Indianapolis Journal, Indianapolis, Marion County, 9 August 1885 — Page 4

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THE SUNDAY JOURNAL BY JNO. C. NEW & SON. SUNDAY, AUGUST 0 ~im. Twelve pages. Telephone Calls. Bausss Office 238 | Editorial Rooms 212 Tie Sunday Journal has the largest and bets circulation of any Suuday paper in Indiana. Price five cents. GENERAL GRANT. The last sad rites in honor of the memory <*f General Grant have been performed, and fibe grave has received all that is left of the fllnstrious dead, the indulgent father, the firat soldier and generous victor. The tramping thousands that but yesterday thronged the to share in or witness the grand panuk of his funeral have gone their many wars. The door of his sepulchre is locked, the guard is mounted there, and the days ©wae and go. The fruit in the orchards, the K*ra in the valleys, the harvests all •vr the land will ripen and be garnered, for the land Is at peace. Through lof months a world of peoples suffered with tire sufferings of the stricken soldier. For nunatks the wires were burdened with the tidings of the gradual failing of the patient sncerer. Rallying with somewhat of his oldtime determination, only to falter in a way that he never faltered before stricken by the fatal malady, the people everywhere watched tha unequal contest with hearts that ached in warmest sympathy. Besieged for the first time in his life, the situation seemed to bewilder him fora time. The citadel of his life invested •n every side, with tho insidious foe creeping ©▼rr nearer and nearer, it was a situation that fcriti his soldierly soul. He was not long in realizing the inevitable outcome of the un•qsal struggle; but without lowering his flag or changing his battle-plan ho fought it out oxt that line, and fell at last with his last lifework well done. Ko eulogy from mortal man *can incmse his fame nor add to the gkry of his achievements. We can ©nir stand in the presence of his memory with uncovered heads while in silent thought we vainly try to measure him, and to underataod how it was possible for a man subject to all the foibles of humanity to be so weii poised, so rounded in all that constitutes human greatness. The Nation loves him in memory of the mistakes he made as well as for his victories. The latter saved the Nation, while the former establish his kinship with all mankind. His character has the majesty of a mountain; the very scars and gasho? in it but add to its rugged grandeur, while at the distance necessary to view it in its entirety. the man but proclaims his own littleness who would attempt to point out blemishes. Asa soldier alone Grant would not have been a complete man. He would bfijp© gone into history simply as a fighter, a man abnormally developed in one direction. But the twenty yeais that intervened between Appomattox and the closing scene at Mount McGregor served to unveil the other half of his character, and it was found to possess the same majestic proportions. His patriotic magnanimity to General Leo and his beaten followers won for him the admiration of every honorable soldier who foDght on the Southern side. From that day to this his every act bespoke the man anxious for perpetual peace. As in war, so in peace, be was foremost among those who strove for a united country. No honest man can recall lu3 memory witli bitterness; not one but must confess that lie was honest in all things, patriotic iu all things, patient in all things. May his ashes rest iu peace. The world perforce turns to never-ending duties. Millions will never be able to pay personal tribute at his grave, but all in thought can visit it, and from the lessons there recalled teach wisdom, and patience, and patriotic generosity to the oncoming generations, so that peace may prevail and the people make war no more.

NjT as bad as we seem. A face viewed in one direction looks very little like the same face viewed in another direction. Beecher’s idolaters used to say that “a full face view made him look like a lion, while a side view gave him the face of a sheep.” Ibis comical contrariety may he found asserted in the Independent some time before the war, when the evangelist of •volution was writing his “Star Papers" for that publication. Whether true or not as to the pastor of Plymouth, it is true of most things that pass under the inspection of average intelligence in this age. We see a different form from a different position. The “shield” of the old apologue is gold or silver as we approach it from one hand or the other. The advanced civilization of the era of general education, of universal religious toleration, of diffused invention, of constantly deepening investigation, one would say was the era of the most uniform honesty; of the most effective repression of crime; of the most sedulous support of sobriety and domestic purity. But if we view it only from some points of observation, in which the news of the day forces us to stand temporarilv, we should say that the civilization of Christendom in this nineteenth century was as utter a failure as the Kc-ely motor. It needs two looks to see clear round almost anything. On the steel casket that incloses Genera! Grant’s remains is a card with the inscription: “The Cregan steel ghoul-proof burial case.” It is a protection against the jobbers of dead

THE INDIANAPOLIS JOURNAL, SUNDAY, AUGUST 9, 1885-TWELVE PAGES.

