Nearly a year afterward, walking by General
Sherman's residence, I saw him sitting under a strong light, with his
back to the street, writing--doors and windows all open. I walked in,
saying: "General, I wouldn't sit with my back to an open window late
at night, under a light like this, if I were you. Some fool will come
along with a bull-dog pistol and the idea that death loves a shining
mark."
"Pooh!" said the old soldier. "Nobody interested in killing me. They
will let me well alone with their bull-dog pistols."
The White House shone like marble in the green trees as I drove
from the Arlington to the Potomac depot, July 1st, to take the train
corresponding to the one that had the President's car attached on the
following morning, when he meant to have a holiday of which he had
the most delightful anticipation, as one throwing off a brood of
nightmares. He was going back the President to the scene of his
struggles in early manhood for an education, going to what he called
the "sweetest place in the world," having reached the summit of
ambition, confident in himself, assured of the public good will, happy
to meet his wife restored to health, himself robust and to be, he
thought, hag-ridden no more; rejoicing to meet the dearest of old
friends, kindling with the realization of his superb and commanding
position, glowing with his just pride of place; no heart beating
higher, no imagination that exalted this mighty country more than his,
no brain that conceived with greater splendor the glory of the nation
than his, no American patriotism more true, brighter, broader, deeper,
more abounding than his; and all was shattered at a stroke by a
creature like a crawling serpent with a deadly sting.
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