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HISbrave and loyal officer was born at “Soldiers' Retreat,” near Louisville, Kentucky, on June 14, 1805. His early days were pleasantly situated, his surroundings and companions being of the best. He was a graduate of West Point, leaving that school in 1825, when only twenty years of age. He was a very apt pupil. He entered the third Artillery, and saw considerable fighting in the Black Hawk War in 1832. He was appointed instructor of artillery tactics at West Point from 1835 to 1837, when he served in the Florida War, and in May, 1838, was made assistant adjutant-general to General Scott. He resigned this appointment upon being made captain, and accompanied Scott to Mexico in 1847.
He was wounded very severely at Molino del Rey, and for a time his life was despaired of. In 1857 he was lieutenant in the First Artillery; November 20, 1860, he assumed command of Charleston Harbor.
His loyalty to the old flag was proven at Forts Moultrie and Sumter. When he took command of the former he determined to place it in good condition, and he asked for money to make both forts more secure; large sums were allowed him for this purpose.
Fort Moultrie was far from being impregnable. Indeed, the land side was a good point for attack, so he concluded to remove to Fort Sumter, which was built on a rock at the entrance tothe bay, and could only be reached by boats. He made all his preparations with such secrecy that no one suspected his design, not even his second in command, Captain Abner Doubleday. The first intimation that the latter received was an order to go to Fort Sumter in twenty minutes. The families of the officers were sent to Fort Johnson, opposite Charleston, and afterward taken North.
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The clever manner in which Major Anderson deceived the Confederates into believing that the troops which silently marched through the little village of Moultrieville that cold December eve, just after sunset, were only laborers going to Fort Sumter, is worthy of the cool and resolute commander. When they reached Sumter, the laborers who were at work in the interests of the Confederates, putting it in shape for their occupancy, opposed the landing of the Union soldiers, but were driven into the fort at the point of the bayonet. Major Anderson afterward sent them ashore, in the supply boats.
At noon of the next day, Major Anderson celebrated his possession of Fort Sumter by raising the Stars and Stripes and by prayer and military ceremonies.
His slender garrison, all told, comprised but sixty-one artillerymen and thirteen musicians. After he had thus taken possession of Fort Sumter, they did not have a very enjoyable time, for provisions were growing scarce, and the markets of Charleston would sell them nothing. Fuel was scarce, and the cold was severe. Besides, they had to resort to all sorts of stratagems tokeep up the appearance of being amply provided with ammunition and munitions of war, one of which was the filling of barrels with broken stone, with a heavy charge of powder in the center, which they would roll down to the water's edge, and burst, giving their watchful enemies the impression that the fort was filled with “infernal machines.” The garrison were in no very robust condition for fighting, for salt pork was nearly their sum total in the meat line.
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Meanwhile, arguing went on between the Confederates and the garrison, to the effect that the United States government had gone to pieces and they ought to evacuate the fort quietly. But that was not the sort of material that Major Anderson was made of. And when fire was opened upon him, he returned it in kind, and fought valiantly. It was not till the 13th that he had to surrender. Twice the wooden frame on the inside took fire, and when the flag staff on the fort was shot away, a servantnamed Peter Hart made a staff of a spar, and nailed it to the gun carriages on the parapet under the hot fire of the enemy.
On the 14th Major Anderson and his garrison sadly left the fort after saluting the dear old flag, and went on board theBaltic, which bore them to New York.
In May, 1861, Robert Anderson was made brigadier-general in the United States army, commanding the Department of the Cumberland. His health failed so rapidly that he was shortly after relieved and brevetted major-general in the regular army, when he was retired from service. In 1868 his health had failed so rapidly that he went to Europe, hoping for relief. His translations from the French on military matters, have been accepted as valuable textbooks, and are used by the War Department. The health he sought eluded him, and his death took place at Nice, France, October 26, 1871.
