From this point of view, the writing of memoirs, excepting those of the
trivial French School or gossiping letters and diaries of the Pepys-Walpole
variety, would seem an unprofitable task for a great man's undertaking.
Boswell certainly did for Johnson what the thunderous old doctor could not
have done for himself. Nevertheless, from the days of Caesar to the days
of Sherman and Lee, the captains of military and senatorial and literary
industry have regaled themselves, if they have not edified the public, by
the narration of their own stories; and, I dare say, to the end of time,
interest in one's self, and the mortal desire to linger yet a little longer
on the scene--now and again, as in the case of General Grant, the assurance
of honorable remuneration making needful provision for others--will move
those who have cut some figure in the world to follow the wandering Celt in
the wistful hope--
_Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt and all I saw._
Something like this occurs to me upon a reperusal of the unfinished memoirs
of my old and dear friend, Carl Schurz. Assuredly few men had better
warrant for writing about themselves or a livelier tale to tell than the
famous German-American, who died leaving that tale unfinished. No man in
life was more misunderstood and maligned. There was nothing either erratic
or conceited about Schurz, nor was he more pragmatic than is common to
the possessor of positive opinions along with the power to make their
expression effectual.
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