Of our other great commanders I never saw Thomas, but my knowledge of Sherman was something more than the mere glimpse I had of the figures of his compeers.  His home was in St. Louis, in which city I was then residing, and he was much in society.  He was really a Connecticut Yankee though transplanted to Ohio, and he was, in figure and character, thoroughly a New Englander.  He was tall and slender, his prominent forehead standing out from light straight hair, a stubby beard veiling a well-pronounced and well-worked jaw (for he was one of the readiest of talkers), it would require little scratching to get to the uncontaminated Yankee underneath.  A New Englander of the best type, shrewd, kindly, deeply concerned for the welfare of his country and of men.  A fashionable lady invited him to dine without his wife.  Sherman, on arriving, found other ladies present; to his hostess, who came forward to receive him with effusion, he said:  “Madam, I dine with Mrs. Sherman to-night,” and the party went forward without the lion who was to have given it distinction.  He would not have his wife slighted; nor in more important things would he endure to see a lame outcome when he might set things in better shape.  He encouraged schools and worthy charities by giving them his hearty countenance.  No arm was more potent than his in saving the country, nor was his patriotism selfish.  He saved his country because he believed it was for the good of the world.

Sherman has been criticised for his ruthlessness, but no one can say that he was not effective.  He bore on hard but with the belief that only such action could bring the war to a close.  No one could come in contact with him without feeling that he was a soft-hearted man.  It was one of the most interesting evenings of my life when, as a guest of N.O.  Nelson, the philanthropic captain of industry in St. Louis, I was one of a company of a dozen to hear Sherman tell John Fiske his story of the war.  We sat at table from seven o’clock until midnight, the two illustrious figures with their heads together exchanging a rapid fire of question and answer, but the rest of us were by no means silent.  Sherman was full of affability and took good-naturedly the sharp inquiries.  “How was it, General, at Shiloh; was not your line quite too unguarded on the Corinth side, and was not the coming on of Sidney Johnston a bad surprise for you?” “Oh, later in the war,” said Sherman, “we no doubt should have done differently, but we got ready for them as they came on.”  “Was there not bad demoralisation,” I said, “ten thousand or more skulkers huddled under the bluff on the Tennessee?” “Oh,” said Sherman, “the rear of an army in battle is always a sorry place; but on the firing line, where I was, things did not look so bad.”—­“Your adversaries, General, were often good fellows, were they not, and you are good friends now?” “The best fellows in the world,” said Sherman, “and as to friendship, Hood wants me to be his literary executor and take care of his memoirs.”