bodies, as burglar-proof safes are a protection against the robbers of money or jewels. The pessimist asks, ‘‘What sort of people and civilization have you in a land where the coffins of your honored dead must be made steel-proof against thieves? The savages of Fiji eat their enemies, or used to, but they don't rob the graves of their friends. The heathen of Dahomey will sacrifice a hundred lives on the tomb of a chief, but they won’t steal his coipse. It is left for the land of the free, of the most liberal government, of the highest assumed refinement, of the most diffused intelligence, to exhibit the depravity that will plunder tombs and make speculation of the dead who in their lives were the pride of the people. Lincoln's tomb would have been robbed but for an accident. Garfield’s has been kept constantly under guard. Stewart’s wa3 robbed, and it took a king’s ransom to regain the poor, decaying corpse that your civilization alone has produced thieves base enough to steal." Civilization can deny nothing of this horrible arraignment. It is true. The avarice of tho time knows no sanctity, no sentiment, no feeling. It knows nothing but the chance to make money. Positively no corpse is safe from theft in this “great and glorious country” if it be that of a man whose notoriety would make it a profitable show or force a big ransom. So far as any evidence shows, this abominable imputation can be laid at the door of no European country except England. The descendant of the Anglo-Saxon—the representative of the great colonizing and civilizing power of the earth—is the only human being who will steal dead bodies for speculation. And his crime is a development of these later days, too. It is hardly ten years old. It has grown with the telephone and the electric light, and all the amazing advances of scien’ce. So it is; but the abominable growth has been kept pace with by wider organizations for beneficent service, by constantly-enlarging means for education, by gradually improving methods with crime in courts of justice, by more and more conspicuous cases of individual heroism and self-devotion, by grander applications of individual wealth to special necesities, and by more generous taxes for tho care of the helpless. Our civilization can show as wonderful achievements of nobility as of baseness. If it can produce deeper diggers into infamy, it can also produce higher honor. Or, at least, it can produce more of them. It is but the natural evolution of advancing intellectual culture that new and amazing forms of crime should be invented. The intellect works down or up as its impulse turns it. And the same culture that hunts out new forms of good service, of better food, better health, more general comfort, cheaper living, if it be turned the other way will hunt out more baseness of vice, and more strange forms of crime than the less inventive genius of a less highly cultured period and people.

A SUPERSERVICEABLE FRIEND. Firz John Porter’s article in the August Century on “The Last of the Seven Days’ Battles,” is logically the severest arraignment of McClellan’s incompetency as a commander we have as yet seen. Porter writes as the especial friend and champion of McClellan. After naming the yarious battles fought during that memorable seven days, he says: “Each was a success to our army, the engagement of Malvern Hill being the most decisive.” Then, after describing the battle of Malvern Hill (and in a most egofistic manner, by the way), he says: “While Colonel Hunt and I were returning from the front, about 9 o’clock, we were joined by Colonel Colburn, of McClellan’s staff. We all rejoiced over the day’s success. Biy these officers I sent messages to the commanding general, expressing the hope that our withdrawal had ended, and that we should hold the ground we now occupied, even if we did not assume the offensive. From my standpoint I thought we could maintain our position, and perhaps in a few days could improve it by advancing. But I knew only the circumstances before me, and these were limited by controlling influences. It was now after 9 o’clock at night. Within an hour of the time that Colonels Hunt and Colburn left me, and before