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ENERAL ROBERT EDWARD LEE came from what is known in the South, as a good family. He was the son of Colonel Henry Lee, who was known in Revolutionary days as “Lighthorse Harry.” Robert was born at Stafford, Virginia, January 19, 1807. He became a cadet at West Point in 1825, and graduated second in his class, composed of forty-six members, in 1829. He never received a mark of demerit or a reprimand during his four years at that institution, thus showing that he honored discipline—a fine trait in the young. He became a lieutenant in the corps of engineers, and superintending engineer in improvements of the harbor of St. Louis and the upper Mississippi. He also served with great distinction as chief engineer of the army under General Scott. His gallant conduct at Cerro Gordo, Contreras, Churubusco and Chapultepec, in the Mexican War, in the latter engagement receivinga severe wound, won him honors, and he was brevetted major, lieutenant-colonel and colonel.
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He was appointed superintendent of the military, academy at West Point from 1852 to 1855, when in the latter year two new regiments of cavalry were formed, in the second of which he secured an appointment as lieutenant-colonel, a most deserved honor. Two years were spent in Texas, but a leave of absence being granted him, he returned to Virginia. He had command of the forces sent to suppress old John Brown at Harper's Ferry, in October, 1859.
The year 1832 was an eventful one to him, for in that year he chose a fair daughter of his native State, for his bride. The lady whom he selected was Mary Custis, daughter of G. W. P. Custis; the latter was the grandson of Martha Custis, and the adopted son of George Washington. General Lee became heir to the estates of Arlington House on the Potomac, and the White House on the Pamunkey. The Arlington estate was confiscated by the Government during the war, and is now national property, and the site of a Union soldiers' cemetery.
When the ordinance of secession was passed in Virginia, April 17, 1861, he at once resigned his commission in the United States army, and wrote to General Scott these words—“Save in defence of my native State, I never desire again to draw my sword.” He felt keenly that there was no need of revolution, and would gladly have asked for redress of whatever grievances his State felt that they suffered, but in vain, and he declared thatalthough his devotion to the Union was sincere, and he knew what was demanded of the duty and loyalty of an American, yet he could not raise his hand against his friends, his children, and his home.
Virginia had seceded from the Union, but had not yet acknowledged the Confederacy. He was chosen major-general of the forces of the State, a trust which he honestly assumed, and for more than a year, although he was named as one of the five generals whom the State elected after it joined the Confederacy, in May, still he was merely superintendent of fortifications at Richmond, and a sort of military adviser to Jefferson Davis.
His military record, as commander of the Southern army, proves him to have been one of the ablest generals that history furnishes us any record of. When he met General Grant in that little Virginia village, to confer with him as to terms of surrender, it was the meeting of two great commanders, each worthy of a world's admiration.
After the war General Lee refused to attend any public gatherings, but lived a secluded life. His fortune had vanished, his hopes had been defeated, and he was compelled to accept the position of President of Washington College, Lexington, Va. This was in October of 1865. To the last he was in favor of reconstruction in the South, without recourse to arms.
On the evening of September 28, 1870, he was struck with paralysis, and lived but a fortnight, dying on October 12. Thus passed away a man of great nobility of character, brave and sincere.
His wife, Mary, followed him on November 6, 1873. The General had three sons and four daughters. All of his sons served in the civil war.
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Twas just after the battle of Chancellorsville, and the storm of shot and shell had ceased to rain upon the wounded, who were pinioned in the blazing woods, when the sudden blow which Stonewall Jackson's army had struck, had left a trail of woe and blood. The dense forest had hidden the oncoming of Jackson's forces. They stole in noiselessly and fell upon the Union men under General Hooker, like an avalanche.
The pickets had not given the alarm, so swift and silent had been Jackson's advance. The battle was over. The musketry had ceased its rattle, and darkness had fallen, lit only by the red blaze which enwrapped the Confederate and Union wounded, without mercy. Some of them had tried to crawl away from the consuming fire, which played about them, and licked up leaves and underbrush, and now and then, as a gust of wind arose, sending the burning brands into the treetops to start a new conflagration.
