-hammer intellect. It was an arena of
opposing gladiators more magnificent and majestic than was ever
witnessed in the palmiest days of the Roman Empire. There were giants
in the Senate in those days, and when they clashed shields and measured
swords in debate, the capitol trembled and the nation thrilled in every
nerve.

But how like the ocean's ebb and flow are the restless tides of politics!
These scenes of grandeur and glory soon dissolved from my view like a
dream. I "saved the country" for only two short years. My competitor
proved a lively corpse. He burst forth from the tomb like a locust from
its shell, and came buzzing to the national capital with "war on his
wings." I went buzzing back to the mountains to dream again under the
sycamores; and there a new ambition was kindled in my soul. A new
vision opened before me. I saw another capitol rise on the bank of the
Cumberland, overshadowing the tomb of Polk and close by the Hermitage
where reposes the sacred dust of Andrew Jackson. And I thought if I
could only reach the exalted position of Governor of the old "Volunteer
State" I would then have gained the sum of life's honors and happiness.
But lo! another son of my father and mother was dreaming there under the
same old sycamore. We had dreamed together in the same trundle-bed and
often kicked each other out. Together we had seen visions of pumpkin pie
and pulled hair for the biggest slice. Together we had smoked the first
cigar and together learned to play the fiddle. But now the dreams of our
manhood clashed. Relentless fate had decreed that "York" must contend
with "Lancaster" in the "War of the Roses." And with flushed cheeks and
throbbing hearts we eagerly entered the field; his shield bearing the
red rose, mine the white. It was a contest of principles, free from the
wormwood and gall of personalities, and when the multitude of partisans
gathered at the hustings, a white rose on every Democratic bosom, a red
rose on every Republican breast, in the midst of a wilderness of flowers
there was many a tilt and many a loud huzzah. But when the clouds of war
had cleared away, I looked upon the drooping red rose on the bosom of
the vanquished Knight, and thought of the first speech my mother ever
taught me:

"Man's a vapor full of woes,
Cuts a caper--down he goes!"

The white rose triumphed. But the shadow is fairer than the substance.
The pathway of ambition is marked at every mile with the grave of so