they could have reached the commanding general, I received orders from him to withdraw, and to direct Generals Sumner and Heintzelman to move at specified hours to Harrison's Landing, and General Couch to rejoin his corps, which was then under way to the same point.” He then tells how he obeyed the orders to retreat, and continues: “Thus ended the memorable ‘Seven days’ battles/ which, for severity, and for stubborn resistance, and endurance of hardships by the contestants, were not surpassed during the war. Each antagonist accomplished the results for which he aimed: one insuring the temporary relief of Richmond, the other gaining security on the north bank of the James.” Can it be true that McClellan “accomplished. the results for which he aimed?” His aim, it is generally thought, was the capture of Richmond. He had a magnificent army, superior in numbers to the rebels, and in every way in better condition. He was almost in sight of the rebel capital, and the rebels were in great fear for its safety. However, as soon as he met the enemy in battle, he began to “withdraw,” as Porter puts it. For seven consecutive days his troops engaged the enemy in terrible battle. Porter says every day’s fight ing was a success for our army. Every night after the victory McClellan ordered his victorious army to “withdraw.” Malvern Hill, the last battle Porter says, was the most decisive success of all. He further says, that rejoicing in that great success, he sent messages to McClellan expressing tho hope “that our withdrawal had ended, and that wo should hold the ground wo now occupied, even if we did not assume the offensive.” But within an hour, he says, he received orders from McClellan to retreat to Harrison's landing. Why retreat, if the aovon days’

fighting had been seven day3 of successive victories, and Malvern Hill, the last, the most decisive? What had been accomplished? Now, it is agreed on every hand that the Union forces were victorious in all of the battles fought during the seven days, and that Malvern Hill was in truth a most decisive victory. Malvern Hill was an impregnable position. That was evident. But our splendid soldiers won victories to no purpose. Our army was without a competent commander. McClellan did not know how to use the victories his forces won. No commander ever had such splendid opportunities. All he had to do was to march to Richmond. In a military sense, his troops had already taken it by their decisive defeat of the enemy. The Comte de Paris, McClellan’s aid, urged an offensive movement and an advance from Malvern Hill. Porter says he did the same. They are McClellan’s friends. The enemy was whipped, exhausted and demoralized, and was expecting to abandon Richmond if McClellan advanced. But no; he retreated. He gave up the rich fruits of hard-earned victories. Upon tlio facts stated by Porter, McClellan’s utter incompetency is manifest. Imagine Grant at Malvern Hill in like situation. It appears by Porter's article that at night McClellan was more than an hour’s ride from the field of Malvern Hill. Where was he? Porter does not say. No report that we have ever seen shows him upon the field at any time during the battle. It was rumored at the time in the army that during the fight McClellan was on board a gun-boat in the river. It was the gossip of the camp. We do not remember that the report of any general officer mentions his presence on the field. By his utter want of ability to grasp the situation, he saved the rebel army and prevented the fall of Richmond, No wonder the rebels in the trenches about that city cheered lustily when they heard iliat McClellan was nominated for President. Porter, in his article, evinces a very tender regard for the rebels, whom lie designates by no harsher phrase than the “gallant foe," or “obstinate antagonist.” He tries very hard, however, to be severe by cunning suggestion and sly inference on Lincoln and his “civil and military administration." Circumstances, however, make him very harmless now as against Lincoln and his administration, though at one time, during the war, it was thought there was reason to fear him. The heaviest blow he deals is against his friend McClellan.