The heat burned into their wounds, and as the shrieks of those who could not drag themselves away rose on the air, it seemed as if demons were calling to each other, so madly did they shout for help and mercy from the pitiless wall of fire.
Men were caught as if in a network, and held prisoners indeed. Choking with the smoke, blinded by the sparks whirling in every direction, there seemed no hope or chance for rescue.
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Herea dead man's face, caught by the flames, was scorched and disfigured so that his dearest friend could not have recognized him. Near him lay a living soldier with bloodshot eyes and aching wounds, terror written on his features—terror born, not from the fortunes of battle, not of the foe whom he has met face to face, but terror of the black night' the loneliness, the awful thought that the dead are all around him, a somber scene lit up by the fire that seizes some helpless one, never releasing him until he has lost the semblance of a man, and is only a charred fragment.
That night was a fearful reality to many. Its horrors can never be told, for those best able to repeat the story, perished where they lay. Details were sent out by the Federals after Jackson's advance had been checked, to save the victims in the burning forest, and heroically they worked, but alas, they could not reach half of the wounded.
At the foot of an oak whose lofty head towered above the scene, two soldiers fought valiantly for life. They were no longer arrayed against each other, but against their mutual enemy, the fire-fiend. One wore the blue, the other the gray. Both had gaping wounds, but their peril was the same, and as they struggled to their feet, weak from loss of blood, the bitterness died out of their hearts. They were once more friends, comrades, and together they labored to stamp out the destroyer. Their breath came quick and short, their voices sank to a whisper, but shoulder to shoulder as of old, they met as brothers—and nobly they battled with the flames, now smothering a burst of fire, now cheering each other with brave words, until, slowly and painfully they advanced, step by step, to a spot where the cool ground received them, as they fell, fainting, almost dying, where they were found by the boys who were sent to rescue, and whose work had been that of heroes.
And when, once more they struggled back to life, hand met hand in a friendly grasp, and heart beat joyously to heart, as they thanked their heavenly Father that they were saved from a fiery furnace.
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RELYPercy was a product of the war—one of those stray “chilluns” who drifted into camp with the refugees who were constantly coming under Uncle Sam's paternal care.
It was but a short time before he drifted out again and into our home. We (Allie and I) were in search of a boy “to run errands,” and do odd jobs about the house, and this particular boy was sent to me by one of our soldier friends. When we saw his mirthful face (he had a perpetual grin) we thought he'd do very nicely for us. It was quite the fashion for boys to work in families in Memphis, washing dishes, preparing vegetables, and kindred labors, and though at first our Northern ideas were rudely disturbed by that fact, we soon became used to it, and enjoyed having a boy for such work. Indeed, it was rather a relief to Allie, for, as she said, if she hired a girl of the same age she would be in a measure responsible for her manners, and she would have to instruct her in the care of her wardrobe; but with a boy no such difficulties presented themselves. Like too many white boys of good families, it was supposed a boy could knock around and shift for himself; in other words he did not need any particular care, beyond providing him with enough to eat, drink and wear.
The boy informed us when he came to us that his name was Percy. Allie suggested that it would be much more ready to call him Jim or Sam. In an instant his family pride was up in arms.
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“'Scuseme, Missie, but I cahnt go back on my raising dat ar way. It wud be slighting my marsa's family. Percy it is, and I cahnt see my way clar to answer to no oder name.”
We afterward learned that his name was Jerry, and that he had fallen deeply in love with the name Percy, it belonging to a colonel in the Southern army who used to visit at his master's house, and so he had appropriated it.
But Percy it remained, and if it was rather incongruous to see the high-born Percy scrubbing the kitchen floor or delving into the garbage box in search of a silver fork or spoon that he had thrown in with the remains of a meal, it couldn't be helped.
