In his last year he began to feel that he was very old, and looked forward to death, and spoke as if he expected it constantly. Not that his health was such as to create this expectation, for it was as good as persons of his age usually enjoy. He had a very severe illness soon after his return from Washington.

He had, previous to that illness, been unusually strong and well, but afterwards I do not think he was quite so much so. He had attacks of gout, more or less severe, at intervals, up to the time of his death. He had, besides, an illness which came upon him during a short visit which he paid to Cape May, which prostrated him so much that it was necessary to take him home as a sick man.

Each one of these illnesses made him realize more clearly that his hold on life was very weak, that the “silver cord would soon be loosed,” and he devoted himself to making all necessary preparations for that great event. His affairs were all arranged with exactness, so as to cause as little confusion as possible after his death. He chose the exact spot for his last resting place, saying, either as expressing a desire or as predicting a fact, that he would lie alone. Having carefully arranged all his plans, he waited, with faith and hope, for the final change which would open to him the real and satisfying life. When the dreaded messenger came, those who loved him knew that rest had come to him at last, and that his “faith had changed to glad fruition.”

In the month of August, in the year 1860, Mr. Buchanan, then President of the United States, visited the Bedford Springs, in the State of Pennsylvania. I happened to be present when the stage arrived, and having had a previous personal acquaintance with him, was one of the first to bid him welcome.

A day or two afterwards, as he passed me in the hall, he stopped and said, “May I take the liberty of sending for you to come to my room, when I can find leisure for a conversation?” To this I replied that it would give me great pleasure to obey such a call. The next day the invitation came, through his private secretary, and when we were seated alone, he turned to me and said, “I sent for you to request that you will favor me with a conversation upon the subject of religion. I knew your father and mother in early life, and, as you have some knowledge of my family, you are aware that I was religiously educated. But for some years I have been much more thoughtful than formerly upon religious subjects. I think I may say that for twelve years I have been in the habit of reading the Bible and praying daily. I have never had any one with whom I have felt disposed to converse, but now that I find you here, I have thought that you would understand my feelings, and that I would venture to open my mind to you upon this important subject, and ask for an explanation of some things that I do not clearly understand.” When I had assured him that I would be gratified to have such a conversation, he began immediately by asking, “Will you be good enough to explain to me what an experience of religion is?” In answer, I opened to him the Bible account of our sinful estate, and of the necessity of regeneration by the Spirit of God, and of atonement through the sacrifice of our Lord Jesus Christ. He then began to question me, as closely as a lawyer would question a witness, upon all the points connected with regeneration, atonement, repentance and faith. What surprised me was that his questions were not so much of a doctrinal as of an experimental character. He seemed anxious to understand how a man might know that he was a Christian, and what conscious experiences entered into the exercises of repentance and faith. It is needless for me to detail the particulars of the conversation. It gave me an opportunity of speaking to him in the most simple and familiar way. When I related the experience of some eminent Christian, or used a simple illustration, such as I have employed in Sabbath school addresses, he seemed much gratified, and proceeded to put his questions to draw out still more definite explanations. He particularly was anxious to understand how faith receives and appropriates the Lord Jesus Christ, and how a man may know that he believes. He put himself in the position of a little child, and asked questions in the simplest manner. Sometimes he asked me to go over an explanation a second time, as if he wished to fix it upon his memory. His manner was so earnest, and his mind was evidently so deeply engaged, that I was strongly impressed with the conviction of his entire sincerity.

After the more experimental points had been disposed of, he asked a few purely doctrinal questions, the answers to which he received without any disposition to enter upon a discussion. At the close of the conversation, he asked particularly what were the conditions of membership in the Presbyterian Church, and what were the points upon which an applicant for admission would be examined. The conversation lasted, probably, from two to three hours. After sitting quiet for a few minutes, he said, “Well, sir, I thank you. My mind is now made up. I hope that I am a Christian. I think I have much of the experience which you describe, and, as soon as I retire from my office as President, I will unite with the Presbyterian Church.” To this, I replied, “Why not now, Mr. President? God’s invitation is now, and you should not say to-morrow.” To this he answered, with deep feeling, and with a strong gesture, “I must delay, for the honor of religion. If I were to unite with the Church now, they would say hypocrite from Maine to Georgia.” I felt the truth of his answer, and did not continue my urgency.