MINOR MENTION. No modern poet has had so cruel a stab or suffered so great, an indignity as Mr. Rollin M. Squire, Commissioner of Pubiic Works, of New York, Mr. Squire is not known to the world at large as a poet, but whether this is due to the well known inability of editors to recognize literary gems when they see them, or to the fact that the gentleman has been nursing his Genius for a great occasion, is not a matter of history. However this may be, Mr. Squire himself did not underrate his powers, but felt equal to the emergency "when it arose. In the course of human events it became a part of Mr. Squire’s duty to drape and decorate the City-hall in honor of General Grant. It occurred to him that inscriptions commemorative of the merits and virtues of the deceased would not be inappropriate, and who so well qualified to write these memorial verses as Squire? He consulted with no envious associates, who might have recommended various obituary selections from classic authors, or have referred him to contemporaneous writers of renown; not he. Here was his opportunity to obtain revenge on unappreciative editors by publishing his poem in spite of them; or, this motive lacking, this was his chance to ernergo from obscurity, and. his genius at once recognized, to go down to fame inseparably associated with the name of General Grant. Mr. Squire wrote tho verses and posted them on conspicuous parts of the City Hall, Strange to say, their merit was not immediately recognized; in fact, it has not vet been acknowledged, though all New York has had full opportunity to read and judge for itself. On the contrary, Mr. Squire’s verses were denominated doggerel, and a demand was made for their removal. No one, positively no one but the author of the lines, saw any evidences of appropriateness, to say nothing of talent., in them, but ho stoutly defended them. When the popular clamor became so great that the mayor could not ignore it, he requested Mr. Squire to remove the objectionable inscriptions, but ho refused to do so without a direct official order. Finally, the mayor issued the order, and the commissioner’s literary works were taken away from the sight of men. What the effect of this crushing blow is upon Mr. Squire is not stated in tho dispatches, but when the confusion and excitement attendant upon the funeral has died away the public will, doubtless, be informed. There is a rumor that the poet-commissioner is a Boston man. This, if true, explains his persistency and his confidence in his own ability, and will do away with any fears of fatal consequences. Being a Bostonian, he will ascribe his treatment to tho lack of intellectuality and to the jealousy of New Yorkers. But, looked at in its brightest light, Squire’s case is a sad one, and discourging to other aspirants to fame. The reminiscence of Martin Van Buren, published in Saturday's Journal, suggests to an old newspaper man the bitterest speech that was ever uttered by any man in the United States, except Tristram Burgess's famous sarcasm on John Randolph, that “the fatherof liescouldnot become the father of liar3." John Van Buren, the eldest son of the ex President, aiid hardly less noted, was the speaker. The occasion was tho death of Silas Wright. An Albany paper published a very violent attack upon the old New York statesman the day after he died —in ignorance of the catastrophe, however—and its appearance, of course, caused a good deal of savage censure, very unjustly. The author, the reminiscent thinks, was Edwin Crcsswell, and tho paper tho Albany Argus, the Democratic State organ. Wright had been one of the foremost of Democratic leaders, but had gone off on the Wilmot proviso to the Free soilers, and the organ assailed him for it. John Van Buren was one of tho ablest stumpers for his father, as the Free Soil Buffalo convention candidate for the Presidency, in 1848, against Cass. Tho division of the Democracy caused by this Free Soil issue beat General Cass, whom John called the “Michigander. ” Wright died about a

year before the Buffalo convention and a after the introduction of the Wilmot proviso. Speaking of the post mortem attack on Silas Wright, John Van Buren said: “The blow aimed at the living statesman fell on his new made grave, and by an inscru table dispensation of Providence, the assassin was converted into a hyena.” John was an inveterate smoker, and his father wasn’t. Once, when riding together in a close carriage, John's smoke annoyed the father, who complained of it “Well,” was the filial reply, “why don't you get out and rido with the driver?” Everybody who reads fiction reads Mr. Howells’s stories, and it is rather amusing to listen to the expressions of vague dissatisfaction heard on every side after the conclusision of one of hi3 serials. Few readers are quite pleased with any one story, as a whole, but they find it difficult to explain why this is so. The truthfulness of the novelist's delineations of life and character are universally acknowledged; the men and women in his books are real people and behave exactly as they might be expected to behave in actual life. The opening chapters of any given story by this 'author attract attention chiefly by this perfect portraiture of commonplace people and everyday events. The reader recognizes iu the characters a likeness to persons of his acquaintance. and finds them conducting themselves precisely as he or his friends might do under given circumstances. Nevertheless, as he follows their history through successive chapters he becomes conscious of a loss of interest in their eventual welfare, and of an indescribable disappointment with tho outcome, however happily the actor3 may be disposed of. The trouble seems to be that Mr. Howells is lacking in the dramatic instinct, and in consequence of that lack fails to “fill a want” which most readers of light literature consciously or unconsciously feel. Tho portrayal of the daily life of commonplace people, however eventful their existence may be, is not enough if they do not rise now and then above the dead level of civilized existence in act or emotion. It is not because tho characters are commonplace that this is the case, for drama and tragedy are possible even among the somewhat slow and dull men aud women with whom Mr. Howells loves to deal. In none of his stories does he lack the materials for dramatic situations, but he as invariably fails to see them or to utilize them. Few characters, iu fiction or real life, could be more commonplace, not to say essentially uninteresting, than Silas Lapham aud his family, unless it were young Corey and his family, but in the uneventful lives of these people circumstances arose which mado even tragic results possible. The situation between Penelope and her sister is a unique one in fiction, and while the method in which Mr. Howell chose to treat it is true to nature, tho dissatisfaction which tho reader feels with tho story undoubtedly hinges on that point. It was a situation full of dramatic possibilities, and the imagination refuses to accept the smooth path out of the tangle. Novel readers want something more than a photograph of life, how ever clear and faultless it may be. Imagination must enter into the work, and though the strokes of tho artist bo sometimes unskillful, and his delineations untrue to nature, he will be forgiven if the dramatic instinct inherent in uearly every soul is satisfied.

