“In January, 1872, I was with my two aides, Colonel Anderson and Fred Grant, at the hotel Chauerain, Nice, when the servant brought me a card ‘B. F. Williams, New York.’ I answered ‘show him up.’ He soon entered my room, where I had a fire on the hearth, and for some minutes we talked about the weather, New York, etc.,—when he remarked: ‘General Sherman, I don’t believe you recognize me. Possibly if I say I am Barney Williams, you will know me better.’ Of course I did, and my greeting then was as hearty as he could have wished. He had called to invite me to a dinner party at his villa, which compliment I accepted for the next Sunday, and agreed upon the guests, including our minister, Mr. Washburn, then at Nice, James Watson Webb, Luther M. Kennet of St. Louis, and others, and a more distinguished or congenial company never assembled than did at that dinner. I must not, and will not attempt descriptions, even as to our witty genial host Barney Williams; all told stories of their personal experiences, and the veteran, James Watson Webb, in his grand and inimitable way, recounted his adventures when, in 1824, he was a lieutenant at Fort Dearborn (now Chicago). He traveled by night with a Sergeant of his Company, concealing himself by day, to Rock Island, to notify the Garrison that the Sioux and Foxes contemplated a surprise on their stockade on an occasion of a ball play, in which the Indians intended to massacre the whole garrison, which was prevented by this notice. But I now come to the real anecdote of Barney Williams. He narrated in his best style, his own early life as an actor: that in Dublin he was very poor, and took his meals at a cheap restaurant along with some fellows. Habitually they were waited on by a servant, most prompt and obliging, but who would periodically get on a bad spree. This occurred about the time when the Catholic priest, Father Matthews, was preaching the crusade against intemperance. These young actors conspired to cure this servant, and laid their plot. Paddy was absent several days, and their meals were served badly. At last he made his appearance, eyes bunged, face flushed, and the well-known symptoms of a big drunk. Whilst arranging the table for breakfast, Barney Williams read from the morning paper—‘Horrible! Most Horrible! Last night as Terence O’Flanagan was lying on his bed, near which he had brought his candle, which he tried to blow out, the flames followed the fumes of the alcohol to his throat, and he died in terrible agony, etc., etc.’
“‘What is that, sor? Please read it again,’ said Paddy. It was read again with increased accent and additions. ‘Please send for the Bible, mark on it the cross, and I will take the pledge.’ The Bible was sent for and on it was marked the cross, when Paddy placed his hand on the book, and pronounced the pledge.
“Never as long as he lived, when on a drunk, would he attempt to blow out a candle. How far short of the reality seems the effect of words spoken or written. Therein comes the part of the drama, not the thing itself, but the nearest possible.
“I have seen Dioramas, Cycloramas, Dramas, Plays, etc., of war and its thousands of incidents. All fall short of the real thing; but I wish to be understood as not discouraging any honest effort to record the past, draw from it the lessons which make us wise and better, and still more, to give such as you, who make men, women and children happy and cheerful, when otherwise they might be moping and unhappy. God bless you!
“Sincerely your friend,
“W. T. Sherman.”
A battle story seems natural to follow any mention of General Sherman, so here is one, given me one day, by General Russell A. Alger, Secretary of War in President McKinley’s cabinet and also one of the best story-tellers in the Union. I have always been as curious as any other civilian regarding the feelings of a soldier going into battle and while he is fighting. General Alger told me one day that he could not describe it better than by repeating a little story. He said:
During a religious conference at Detroit four ministers were my guests. They, too, had wondered much about the sensations of the soldier in battle, and one of them asked me if I did not think the glory in taking part in great deeds, was a powerful stimulus causing soldiers to emulate the great heroes of history. I replied:
“Not at all.”
Then they wanted to know what was the sentiment that took possession of the soldier when he was actually fighting. I replied that three words, only three, were frequently uttered by all classes of soldiers in the thick of a fight, and these words fully indicate the soldier’s dominant sentiment.