This closed our conversation, but, as Mr. Buchanan remained at the Springs for some time, he seemed to seize every opportunity, when he met me in the hall or in the parlor, to ask some question which he had been pondering, or to repeat some passage of Scripture upon which his mind had been dwelling, and ask how I understood it. For example, meeting me in the passage, he asked me the meaning of the verse, “The bruised reed he will not break: the smoking flax he will not quench;” and when I explained the figures, and showed how beautifully they expressed the tenderness of our Lord, he seemed to exhibit the most simple-hearted gratification.

I take pleasure in giving these recollections for record, because I have never entertained a doubt of the entire honesty of Mr. Buchanan’s religious impressions. I did not agree with him in politics, or feel any sympathy with his public career; but I think that he is entitled to this testimony from one who was placed in circumstances to judge fairly of the reality of his religious convictions. The purpose which President Buchanan expressed to me of uniting with the Church was fulfilled. He connected himself with the Presbyterian Church in Lancaster, Pa., immediately after his retirement from the Presidential chair.

In personal appearance Mr. Buchanan was tall—over six feet, broad shouldered, and had a portly and dignified bearing. He wore no beard; his complexion was clear and very fair; his forehead was massive, white and smooth; his features strong and well marked, and his white hair was abundant and silky in texture; his eyes were blue, intelligent and kindly, with the peculiarity that one was far and the other near sighted, which resulted in a slight habitual inclination of the head to one side—a peculiarity that will be remembered by those who knew him well. He dressed with great care, in black, wearing always a full white cravat, which did not, however, impart to him anything of a clerical aspect. He was, on the whole, a distinguished looking and handsome man, and his size and fine proportions gave a dignity and commanding air to his personal presence. His manner and bearing had much of the old-fashioned courtly school about it.^[187]

I do not think he was a very easy or fluent public speaker, but what he had to say always commanded attention, even among his great compeers in the Senate.

Mr. Buchanan’s parents were Presbyterians, and he always evinced a preference for that form of worship. He was a regular attendant upon church services, both at Washington and in Lancaster, being a pew holder and an always generous contributor to both the building and maintenance of Christian worship. I have known him to give a thousand dollars at a time in aid of building funds for churches of all denominations, and many of his most faithful friends were members of the Roman Catholic communion. He was, to my knowledge, always a sincere believer in all the cardinal doctrines of Christianity, had no eccentricities of religious belief, but accepted Christianity as a divine revelation and a simple rule for the conduct of human life, and relied upon it for the guidance of his own life. He certainly always pressed their force upon my cousin and myself, in our family intercourse under his roof, as his wards. I remember that she and I always hid away our secular newspaper or novel on Sunday if we heard him approaching, as we were otherwise pretty sure to get a mild rebuke for not better employing our time on Sunday, either in good works, or at least in better reading.

The candid student of history, intent only on getting at the very truth without fear, favor or prejudice, after the perusal of President Buchanan’s plain exposition of the threatenings of the impending rebellion, as set forth in his message of December, 1860, and the message of January 8, 1861, must ask the question, why did not the Congress, sole constitutional depositary of the power to raise armies or to call out the militia, then and there, by proper legislation, authorize the President to stamp out the incipient revolt by voting the money for and the authority to employ any necessary military force to accomplish the legitimate end? I have reason to know that the President would not have hesitated to faithfully execute any law which Congress might then have enacted. Why, then, did Congress, from December to March, with the plain facts fully brought to their attention by President Buchanan, and in the face of such imminent public peril, neglect to perform its constitutional function, or to vote either supplies or men? What more could President Buchanan have legally done? Should he have become an usurper, and declared himself Dictator, after the fashion of South America? The conclusion must be, that Congress, from some inexplicable reason, saw fit to abdicate its functions, leaving its powers dormant at the most critical period. Can it have been from any unworthy partisan motive? It could not have been from doubt of its possessing the authority. Whilst President Buchanan held, and rightly held, that he could find no authority in the Constitution to coerce the States, as States, or mere legal entities, he clearly enunciated the true doctrine of the constitutional power of the National Government to fully enforce its laws, by acting coercively upon the persons of all citizens when in revolt or resistance to its authority, wherever they might be, and whether as individuals or massed together in armies. That doctrine then set forth by Mr. Buchanan was unpopular, but it stands to-day confessed to be the only true construction of the Constitution. After the flames of a four years’ civil conflagration had beaten against the text, no important writer on the organic law held any other construction to be tenable. Its present universal acceptance proves the sagacity and correctness of Mr. Buchanan’s views at that early date.