A good many newspapers feared, and not without reason, that Parson Newman would make himself and his subject ridiculous in the funeral sermon preached at Mount McGregor, but ail these journals, save the Philadelphia Times, were honest enough to confess, after the event, that, though the preacher had been somewhat too gushing, ho had offended no proper canon of good taste. The Times, however, having previously made up its mind that the sermon would be a violation of the proprieties, resolved, accordingly, that it was, and makes a violent attack upon the parson, whom it calls a pretentious blatherskite and other rough names. Had the memorial address been tho absurdity which the most fearful anticipated, merciless criticism would not have been becoming on the part of any one who bore respect for tho dead General or his family. So far as they could be made so, the ceremonies at Mt. McGregor were private, and concerned no one but the immediate friends. Though the reverend gentleman selected to officiate on the occasion might not be the choice of the p iblic, it was not their concern. He was the pastor and personal friend of the man whom he eulogized, and as such ho should have been treated with consideration and his utterances received without disapproval. The Times has written itself down a greater blatherskite than Parson Newman. Remarkable immunity from lung diseases is claimed for those who dwell in regions where peat is habitually burned, as in many parts of the Highlands of Scotland. This is ascribed to the inhalations of peat smoke, which contains antiseptic ingredients, as tar, creosote (allied to carbolic acid), tannin, etc. Diphtheria aud croup are said to be less common in the neighborhood of gasworks than elsewhere, and one of the recognized treatments of whooping-cough has been to expose the little sufferers to the atmosphere of gasworks. Whether the coal-tar products and the vapors from the lime purifiers are more valuable than the open air and exercise accompanying them is a question not determined. Moreover, certain localities are free from certain diseases, or are notably subject to them, irrespective of any causo due to the interference of man, his modes of life or industries. A St. Louis paper of Friday announced that the horse on which General Grant rode through several battles of the late civil war would be a feature of the local parade on Saturday, and calmly added that “the grand old charger was born in 1872, and is now thirteen years old.” Tho familiarity of tho youth of this country with ancient history, and the accuracy of their information, as evinced by such statements as the above, should be a warning to the faultfinders who claim that they are posted on nothing but contemporaneous base ball. At last accounts the clerical wheelmen who started to “do” Canada by bicycle were stranded on the Canadian side of Niagara Falls waiting for remittances wherewith to pay tho duty on their vehicles. A bond guaranteeing the return of the machines to the Statesliadbeen prepared, but the hard-hearted customs officer would accept nothing less than the full amount of duty on each. The reverend tourists were not prepared for such an emergency, having set out on the belief that they were to enjoy an inexpensive trip; bonce the delay. School government in Germany is an undertaking not unmixed with danger. In a high school at Spires nine pupils haro been detected in a conspiracy to murder an unpopular usher. Two daggers and a revolver were prepared for the crime, but the youngest boy “weakened” at the la3t moment and betrayed his companions. Tho nine were expelled, and if high-school

authorities there are constituted like their brethren on this side of the water the youngsters wMi henceforth pursue their studies in private. A Pittsburg daily, which illustrates itself with cuts of more or less atrocity, has at last devised a scheme by which the portraits of thieves and cut-throats mav be distinguished at a glance from those of distinguished generals and statesmen. The plan is simply to represent the criminal as looking through prison bars. The effect is as if the victim were about to be roasted on a gridiron, but it answers the purpose for which it was evidently intended. BREAKFAST TABLE CHAT. Mrs. Helen M. Gougar has delivered thirty-six lectures in thirty days in Central Kansas. A POMPADOUR fringe is the newest thing in false hair. It is worn over a cushion, and would deceive the very elect. The late Sir Moses Montefiore frequently sont checks for the roliof of his needy co-religionists in Boston, and never less than SSOO at