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Owen Wister, Ulysses S. Grant, VI. (search)
leave him shining in his greatness at Appomattox, a hero in a soldier's dress, with sword not drawn, but sheathed. There his figure stands immortal, and there his real life ends. For living is action up to the soul's highest excellence, and many who eat their three meals a day are dead as door-nails. Grant rose to his full height again only when he came to die. As president, he was no more himself than he had been when tanning leather. Men far less worthy have sat more worthily in the White House. It was foretold — silently. Sherman, his dear friend, was set against it, and would not say a word for it. Did he not know the world's great soldiers, and what babies they became as statesmen,--Wellington latest of all? More still, he knew his friend. But we Americans, the most consistently inconsistent people on earth, have passed a century in abusing our army, and in electing every military hero we could get for president: Washington, Jackson, Harrison, Taylor, Grant. When Lincoln