If there was any more marked political bias of Mr. Buchanan’s mind than any other it was that of an almost idolatrous respect and reverence for the Constitution. He had been educated and lived in the old constitutional school of statesmanship, and wholly believed in the wisdom and perfection of that great organic law devised by the founders and builders of our Government. He fully and ardently believed in its sufficiency for all purposes, whether of peace or war. Perhaps such a faith as was entertained by that race of statesmen would be considered by the present lax school as savoring of political fetichism. Certainly there were many who so regarded it, and who rather contemptuously avowed in Congress that their views and measures were, in many instances, extra-constitutional. To me, at least, this knowledge of Mr. Buchanan’s political religion, so to speak, explains why he did not for an instant contemplate the usurpation—for usurpation it would have been, pure and simple—of the constitutional prerogatives of Congress to declare war, or, at least, to precipitate war: or by seizing the persons of the Southern members of Congress and of the State authorities who were working to secure the secession of their several States. Congress was in session, and it was, that being the case, only for the President to lay the facts before that body and obey their behest, whether for peace or war. No belief that the American people would have condoned his usurpation, if made, or have upheld his extra-constitutional act, such as calling for volunteers, or declaring war, or making an aggressive war, would have justified him in assuming the prerogatives of Congress, then actually in session. Although such an act might have made him the most popular idol in American history, I do not think he could have been tempted to break his solemn oath to support the Constitution, by ignoring its plainest provisions. “Nothing succeeds like success.” I am sometimes asked why Mr. Buchanan did not “take the responsibility?” Such a course would have remained impossible to him, with his views of his duty, and I think that in time he will be applauded, not blamed, for his self-sacrificing devotion to what he regarded as the right, rather than seeking his own personal popularity by illegal means.

I cannot close without a few words upon my uncle’s views upon slavery. He simply tolerated it as a legal fact under our Constitution. He had no admiration for it whatever. I know of a number of instances in which he purchased the freedom of slaves in Washington, and brought them to Pennsylvania with him, leaving it to them to repay him if they could out of their wages. His constant recognition of the legal existence of slavery in the South, and its right to protection so long as it legally existed there, rendered him liable to misrepresentation at the North and to misconception at the South; the one regarding him as an apologist of slavery, and the other as its open friend, whereas he was neither. He was only desirous to see the Constitution and laws obeyed, and did, emphatically, not believe in the so-called “Higher Law.” In fact I cannot but regard Mr. Buchanan as having been cruelly misrepresented at the North and betrayed by the South, which began its unjustifiable secession when quite safe from any invasion of its Constitutional rights. The Southern leaders did not hesitate to precipitate what they knew would be disastrous to his benign administration, if it did not actually terminate it in blood. It was, too, the grossest ingratitude to the Democratic party, which had always stood like a wall of fire between the South and its assailants in the North.

Mr. Buchanan, to the day of his death, expressed to me his abiding conviction that the American people would, in due time, come to regard his course as the only one which at that time promised any hope of saving the nation from a bloody and devastating war, and would recognize the integrity and wisdom of his course in administering the Government for the good of the whole people, whether North or South. His conviction on this point was so genuine that he looked forward serenely to the future, and never seemed to entertain a misgiving or a doubt.

The day is now not very far off when the American people will appreciate his faithful services to the Republic, his stainless character and his exalted patriotism.

The society in Lancaster, at the time of my uncle’s early residence there, must have been quite above the average in intellectual culture and in social qualities. He was very fond, in the latter part of his life, of conversing about those times, and told a great many anecdotes of them and of the people who flourished in them. Unfortunately, they have gone from our memory, only leaving behind faint outlines of their former interest.

My uncle had the most delightful way of throwing himself back into the past scenes of his life, and, as it were, living them over again. He would tell you the whole position of affairs, make you understand the point of the story thoroughly, and then laugh in a most infectious way. When he was in a vein of conversation, and felt in the humor for going back into the past, a whole room full of people would sit all the evening, listening with delight, no one daring to interrupt, except in order, by some leading question or remark, to draw him out to talk more freely.