once. Mrs. Garfield 13 said to have a great aversion to newspaper men and to have permitted no secular newspapers in her house for several months. Theodore Tii.ton, while lecturing in Texas, visited a school where no one of the children knew who was Abraham Lincoln or who was General Grant. Ex Marshal Bazaine, tho surrenderer of Metz, is said to be an impecunious sponger on nomadic Frenchmen in Madrid; or what the New York vernacular calls a •‘bum.” A far-seeing dentist has pitched his tent at Atlantic City, and on a recent Sunday he had five customers who reported having lost their false teeth while bathing. A Greek newspaper picks the following gem from a recently-published novel: ‘‘The notary was walking in his garden, with both his hands behind his back and reading a newspaper." The only daughter of James D. Fish is to take up her resilience at Auburn, so as to be near her father. He, by the way, is quite chipper, seems to like prisonlife, and has developed a very hearty appetite. Mount McGregor’s name should be spelled with an ‘‘a. - ’ It was Darned after Duncan MacGregor, still living in the vicinity, who owned the mountain, and built and lived in the cottage where Grant died. ‘‘PLUNGER” Walton has gone to Long Branch for the summer. A society journal says that he has ‘taken his eleven daughters with him,” and that they cost $350 per week for board and lodging alone. "I WOULD rather marry a yellow dog than you,” wrote a Stockton (Cal.) girl to her lover in one of her tiffs, and he has filed the letter as an .exhibit in the suit for breach of promise, in which she is plaintiff and he defendant. Two young Philadelphia sportsmen were recently treed for a whole day, up in Porter county, by a bear which, as was afterward found out. was perfectly tame—an escaped pet; but they paid S2O for the privilege of shooting it. The terrors of the cyclone have materially les sened to a certain Dakota farmer since ho has arranged a trap-door and a system of pulleys so that when he hears a storm coming in tho night he can pull a cord and his bed will sink into the cellar. A SILVER dollar weighs very nearly an ounce. Hence any letter that is not heavier than a dollar can go for a single two-cent stamp. A five-cent piece added will gi\ e the ounce. If you have not the silver dollar, five nickels and a small copper cent will give an ounce.

It is said that the editor of a magazine published at the \ irginia Military Institute, his alma mater, requested General Mahone to furnish a history of his cadetship at the institute, to which the following reply was received: “Dear .Sir—l am at present too busy making history to write it.” An anti-crinoline society has been formed at Berlin, the members of which pled go themselves not to marry or even appear in society with “any woman who shows herself so utterly devoid of taste as to readopt this antiquated fashion." W HEN Sherman started on his historic march from Atlanta he is said to have told General Thomas, whom he left behind to take care of Hood, that lie ‘was bound for salt water or hell.” Despite its flavor of profanity, the phrase is epigramic enough to be revived in this era of war reminiscences. The ladies in some places are wearing white and black bunting twisted around their straw hats as mourning for General Grant. A popular shop in Boston uses black twine exclusively to tie its bundles until after the funeral. It is hard to tell, sometimes, where mourning ends and advertising begins. The members of tho Chinese legation dress in a kind of a Mother Hubbard, and, with bare feet thrust in cork sandals, white linen drawers tied around tho ankle and a white surah silk gown falling to a point below' the knees, they have been able to keep cool during the hot weather of the past few weeks. It is no easy thing to get ahead of tho head waiter of a summer hotel. The latest trick ascribed to that august functionary is that of seating new guests at a table where the waiter is instructed to work very badly, so that they will be certain to ask for transfer to another table, and thus incur the incidental tribute. Willie Sprague, the youth who recently married his stepmother’s sister, when he was born, twenty years ago, had $50,000 settled upen him. This sum has gone on accumulating, so that when he becomes of age he will have a fortune of $150,000 to start with. Governor Sprague and his wife were present at the marriage ceremony. If ague or insanity is latent in a person it will almost always develop itself at sea. 80 Dr. FournessBrice concludes after studying the subject, as it is revealed in the records of North