more particulars, and the whole story seemed to interest him. What seemed to specially please him was the incident when I arrived at the hotel, after the supper given me at the close of my lecture. It was about three o'clock in the morning, and I went immediately to bed, leaving a call for the early train to New York. At five o'clock there was violent rapping on the door and, upon opening it, an Irish waiter stood there with a tray on which were a bottle of champagne and a goblet of ice.
"You have made a mistake," I said to the waiter.
"No, sir," he answered, "I could not make a mistake about you."
"Who sent this?" I asked.
"The committee, sir, with positive instructions that you should have it at five o'clock in the morning," he answered.
"Well, my friend, I said, is it the habit of the good people of Hartford, when they have decided to go to New York on an early train to drink a bottle of champagne at five o'clock in the morning?"
He answered: "Most of them do, sir."
(Nobody at that time had dreamed of the Eighteenth Amendment and the Volstead law.)
I immediately threw away the speech I had prepared during the six hours' trip from Washington, and proceeded to make a speech on "Who can stand now or in the future in the shoes of General Grant?" I had plenty of time before my turn came to elaborate this idea, gradually eliminating contemporary celebrities until in the future the outstanding figure representing the period would be the hero of our Civil War and the restoration of the Union.
The enthusiasm of the audience, as the speech went on, surpassed anything I ever saw. They rushed over tables and tried to carry the general around the room. When the enthusiasm had subsided he came to me and with much feeling said: "Thank you for that speech; it is the greatest and most eloquent that I ever heard." He insisted upon my standing beside him when he received the families of the members, and took me home in his carriage.
From that time until his death he was most cordial, and at many dinners would insist upon my being assigned to a chair next to him.
Among strangers and in general conversation General Grant was the most reticent of men, but among those whom he knew a most entertaining conversationalist. He went over a wide field on such occasions and was interesting on all subjects, and especially instructive on military campaigns and commanders. He gave me as his judgment that among all the military geniuses of the world the greatest was General Philip Sheridan, and that Sheridan's grasp of a situation had no parallel in any great general of whom he knew.
I was with General Grant at his home the day before he went from New York to Mount McGregor, near Saratoga, where he died. I learned of the trip and went immediately to see him, and was met by his son, General Frederick D. Grant. I said to him: "I learn that your father is going to Mount McGregor to-morrow, and I have come to tender him a special train."
After all the necessary arrangements had been made he asked me to go in and see the general. Before doing this I asked: "How is he?" "Well," he answered, "he is dying, but it is of infinite relief to him to see people whom he knows and likes, and I know he wants to see you. Our effort is to keep his mind off from himself and interest him with anything which we think will be of relief to him, and if you have any new incidents do not fail to tell him."
When I entered the room the general was busy writing his "Memoirs." He greeted me very cordially, said he was glad to see me, and then remarked: "I see by the papers that you have been recently up at Hartford delivering a lecture. Tell me about it."
In reply I told him about a very interesting journey there; the lecture and supper afterwards, with Mark Twain as the presiding genius, concerning all of which he asked questions, wanting more particulars, and the whole story seemed to interest him. What seemed to specially please him was the incident when I arrived at the hotel, after the supper given me at the close of my lecture. It was about three o'clock in the morning, and I went immediately to bed, leaving a call for the early train to New York. At five o'clock there was violent rapping on the door and, upon opening it, an Irish waiter stood there with a tray on which were a bottle of champagne and a goblet of ice.
"You have made a mistake," I said to the waiter.
"No, sir," he answered, "I could not make a mistake about you."
"Who sent this?" I asked.
"The committee, sir, with positive instructions that you should have it at five o'clock in the morning," he answered.
"Well, my friend, I said, is it the habit of the good people of Hartford, when they have decided to go to New York on an early train to drink a bottle of champagne at five o'clock in the morning?"
He answered: "Most of them do, sir."
(Nobody at that time had dreamed of the Eighteenth Amendment and the Volstead law.)