After his return from Washington, it was his constant habit to come into the parlor after tea, and there to spend the evening, with whatever members of the family might be staying with him. After listening, as he often did, to reading for an hour, he would begin to converse, and it was a rare treat to be a sharer in these conversations. I knew it to be a great privilege, thoroughly appreciated it at the time, but now that those evenings are forever gone, with what mingled feelings of delight and regret I look back upon them! They always ended at ten o’clock, and he very seldom sat up much after that hour, even when he had guests in the house who did not care to retire so early. “The time for all good Christians to be in bed,” he would say, and, bidding good-night, would leave us to remain as long as we saw fit.

Of course my uncle was not always in the vein of talking in the way I have described, and sometimes much preferred having others to talk to him. I have often been struck with the easy grace with which he, who had been so much a man of the world, and had associated with men and women of the highest culture, could take and show the greatest interest in the rather uninteresting details given by some humble neighbor about the sayings and doings of his family and establishment. My uncle was a Democrat, not only in political principle, but in the large and true democratic sense. He looked upon his neighbors, even those who were plain and uneducated, as his fellow-men, and treated them accordingly.

I remember his talking to me very earnestly about visiting and relieving the sick and the poor, and trying to make me realize that Christianity which could lack this fruit must be worthless.

On one occasion, when I was quite a child and on a visit to Wheatland, I saw him go anxiously to the window and look upon the night, which was cold and stormy, with sleet and snow, and I heard him say, “God help the poor to-night!” I mention this because very soon after, I think the next day, he sent some money, quite a large sum, to the mayor of Lancaster, to buy fuel for the poor. The same idea he carried out, when he made a provision in his last will for this very purpose.

My uncle was very generous to those who were in need, and very many were the persons whom he helped by gifts and loans, who would otherwise have been in great straits. He was not lavish in his expenditures. He knew exactly what he was spending, spent nothing foolishly, was careful of what money he had, and was anxious to invest what he had in such a way as that it should be remunerativeremunerative, so that when he gave, he did it from principle, because he wished to do a kindness, or because he thought it was right to do it. His heart made him always anxious to ameliorate the miseries of those around him.

He was very much interested in his family and their welfare, and to him it was that each and all looked for advice or assistance. While he did not hesitate to speak sternly when he thought duty required it—sometimes even more so than was necessary—he was always ready, even at the same time, to lend a helping hand. He was the oldest child of my grandfather who lived to grow up, and this fact, together with his eminent uprightness and wisdom, made him to be looked upon by all the different branches of the family as their head. Our particular family have great reason to remember his kindness, and we look back with great pleasure to the many visits of months at a time which we paid him, at his request, both at Wheatland and in Washington. After his death, we felt that we had lost the friend who, next to our own father, cared most for us, and one on whose sympathy and kindness we could most depend.

The accompanying qualities in my uncle’s character to his kindness were his justice and integrity. No debt of his was ever knowingly left unpaid. Even the return he made for his taxes was often larger than that of most of his neighbors, because he scrupulously returned an accurate account of his possessions to the assessors. He would not have retained in his possession the smallest sum which he thought to justly belong to another.

And this honesty showed itself quite as much in relation to public affairs as to his own. He was honest even about his time. While he was President, his time was given most scrupulously to his work. He entered his office at nine o’clock in the morning and remained there until four o’clock, when he would take a walk before dinner, which was at five o’clock. After dinner he generally spent a large part of the evening attending to business; and this was the case not for some months of the year only, but for the whole year. Except while he was making a short trip into North Carolina and during a visit of about two weeks each year at Bedford Springs, which was necessary to his health, he remained at his post for the four entire years. I remember hearing some members of his cabinet say that he loved work for work’s sake. I do not know whether this was the case or not, but certain it is that he did a great deal of work. He always went over carefully, himself, every matter presented to him by his cabinet officers, and tried to possess himself with all the ins and outs of what was going on under his administration.

It surprises me very much to read insinuations to the effect that he was not the President. I knew quite intimately nearly all the members of his cabinet, and heard a good deal of their conversation, and I know with what respect they spoke of him, and that the whole tone of their conversation was that he was the master.