Atlantic emigrant travel. Curious enough, in nearly every case the patient has been ailing, and has been recommended by his medical attendant to “try a sea-voyage.” “In 1830, while practicing in Madison county, Illinois,” says a writer in the St. Louis Medical Journal, “I was induced by the representations of an old woman, to make the trial in dysentary and diorrhea, of tablespoonful doses of pure cidar vinegar, with the addition of sufficient salt to be noticeable; and it acted so charmingly that I have never used anything else." The American Architect asks the profession at large to contribute preliminary sketches for "a monument to General Grant, to be erected by a largo city, at a cost of not more than SIOO,OOO. A more detailed programme will be given next week, with the view of accomplishing something more in monumental art than merely local talent or pushing outsiders can produce.” Occasionally General Grant would make an apt and incisive remark that carried everything by storm. A Bostonian, talking to him about Sumner, said: “Do you know he doesn’t believe in the inspiration of the Scriptures?" Grant took a pull at his cigar and replied: “You don’t astonish me at all. He didn’t write them, you know.” The Bostonian was in ectasy over the remark, and it was quoted that night in every club in the city. Berlin papers announce with evident satisfaction that Minister Pendleton, to whom they vouchsafe the name of “Gentleman George,” has taken a huge apartment fronting the Thiergarten, and is about to enrich Berlin with another cosmopolitan salon. If their reports be correct, Mr. Pendleton has brought three elegant carriages and tine horses with him. Consul-general Raino is furnishing quarters in the Margarathen stra.-se, which he intends to make a social rendezvous for American visitors in the German capital. General Atrhur saved some money from his salary as President, notwithstanding the impression to the contrary. With all his elaborate dinners and generous hospitality, there was a considerable margin left every year out of his SSO 000 salary. A friend says that of the $175,000 that he received in the three and a half j'ears’ incumbency of the White House, General Arthur spent about SIOO,OOO and saved $75,000. Ho was credited with some wise investments, made through safer friends than Grant had, which added to his fortune, so that he retired without the fear of want before him.

Grant. * AT REST —AUG. 8, 1885. Read at the Memorial Meeting at Delphi, Ind. Sir Launeelot rodi overthwart and endlong in awidl forest, and held no path but as wild adventure lad him. * * * * * * And ho returned and came again to hi* horse, and took off his saddle ami hi* bridle, and let him pasture; and unlaced his helm, and ungirdled m sword, and la'd aim Gown to sleep upon h:s shield fore the cross. —Ago of Chivalry. What shall we say of the soldier, Grant, His sword put by and his great soul freof How shall we cheer him now or chant His requiem befittinglyl Tho fiekls of his conquests now are seen Rarged no more with his armed men—• P*ut the rank and file of the gold and greon Oi the waving grain is there again. Though his valiant life is a nation’s pride, And his death heroic and half divine, And our grief as great as tho world is wide, There breaks in speech but a single line:— We loved him living, revere him dead!— A silence then on our lips is laid: We can say no thing that has not been said, Nor pray one prayer that has not been prayed. But a spirit within us speaks, and 10, Wo lean and listen to wondrous words That have a sound as of winds that blow, And the voice of waters, and low' of herds; And we hear, as the song flows on serene, The neigh of horses, and then the beat Os hooves that sktirry, o’er pastures green. And the patter and pad of a boy’s bare feet. A brave lad, wearing a manly brow, Knit as with problems of grave dispute, And a face, like the bloom of tho orchard bought Pink and pallid, but resolute; And flushed it grows as the clover-bloom, And fresh it gleams as the morning dew, As he reins his steed where the quick quails boon Up from the grasses he races through. And ho! as he rides what dreams are hiss And what have the breezes to suggest?— Do they whisper to him of the shells that whis O’er fields made ruddy with wrongs redressed! Does the hauk above him an eagle float? Does he thrill and his boyish heart beat high. Heating the ribbon about his throat Flap as a flag as the winds go by? And does he dream of the warrior’s fame— This Western boy in his rustic dress?— For, in miniature, this is the man that came Riding out of tho wilderness!