He had some odd ways about him, that rather startled Allie. He believed in Voodooism and when one day he informed her in a stage whisper that a very elegant old lady who called often, but who had lost one eye through some misfortune, was a witch, and was trying to “spell” him, she promptly ordered him out of the house till he could learn to keep his thoughts to himself. He despised winter, and one morning when he woke up and saw a light snowfall that had come down the night before, he expressed himself thus—
“Now, Missie, that's what you uns calls pretty. I jess tinks it's de debil whispering bad tings to de earth, and she's ashamed of 'em, and cobers up her face.”
He never could be made to understand why certain articles in the china closet should have certain places. As for instance the closet in our house had shelves way down to the floor and he insisted on placing the silverware on the lowest shelf and then stepping into it. He had been talked to and threatened with punishment, and every time he'd promise to do better. One morning as usual the spoons, knives, etc., were found in the old place, and the look of perfect astonishment on his face would have immortalized a painter could he have caught it, as he threw up his hands and rolling up his eyes, said in the most tragic manner:
“I clar to goodness, Missie, I neber know how dey cum dar—dey must have walked down all by demselves!”
Hewent to market every day with his mistress, to show her how to select, as he confidentially informed his companions—-“Yer see she's only a chile, not far frum my age (he was sixteen, she was nineteen) and isn't 'sperienced in de tricks of dem ar market folks, so I goes along and helps her.”
We had been teasing for a dish of roast goose for a long time, so Percy and his mistress started just after breakfast and made a tour of the stalls. She selected a huge, but plump-looking white fowl, whose snowy feathers attracted her attention. She was quite ready to accept Percy's assurance that “dat ar fowl will make seberal good meals.” The bird was purchased, and Percy slung it over his shoulder, while it squawked most horribly as mistress and boy went down the length of the market, greeted at every step by the grinning colored folks, who wished them “good luck wid dat ar young bird!” while some were anxious to know “whar yo' get dat snow bird, honey?” accompanied with many fervent hopes that it would “eat like cream.” When the fowl reached the home of Percy's mistress, she nearly died with chagrin to find that what she preferred for its snowy plumage, thinking it an evidence of youth and beauty, proved to be a gander whose tough old skin Charlie assured her no amount of heat could penetrate. So when she slyly opened the gate, and bade him wander forth, he did so without delay.
Percy pretended much sympathy for her discomfiture, but she lost faith in all humanity after the goose episode, and deputed the marketing to her brother and the boy, who kindly relieved her.
But Percy was not entirely a trifler, as a few weeks after proved. One night when all were sleeping and the night was full of beauty, a little flame, so fine it was scarce observable, shot up into the room where the master and mistress reposed. It grew larger, as it danced across the floor, and curled up over the windows, drawn by the night breeze that played there. Now it seized the curtains of the bed, and still they knew nothing of the danger. And now the flames burst forth, lighting up the whole room, A feeling of suffocation, a frightened cry, and they awake,but the smoke is thick and lurid, they are blinded and dazed. Where is the window—how can they find the door? They are silent from fear, while the flames leap nearer and nearer.
“Ise here—doncher be feared! Percy's here to sabe you bof,” and in the boy springs, and seizing Allie by the arm, he calls to her husband to follow close after him. He dashes to the window; he steps upon a ladder, and half-carrying her down, he shouts words of cheer to Charlie, who waits till they have reached the ground, when he takes to the ladder, and follows in safety.
Looking up, they see the room one mass of fire, and they know that they owe their lives to the watchful care of the black boy who had been only the subject for mirth and ridicule in their little home.
They were grieved indeed, when, a week later he came to the friend's house where they had found shelter, and after much scraping and bowing, he told them he wanted to “gage in anoder business—shining gemmen's shoes.” They tried to persuade him that it was a precarious occupation, and rather uncertain of returns, but there was an independence about it that Percy craved. So they had to bid the boy good-bye, but the generous donation which Charlie and Harry gave him to “set him up in business,” made his eyes shine and his teeth glisten, as he “fanked dem, and wished 'em luck.”
