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Cincinnati (Ohio, United States) (search for this): chapter 3
y to the Ohio River, leaving there no riches and many children. One of these, Jesse, became a tanner, and in 1821 married Miss Hannah Simpson from Pennsylvania. On April 27, 1822, at Point Pleasant on the Ohio River, twenty-five miles above Cincinnati, was born their eldest son, and christened Hiram Ulysses,--Hiram because his grandfather liked the name, Ulysses because his step-grandmother had been reading Fenelon. Seventeen years later, when the boy was appointed to the Military Academy, I began hauling all the wood used in the house and shops. . . . When about eleven years old, I was strong enough to hold a plough. From that age until seventeen I did all the work done with horses. . . . While still quite young, I had visited Cincinnati, forty-five miles away, several times alone. . . . 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. . . . The rod was freely used there, and I was n
Noah (search for this): chapter 3
have attempted to embellish Grant's boyhood. He has even been given illustrious descent. It is enough to know for certain that, Scotch in blood and American since 1630, he was of the eighth generation, and counted a grandfather in the Revolution, besides other soldier ancestors. The first Grant, Matthew, probably landed at Nantucket, Massachusetts, May 30, 1630. In 1636 he helped establish the town of Windsor, Connecticut. He was its first surveyor and a trusted citizen, Samuel, Solomon, Noah, Adoniram, that is what the Grants in colonial Connecticut were called. And with such names as these they did what all the other colonial Noahs and Adonirams were doing. None of them rose to uncommon dimensions; but they, and such as they, were then, as they are now, the salt and leaven of our country. After the Revolution, as our frontier widened and the salt and leaven began to be sprinkled westward, Captain Noah Grant went gradually to the Ohio River, leaving there no riches and many ch
Winfield Scott (search for this): chapter 3
of a youth, writes a comrade, Henry Coppee. His picture rises before me . . . in the old torn coat, obsolescent leather gig-top, loose riding pantaloons, with spurs buckled over them, going with his clanking sabre to the drill-hall. He exhibited but little enthusiasm in anything. Here is testimony to that mental indolence, or torpor, which pervaded his nature; and he gives more himself. I rarely read over a lesson the second time. . . . I read all of Bulwer's, . . . Cooper's, Marryat's, Scott's, Washington Irving's works, Lever's, and many others that I do not now remember. His letters home show an appreciation of natural scenery, and this he seems always to have had. During his furlough at home after two years at the Academy it is narrated by Richardson that, in accordance with an agreement between himself and classmates to abstain from liquor for a year, he steadily refused to drink with his old friends. The object of the cadets was to strengthen, by their example, one of
Ralston (search for this): chapter 3
e is the single prophetic incident. It has been told in many ways; and his own is the best, as usual:-- There was a Mr. Ralston . . . who owned a colt which I very much wanted. My father had offered twenty dollars for it, but Ralston wanted tweRalston wanted twenty-five. I was so anxious to have the colt that . . . 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 to his memoirs. Yes, that old horse story is an omen. It raises laughter, to be sure; but change the figure of farmer Ralston, getting his undue price through the boy's guilelessness, into Belknap of the Fort Sill and national cemetery scandals,
Hannah Simpson (search for this): chapter 3
, Captain Noah Grant went gradually to the Ohio River, leaving there no riches and many children. One of these, Jesse, became a tanner, and in 1821 married Miss Hannah Simpson from Pennsylvania. On April 27, 1822, at Point Pleasant on the Ohio River, twenty-five miles above Cincinnati, was born their eldest son, and christened is step-grandmother had been reading Fenelon. Seventeen years later, when the boy was appointed to the Military Academy, Mr. Hamer, knowing Mrs. Grant's name was Simpson, and that we had a son named Simpson, somehow got the matter a little mixed up in making the nomination, and sent the name in Ulysses S. Grant. Such is the fatheSimpson, somehow got the matter a little mixed up in making the nomination, and sent the name in Ulysses S. Grant. Such is the father's narrative. And before leaving Grant's plain, self-reliant, uncommercial ancestry, of which his own character is such a natural and relevant product, let it be noted that Jesse, besides writing good clear prose, not unlike his son's, could turn verses fairly well, and also that a neighbour remarked of Ulysses that he got his se
Napoleon (search for this): chapter 3