There was a peculiarity of his mind which may possibly account to some extent for this mistaken impression. It very often happened that when some new idea or proposition was suggested to him, he would, at the first blush, entirely disapprove of it, so that any one not well acquainted with him, might think the case was hopeless. When he had time, however, to think about it, and if some one would quietly give him the points of the case, and draw his attention more particularly to it, he would sometimes make up his mind in quite an opposite way from that which he had at first intended. After, however, he had once definitely and positively come to a decision, he was unchangeable. What he considered to be right he did, and no fear of consequences could alter his purpose. And the value of this quality to him will be understood when we remember that after his return home from Washington he did not seem to regret his course while there. I never heard him say that he wished he had acted differently in the troublous times through which he had passed. He knew that the steps he had taken had been with the single earnest aim and desire of preserving the country from disunion and war; and that being the case, his having failed in his endeavor did not trouble his conscience at all. “I acted for some time as a breakwater,” he said, “between the North and the South, both surging with all their force against me.”

I say did not touch his conscience. His heart was greatly distressed. I remember the morning on which the news came of the ships being sent to the relief of Fort Sumter. “I fear Governor Chase is bringing war upon his country,” was his sad exclamation, and from that time until peace was declared, his true and loyal heart grieved over the distress and misery of his country.

I remember an incident early in his administration, which shows his integrity in the matter of his duty. A young man was sentenced to be hung in Washington for murder, who had, for some reason, enlisted great interest for himself among members of his church (Roman Catholic), and not only the mother of the condemned man, but several clergymen and Sisters of Charity, also, waited upon my uncle to importune him for a pardon. My uncle’s feelings were greatly enlisted, and I heard him say that he had gone over the case three times, in order that, if possible, he might find some reason that would make it right to grant a pardon. But finding, as he did at last, that there absolutely was no such reason, he said the law must have its way, and the young man was executed.

Another great characteristic of my uncle was his independence of spirit. He would not be under obligation, for gifts, to any one while he was in office, and in fact he did not like to be so at any time. I remember the ——’s were very anxious to present a grand piano to my cousin, soon after she went to Washington, but my uncle positively declined allowing her to accept it. When the Japanese commissioners came, bringing with them curious and costly gifts, some of which were intended for the President, he sent them all to the Patent Office, as the property of the country. He even went so far as to insist, at all times, upon paying his fare whenever he travelled, never receiving a pass, even when he was out of office. He would have been horrified at the idea of travelling free while he was President. I have often heard him say, “I will pay my way while I can afford it. When I cannot afford to pay I will stay at home.” The salary of the President during my uncle’s administration was $25,000. So far from being made any richer by his office, he was obliged to supplement some of his own private means each year, in order that the becoming hospitality and mode of living might be kept up at the White House.

As long as I can remember my uncle, he was a religious man, becoming more and more so as his life drew near its close. His knowledge of the scriptures was very thorough, and whatever doubts he may have had in his earlier life, had been dissipated by the rays of the Sun of Righteousness. He was, certainly, during the latter years of his life, a strong and firm believer in Jesus Christ as his Saviour. It was his constant habit, after his return from Washington, to read daily in the New Testament, and a large part of Sunday he spent in studying that and books founded upon its teachings. A devotional book, Jay’s Morning and Evening Exercises, was his constant companion, and he read a great deal in the sermons of the great French preacher, Massillon, a French copy of which he had and often quoted. He conversed much about the Gospel and its teachings, and one could easily tell that he was deeply interested in the subject.

It was his practice, during all his life, to attend church on Sunday morning, and some effect of his early teaching, which very strongly inculcated the hallowing of the Lord’s day, was shown when he was in St. Petersburg. It was the custom there for even the most devout, after they had attended service through the day, to go to balls and festivities in the evening of Sunday. My uncle thought that he could not be excused from attending the Emperor’s balls, but made it a rule never to dance on Sunday evening, and so caused great surprise to some of his friends there, especially when he explained to them that in America the manner prevalent in Russia of spending Sunday evening would be thought quite shocking.

To show how my uncle respected the religious sense of the community, I will mention, that when the Prince of Wales was visiting him in Washington, and when a large company had been invited to do the Prince honor, my uncle would not consent to having any dancing at it. He took this position, not that he disapproved himself of dancing, but he thought that it would cause scandal to the religious people of the country if there were to be a dance there in the White House. “I am the servant of the people,” was his motto, and with this feeling in his mind he toiled, he lived and acted, always trying to prevent anything from being done which would give offence to that people.