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ANYare the monuments that have been erected in Richmond, Virginia, through the liberality of her citizens. That city has paid particular attention to her brave boys who fell in battle, and her cemeteries are very beautifully laid out. The word cemetery is from the Greek, and means a “sleeping-place.” There, indeed, do those who laid down their lives sleep in peace, and it is the pride and pleasure of the living to beautify their last home. National cemeteries were first provided for by our government on July 17, 1862, and the noble provision has been carried out in all the States, both North and South.
Oakwood cemetery, Richmond, contains 16,000 dead Confederate soldiers. Libby Hill has a towering granite column, of great beauty, dedicated to all the soldier and sailor dead of the Confederacy—a beautiful memorial.
The cemetery of Hollywood is particularly distinguished for being the resting-places of Generals Stuart, Pickett, and Maury. Each grave has a tasty monument erected over it to tell who slumbers beneath. This cemetery has ninety-five acres, and was established in 1847. There are 12,000 Confederate soldiers in this picturesque burying-ground, and a granite pyramid has been raised to their memory.
Allcivilizations have respected and cared for their dead. Even the Indian decorates the graves of his people, and watches that they may lie undisturbed. He places the weapons of the chase in the grave that they may take them to the Happy Hunting Ground with them.
While Richmond has several cemeteries wherein her soldiers lie, it is noticeable for the statues of her heroes also. General William C. Wickham's statue adorns Monroe Park. One of the finest streets, Franklin, has a statue of General Robert E. Lee and General A. P. Hill, General “Jeb” Stuart, and President Jefferson Davis are also remembered.
In the eighty-three National cemeteries established by the United States, and containing 330,700 soldiers, 9,438 wore the gray.
“There is a tear for all that die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave;
But nations swell the funeral cry
And freedom weeps above the brave.”
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In the cemetery at Beaufort, South Carolina, all feelings of distinction are swept away, and yearly, on Memorial Day, the noble-hearted women of that town direct their steps toward the graves and place flowers upon all—those who wore the blue and those who wore the gray, alike appealing to their womanly sympathy, and sharing alike their tender care.
On October 23, 1866, a fine and spacious cemetery was dedicated at Winchester, Virginia, with most imposing ceremonies. This abode of the dead is known as the Stonewall Jackson cemetery, in honor of that brave and true-hearted soldier.
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NUMBERof years have gone by since the scenes told of in the first part of our book were enacted by the boy, whose interest has never wavered, and whose heart is as young as it was in that day. The scars of battle are tenderly smoothed away by the softening touch of time, and the blue and the gray are no more arrayed against each other, but stand shoulder to shoulder, eager to draw the sword, if need be, in defence of their beloved land and her institutions. The grassy mound and towering monument each tells its tale of the heroes who slumber beneath, and who are alike worthy of unstinted praise.
Our late war with a foreign power has proven the loyalty of Americans in every corner of our republic, and how earnestly the men of those days, from North and South, have come forward to fight the battles of their country—one, forevermore. Valuable services have been rendered by many of those who were the leaders of those days, in that sad conflict, and whose names have ever been renowned for courage, earnestness and bravery.
We are, as a nation, making history fast, and in a book writtenfor young people, it seemed proper to give them a few brief sketches of those whose names were prominently identified with the war of 1861. The boy who told his simple story is no longer a boy, but his pride and rejoicing are as hearty as if the “dew of youth” sat upon him yet, and in reviewing the lives of those who can truly be called great, and gone to their final reward, one of the first whose claims are strong.
General Grant's career was so extraordinarily brilliant, and was compressed into so short a time that it stands almost alone as one of the most astonishing succession of events.
His birthplace was Point Pleasant, Ohio. Here on the 27th of April, 1822, the future general was born. When he was but a year old his parents moved to Georgetown, where he grew into a sturdy, quiet lad, showing no particular smartness any more than the average boy. Indeed, he was rather dull, learning rather slowly, and with difficulty. There were no free schools when he was a boy. These institutions were supported by subscription, and one teacher had charge of all the pupils—from the primer class to the big boy or girl of eighteen.