precocity, such as mark, for example, the early years of Webster, another rustic boy with very similar antecedents. For intellect was Webster's gift, while character was Grant's and character finds no outward expression save in life's chances. Napoleon owes his fame to himself, but Wellington owes his fame to Napoleon; and, save for the Civil War, Grant's force would have slumbered in him from the cradle to the grave. Here is the single prophetic incident. It has been told in many ways; anNapoleon; and, save for the Civil War, Grant's force would have slumbered in him from the cradle to the grave. Here is the single prophetic incident. It has been told in many ways; and his own is the best, as usual:-- There was a Mr. Ralston . . . 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 . . . 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
C. F. Smith (search for this): chapter 3
assmates to abstain from liquor for a year, he steadily refused to drink with his old friends. The object of the cadets was to strengthen, by their example, one of their number who was falling into bad habits. It has never been narrated that C. F. Smith, the commandant of cadets, sent for the boy once when he was in danger of being dismissed, and told him that he was capable of better things. The words that passed on this occasion have died with the two that spoke them; but Grant loved and hwords that passed on this occasion have died with the two that spoke them; but Grant loved and honoured Smith with a special feeling, and a great deal lies behind the short sentence in the second chapter of the memoirs. So West Point bears consistent witness to the good and the bad in Grant. He left it in 1843, wishing naturally to be a dragoon, but was commissioned brevet second lieutenant in the Fourth Infantry, to which he reported for duty on September 30 at Jefferson Barracks, Missouri.
Marryat (search for this): chapter 3
-like sort of a youth, writes a comrade, Henry Coppee. His picture rises before me . . . in the old torn coat, obsolescent leather gig-top, loose riding pantaloons, with spurs buckled over them, going with his clanking sabre to the drill-hall. He exhibited but little enthusiasm in anything. Here is testimony to that mental indolence, or torpor, which pervaded his nature; and he gives more himself. I rarely read over a lesson the second time. . . . I read all of Bulwer's, . . . Cooper's, Marryat's, Scott's, Washington Irving's works, Lever's, and many others that I do not now remember. His letters home show an appreciation of natural scenery, and this he seems always to have had. During his furlough at home after two years at the Academy it is narrated by Richardson that, in accordance with an agreement between himself and classmates to abstain from liquor for a year, he steadily refused to drink with his old friends. The object of the cadets was to strengthen, by their exampl
Jay Gould (search for this): chapter 3
otted to steal. When not far from his end, he was asked if such and such a thing had not distressed him, and replied, No, nothing but being deceived in people. And this sorrowful thought haunts the preface to his memoirs. Yes, that old horse story is an omen. It raises laughter, to be sure; but change the figure of farmer Ralston, getting his undue price through the boy's guilelessness, into Belknap of the Fort Sill and national cemetery scandals, into Babcock of the whiskey ring, into Jay Gould of Black Friday, into Ferdinand Ward, the final thief who crossed Grant's credulous path, and the old horse story grows less mirthful. His bringing up was evidently strict. Both his talk and life were pure. He seems to have got on without swearing, even in battle,--as extreme a sign of calm force as can be imagined. Even Washington broke out at Monmouth Court-house. Grant's one weakness, drinking, has therefore been the more conspicuous. But in these early days at Georgetown, Ohio
Hiram Ulysses (search for this): chapter 3
then, as they are now, the salt and leaven of our country. After the Revolution, as our frontier widened and the salt and leaven began to be sprinkled westward, Captain Noah Grant went gradually to the Ohio River, leaving there no riches and many children. One of these, Jesse, became a tanner, and in 1821 married Miss Hannah Simpson from Pennsylvania. On April 27, 1822, at Point Pleasant on the Ohio River, twenty-five miles above Cincinnati, was born their eldest son, and christened Hiram Ulysses,--Hiram because his grandfather liked the name, Ulysses because his step-grandmother had been reading Fenelon. Seventeen years later, when the boy was appointed to the Military Academy, Mr. Hamer, knowing Mrs. Grant's name was Simpson, and that we had a son named Simpson, somehow got the matter a little mixed up in making the nomination, and sent the name in Ulysses S. Grant. Such is the father's narrative. And before leaving Grant's plain, self-reliant, uncommercial ancestry, of whic
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