I remember dining with him, in company with a lady who seemed to be a thoroughly worldly woman, one whose life had been spent in public and among worldly people. I do not remember the whole conversation, or how my uncle came to say it, but I remember his remark, “I say my prayers every day of my life.” The lady looked up at him in surprise, and questioned, thinking he was jesting. “No,” said my uncle, “I am not jesting, I have always said my prayers.” I will only add, while on this subject, that not only did my uncle attend church constantly on Sundays, but he was very particular to omit his ordinary avocations, and to make it a day of rest, through all his life.

There was one thing very noticeable in my uncle’s conversation during those years which he spent at Wheatland, after his return from Washington. He conversed very little on the political matters of the day, and, particularly, he showed remarkably little bitterness towards those whose indifference and even hatred towards himself showed themselves so strongly when power and influence had passed out of his hands. Occasionally, certainly, he could not help speaking his mind about one or two particularly flagrant cases, but as a general thing he passed over their conduct in silence. He was not fond of picking people to pieces, and his inclination was rather to speak and think kindly of his neighbors.

My uncle was quite stout, although not at all overgrown, and you could not see him without observing that he was a person of distinction. Although he was of so stout a build his foot was rather small, and I often noticed how lightly and quickly he walked. He was very quick of apprehension, and there was very little going on around that he did not know and understand. He has told me that when he was in his prime his hearing was so acute that he could often hear whispering in the adjoining room, and he very often heard things not intended for him to hear.

Owing to a difference which there was between his eyes, one being near and the other far-sighted, he held his head to one side, particularly when looking at any person or thing. When listening to any one he would hold his head in this way, close one eye and gaze very steadily, and so conveyed the impression that he was looking the speaker through and through. I have heard him say that he did not know until he was forty or fifty years of age the cause of this habit. Some friend walking with him suggested to him to try his eyes and see if he could not see better, at a distance, with one than with the other, when, to his surprise, he discovered that with one eye he could not distinguish the landscape at all, while with the other he could see very far. Whether this peculiarity was the cause of his long continued sight I do not know, but the fact is that up to the time of his death he was able to read everything without the aid of glasses. He found, however, during the last year of his life, or perhaps a little longer, that when he read fine print at night, which he often wished to do, it strained his eyes, and for these occasions he procured a pair of spectacles, but he never used them at any other time.

He had a very peculiar way of reading at night. No matter how many lights might be in the room he always had a candlestick and candle, which he held before his eyes, and by that means read his paper or book. As he grew older we often felt quite anxious for fear his paper might take fire, and, occasionally, on the next morning a hole would be found burnt in it, but, as far as I can recollect, nothing more serious ever came of his reading in this way.

My uncle was an extensive reader and had a good memory for what he had read. His reading embraced all classes of literature, and he conversed intelligently on all subjects. He continued to read a great deal after his return to Wheatland, and enjoyed being read to. Near the end of his life, however, he remarked to me one day, “I am tired of reading; I don’t seem to care about it any more,” and, as if that were the case, he might at that time be often seen sitting without either book or paper, whereas formerly, when not conversing, he was almost always reading.

My uncle’s political life had been an unusually long one, and, in consequence, his remembrance of the sayings and doings of the great people of his time was very interesting. I have heard him say that the first President whom he had met was President Monroe, “a gentlemanly man, wearing a blue coat and metal buttons,” and after him he had more or less acquaintance with all the Presidents. It was, in great part, on account of this wonderful fund of personal knowledge which he possessed, that his friends urged him to have a book written which should contain, not only the facts of his own life, but also the reminiscences which he was fond of narrating.

He was very fond of ladies’ society, and was all his life in the habit of entertaining them at his house. During his different residences in Washington, while in London and St. Petersburg, as well as in Lancaster, he was very hospitable, and greatly enjoyed the society of his friends in his own house. When he finally returned to Wheatland, he saw much less of society than he had ever done before, and, I have no doubt, his life must have seemed very monotonous to him, but he never complained at all, and was remarkably cheerful and happy.

I have written these pages at the request of my father, hoping that some things in them may be of service to Mr. Curtis, in forming an estimate of the character of my uncle. They have no claim whatever to any literary merit, and are only an effort to do some honor to one so truly loved and so deeply mourned. To me, though it would be a great joy to know that men recognized the wisdom and greatness of his actions, it would be of far greater account to have them realize his goodness, nobility, honor, self-sacrifice, courage and honesty. There may, and must, always be a difference of opinion about questions of polity and administration, but the true elements of greatness lie in the soul of man, and are of far higher value than praise and popular estimation, often attained through a turn of Fortune’s wheel.