General Grant never saw an algebra nor any mathematical work until he went to West Point. He had a great fondness for horses, and was never so happy as when he could be with them. He was an excellent judge of them. When he was but seven he drove his father's horses, hauling all the wood used in the house and shops. When he was fifteen he made a horse trade with a Mr. Payne, at Flat Rock, Kentucky, where he was visiting. The brother of this gentleman was to accompany young Grant back to Georgetown. The boy was told that the horse had never had a collar on (it was a saddle horse), but he hitched it up, and started to drive the seventy miles with a strange animal. The horse ran and kicked, and made the companion horse frightened, and Ulysses stopped them right on the edge of an embankment twentyfeet deep. Every time he would start, the new horse would kick and run, until Mr. Payne, who was thoroughly frightened, would not proceed any further in his company, but took passage in a freight wagon. The boy was left alone, but with that faculty for surmounting difficulties which distinguished him in after life, a happy thought struck him—he took out his bandana, a huge handkerchief much used then, and blindfolded the creature, driving him quietly to the house of his uncle in Maysville, where he borrowed another horse.
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A laughable incident occurred when he was eight. He saw a colt which he very much coveted, and for which the owner demanded $25. General Grant's father said he would give $20. The boy was so anxious to possess the colt that his father yielded, giving him instructions how to make the bargain. Going to the owner the boy said: “Papa says I may offer you $20 for the colt, but if you won't take that I am to offer $22.50, and if you won't take that, to give you $25.” It is needless to say what he had to pay for the colt.
The elder Grant was not poor in the usual sense of the term—on the contrary, he was quite well situated for the time and place.
Ulysses was sent to West Point at seventeen; he was quite apt in mathematics, but had no love for military tactics, and resolvednot to stay in the army, even if he graduated. He was not brilliant in his class here, either—he says himself that had “the class been turned the other end foremost, I should have been near the head.” He graduated four years after his entrance, No. 21 in a class of thirty-nine.
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It was feared at that time that he had the consumption, for he had a bad cough, but his outdoor life entirely removed it.
His real name was Hiram Ulysses Grant, but some one made a blunder in making out the document appointing him a cadet, and as U. S. Grant he will be known always.
On graduation he was breveted Second Lieutenant of Infantry, and placed in the Fourth Regiment, which was sent to the frontier. But two years went by, ere he was sent to Texas to join General Taylor's army, and here he became a full lieutenant. He was made quartermaster of his regiment early in 1847, after showing great valor in the battles of Palo Alto, Resaca, Monterey, and the siege of Vera Cruz. He participated in all of the engagements, and was promoted on the field of Molino del Rey for his bravery. A few days after an exhibition of the same quality won him special notice and praise from his brigade commander.
Whenthe Mexican War was over, he was stationed at: Sackett's Harbor, New York. He had long been attached to Miss Julia Dent, the sister of one of his classmates, and August 22, 1848, she became his wife.
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Four years later he went with his regiment to California and Oregon, where he became captain. The summer of 1854 saw, apparently, an end to his military career, for he resigned his commission and tried to work a small farm near St. Louis, and attend to real estate in the city. He wasnot intended for either vocation. Greater things were in store for him, and, disheartened at his poor success, he went to work for his father, as clerk in his store—the leather trade, in Galena, Illinois.
At the first sound of war he offered his services to the government, and marched to Springfield at the head of a company. Governor Yates placed him on his staff, and made him mustering officer of all the volunteers from Illinois, but in June he was made colonel of the Twenty-first Regiment, which he had organized and drilled himself. Needing cars to transport it to a distant point, he was told they could not be furnished. So little a matter as that did not annoy him, but with that directness and energy which always marked his movements, he astonished the authorities by marching the entire regiment to the desired place.
In August he was promoted, becoming brigadier-general, and assuming command of all troops at Cairo. From this hour his successes were great, and have become matters of history. He was the idol of the army, and the surprise of the country, which gave him the popular name which seems to fit him so well—Unconditional Surrender Grant.
