I never replied to any such tales except once, and
that once came about in the spring of 1888. I
regarded it as a joke. Some one reported that
one evening, at a little gathering in my house, there
were four kinds of wine served. I was much interviewed
on the subject. I announced in my church that
the report was false, that we had no wine. I did
not take the matter as one of offence. If I had
been as great a master of invective and satire as
Roscoe Conkling I might have said more. In the
spring of this year he died. The whole country
watched anxiously the news bulletins of his death.
He died a lawyer. About Conkling as a politician
I have nothing to say. There is no need to enter
that field of enraged controversy. As a lawyer
he was brilliant, severely logical, if he chose to
be, uproarious with mirth if he thought it appropriate.
He was an optimist. He was on board the “Bothnia”
when she broke her shaft at sea, and much anxiety
was felt for him. I sailed a week later on the
“Umbria,” and overtaking the “Bothnia,”
the two ships went into harbour together. Meeting
Mr. Conkling the next morning, in the North-Western
Hotel, at Liverpool, I asked him if he had not been
worried.
“Oh, no,” he said; “I was sure that
good fortune would bring us through all right.”
He was the only lawyer I ever knew who could afford
to turn away from a seat on the bench of the Supreme
Court of the United States. He had never known
misfortune. Had he ever been compelled to pass
through hardships he would have been President in
1878. Because of certain peculiarities, known
to himself, as well as to others, he turned aside
from politics. Although neither Mr. Conkling nor
Mr. Blaine could have been President while both lived,
good people of all parties hoped for Mr. Conkling’s
recovery.
The national respect shown at the death-bed of the
lawyer revealed the progress of our times. Lawyers,
for many years in the past, had been ostracised.
They were once forbidden entrance to Parliament.
Dr. Johnson wrote the following epitaph, which is
obvious enough:—
God works wonders now and
then;
Here lies a lawyer an honest
man.
THE THIRTEENTH MILESTONE
1888-1889
The longer I live the more I think of mercy.
Fifty-six years of age and I had not the slightest
suspicion that I was getting old. It was like
a crisp, exquisitely still autumn day. I felt
the strength and buoyancy of all the days I had lived
merging themselves into a joyous anticipation of years
and years to come. For a long while I had cherished
the dream that I might some day visit the Holy Land,
to see with my own eyes the sky, the fields, the rocks,
and the sacred background of the Divine Tragedy.
The tangible plans were made, and I was preparing to
sail in October, 1889. I felt like a man on the
eve of a new career. The fruition of the years
past was about to be a great harvest of successful
work. I speak of it without reserve, as we offer
prayers of gratitude for great mercies.
