The life of spies is one of incessant danger, and demands rare qualities of mind to carry out their designs. Whatever opinion may be formed of their vocation, it is a historic truth that spies are absolutely necessary in time of war.
The scars of the great Civil War we know are healed. We have given our dearest and best, and as one great and united people, we are marching on to a grander future than even the most hopeful could have foretold.
Peace had come to our land, but the man whose splendid generalship had won it for us, was seized with a painful affection of the throat, which soon developed into cancer. The heart of the nation went out to him in sympathy, but human aid could avail nothing.
He was an agonized but patient and uncomplaining sufferer, and during all his illness he worked laboriously at his “Memoirs,” which he had undertaken to write for publication, and finished them but four days before he died. He had passed through a long year of pain and anguish, ended only by his death, which took place at Mt. McGregor, near Saratoga, New York, July 23, 1885.
His funeral was probably the most imposing ever accorded to a citizen of our great Republic. Although twice called to the Presidential chair as a tribute of the love of a grateful people, yet his highest title when death came was that he was a simple American citizen.
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