After the siege of Vicksburg and the defeat of General Bragg, it became plain to the government that one great mind should control all the forces, and General Grant was declared commander of the entire armies of the Union, early in 1864.
It was then that President Lincoln and General Grant met for the first time—a meeting between two great men. The commission of full general was bestowed upon Grant in July, 1866, this title being created especially for him. From August, 1867, to January, 1868, he was really Secretary of War, on account of the trouble between President Johnson and Secretary Stanton. He received the nomination for President, in May, 1868, at the hands of the Republican convention which met in Chicago, and was elected by an overwhelming majority. He was reelected to a second term and at its close he made a tour of the world, with his wife. He was received with unbounded enthusiasm everywhere.
In 1881 hebought a house in New York City, which he made a home in the fullest sense, for his family and himself. On Christmas Eve, 1883, he slipped on the sidewalk, and injured himself so badly that he had to use crutches ever after. Becoming partner in a banking house, he was robbed of all he had by his associates in business and had to turn his attention to literary work, furnishing theCenturywith some articles. Being solicited to give his experiences, he wrote his “Memoirs,” which he indited while suffering great anguish, and which he finished four days before his death. His wife received for the two volumes from his pen $400,000 as royalty.
The hero of many battles, the grand soldier, was doomed. In 1884 a trouble in his throat developed into a cancer, and for nearly a year he endured intense agony, never murmuring, but working on, that he might place those he so dearly loved beyond want.
On July 23, 1885, he died, in a cottage at Mt. McGregor, near Saratoga, New York—a man whom the world is better for having known.
Few boys have risen from such humble surroundings to the highest gift of a great nation, as did the twentieth President of the United States, James A. Garfield. His boyhood's home was a simple cabin in the woods of Ohio, unbroken save by the few settlers who hewed the trees and made a clearing for a home. His father was one of these pioneers, and the future President of our great Republic was a genuine farmer's boy, and knew how to do all the hard work upon a farm. He chopped wood, and helped care for the few acres they called their farm. They did not live in luxury, for they had no means to squander. Living on the plainest fare, wild game and corn, or wheat cracked or pounded in a mortar, performing the hardest labor, the boy's strength grew, until he became a hardy, robust lad, the pride of his beloved parents.
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Henever had much schooling, as it was only three months each winter that his parents could send him to the district school, but most excellent use he made of his scant opportunities. At fourteen he was apprenticed to a carpenter, and three years later he worked on the canal. When he was a mere lad, he longed to be a sailor, but he fell sick, and after that he never seemed to long for the sea.
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The little village of Orange, Ohio, where he was born on the nineteenth of November, 1831, was soon to see him no more as a resident, for in March, 1849, he left home and entered Geauga Seminary at Chester, and soon was fitted to teach a district school. But he had to work at his trade (the carpenter's) to help pay his way, his mother not being able to assist him, save by a loan of $17.00 which she furnished him the first term that he was there. Every morning and evening, and Saturdays, as well as his entire summer vacation, he spent in labor at the bench. The next three years he passed in the Eclectic Institute at Hiram, and here his finances still continuing low, he willingly acted as student and janitor, and afterward as student and teacher. He was unable to earn enough to pay for his tuition at William's College, and although he practised the closest economy, when he graduated he owed that institution $500, a debt which he afterward faithfully discharged.
He accepted the Professorship of Ancient Languages and Literature in Hiram College, at twenty-six becoming its president, which he continued to be until he entered the army in 1861.
In 1858 he married Lucretia Rudolph, who was a teacher, and a very cultivated woman, who proved a valuable companion in his literary career. He had studied law while President of the college, and was admitted to practice in the Supreme Court cf the United States in 1866.
Hismilitary services were large and valuable. He was an authority upon American finances. He held many important positions and was honored by all his colleagues. He was made an honorary member of the celebrated Cobden Club of England.