the
past,' he said; 'the past has no uses except for its lessons.' Business
disposed of, he threw aside all restraint, and for hours his
speculations and theories upon philosophy, government, education,
eloquence; his criticism of books, his reminiscences of men and events,
made that one of the white-letter days of my life. At Chickamauga he won
his major-general's commission. On the anniversary of the battle he
died. I shall never forget his description of the fight--so modest, yet
graphic. It is imprinted on my memory as the most glorious
battle-picture words ever painted. He thought the greatest calamity
which could befall a man was to lose ambition. I said to him, 'General,
did you never in your earlier struggle have that feeling I have so often
met with, when you would have compromised your future for a certainty,
and if so, what?' 'Yes,' said he, 'I remember well when I would have
been willing to exchange all the possibilities of my life for the
certainty of a position as a successful teacher.' Though he died
neither a school principal nor college professor, and they seem humble
achievements compared with what he did, his memory will instruct while
time endures.

"His long and dreadful sickness lifted the roof from his house and
family circle, and his relations as son, husband, and father stood
revealed in the broadest sunlight of publicity. The picture endeared him
wherever is understood the full significance of that matchless word
'Home.' When he stood by the capitol just pronounced the President of
the greatest and most powerful of republics, the exultation of the hour
found its expression in a kiss upon the lips of his mother. For weeks,
in distant Ohio, she sat by the gate watching for the hurrying feet of
the messenger bearing the telegrams of hope or despair. His last
conscious act was to write a letter of cheer and encouragement to that
mother, and when the blow fell she illustrated the spirit she had
instilled in him. There were no rebellious murmurings against the Divine
dispensation, only in utter agony: 'I have no wish to live longer; I
will join him soon; the Lord's will be done.' When Dr. Bliss told him he
had a bare chance of recovery, 'Then,' said he, 'we will take that
chance, doctor.' When asked if he suffered pain, he answered: 'If you
can imagine a trip-hammer crashing on your body, or cramps such as you
have in the water a thousand times intensified, you can have some idea
of what I suffer.'