— The self same figure—the knitted brow— The eye full steady—tho lips full mute— And the face, like the bloom of the orchard bough. Pink and pahid, but resolute! Aye, this is the man, with features grim And stoical as the Sphinx’s own, That heard the harsh guns calling him, As musical as a bugle blown; When tho sweet spring weather was clouded o'®l With a tempest glowering fierce and wild, And our country’s flag bowed down before Its bursting wrath as a stricken child. Thus, ready mounted, and booted, and spurred, lie loosed his bridle and dashed away!— Like a roll of drums were his hoof-beats heard— Like the shriek of the fife his charger’s neighl And over his shoulder and backward blown, We heard his voice, and we saw the sod Reel, as our wild steeds chased his own, As though hurled on by the hand of Godi And still, in fancy, we see him ride In the blood-red front of a hundred frays, His face set stolid, but glorified Asa knight’s of the old Arthurian days: And victor ever as courtly, too, — Gently lifting the vanquished foe, And staying him with a hand as trua As dealt the deadly avenging blow. So, brighter than all of the cluster of star* Os the flag enshrouding his form to-day, His face shines forth from the grime of war* With a glory that shall not pass away: He rests at last: he has borne his part Os salutes and salvos and cheers on cheer*— But O, the sobs of his country’s heart, And the driving rain of a nation's tear si Soldiers! look on his face the last, With never a tremble of lip or lid; Look on the hero, as you file past, And front his foe as your leader did— For still you may see, in the deepest dolo And tho darkest night of your discontent, The great white light of his loyal soul Ablaze in the midmost firmament. —James Whitcomb H i ley.

In Camp at Last. Those tolling bells Express a whole world’s sorrow in their knells, While in the mournful cannon’s solemn boom Is voiced their sorrow o’er their master's tomb; Grim dogs of war with deep-toned thunder bay O’er him they served in dread war's crimson day, When he controlled Thor's thunderbolts, and hurled-* With dauntless front and starry flag unfurled— Freedom’s new challenge at a serried world. Upon that banner glory's promise stars, And ou its field the bondsman’s broken bars. To-day with saddened hearts and proud regret— While Nations gaze with sighs and lashes wet— We plant the seed,' in sorrow, which shall yet Grow with Ihe ages till its fame inspire Oncoming millions with the sacred tire Os patriot courage, greatness, modest worth, In lives which glad and glorify the earth. Eternal fame its guardian wings shall wave Above his grave. In camp at last, The tortures ceased, the years of sorrow past, While Peace and Love henceforth forever keep Their watch above our Warrior Hero's sleep, And memory in fen i hearts erects her shrines— Neath Southern palms, mid Northern peaks aadj pines— Regardless of old sections and old lines. Through battle smoke his radiant star arose, But sunny skies arch o’er bis death’s repose, I.et no man mock the stern decrees of fate, Ov strive to force the burdens of old hate Between the portals of death’s golden gate. His faults, so few. were his and his alone, The world now claims his greatness as her own, To cherish, love, and grave in lasting stone The story of his brave and simple life, Os loyalty to country, child and wife, Os stern command, of dauntless heart and will, Os forces grand and silent, deep and still, As mighty rivers which hoard and increase Both power and peace. . ' Rest, mighty soul! Thy name emblazons Fame’s eternal scroll; While ages in their time perfected creeda Shall write the sequel of thy noble deeds, In souls inspired, in tales told o’er and o'er, When hates have ceased, and wars shall bo no moret Oppressions crushed, Earth's battle banners furled-* ’Neath peaceful skies, with rays of promise pe&rlad-* Thy fame, the treasured heirloom of a world. "Westward the star of empire takes its way,” It shines with splendor new o'er thee to-day, While mourning thousands march with tread— Among them, thoso thy sword in battle led— Thy guard of honor to thy narrow bed; Where, until worlds dissolve, and tun© be spent Their prayers shall fall in blessiugs on thy tent, God’s bow of hope above thy bivouac bent. Sleep, weary chieftain! Thou hast earned thy res^ Ah things are well with thee, thy deeds were blest; Leave unto death, and time, and us the rest; All these thy friends and comrades, and we claim Gur right to guard the temple of thy fame, On glory’s rocks of ages to implant r The name of Grant. —I. Kdg&r Jojottk (