"I would decline anyway. I cannot think of any circumstances that would induce me to accept the nomination. There are so many men in the country better fitted for the place than I am. I have no civil experience, as every President should have. The country wants a change in this respect. Military men know no way of settling troubles except to fight, and our country is now so peaceful that a different policy is needed. We want a civic President, and not a military one."
THE RIDERLESS WAR-HORSE
And years after that he again declared that he was not a candidate for the Presidency; that if nominated he would decline, and if elected he would refuse to serve.
An incident which occurred in Philadelphia some three years before his death illustrates Sherman's remarkable powers of memory.
He was visiting his daughter, and while sitting at the open window smoking one midsummer night he saw the policeman pass, and as the patrolman halted a moment the General was noticed to give him a keen glance and utter an exclamation. The next evening he told some one to say to the policeman on the beat, when he passed, that the General wanted to speak to him. When the officer entered he straightened up and gave General Sherman the regular military salute.
"Ah, ha," said the General. "I thought so. Now, where was it I saw you before? Do you know me?"
"Oh, yes," said the bearded patrolman. "I knew you when you were a lieutenant. I was your drummer in California."
"Ha, ha, I thought so; and wait a bit. So you were that little drummer boy, and your name—your name's Hutchinson."
Another authentic story reveals the kindly humor of the man, even amid the stern scenes of war. It is told by Mr. H. L. Priddy, who, with a Mr. Brower, conducted The Argus newspaper at Memphis when Sherman was commander there. "The Argus" says Mr. Priddy, "was the only paper published at Memphis then. Brower and I had to simulate a degree of loyalty, but whenever we got a chance we cheered the Stars and Bars. General Sherman gave us considerable latitude, but finally we went too far, and he called us down. He did it in a gentlemanly way, however, that didn't wound our feelings. He galloped up to the office one day about noon, threw the bridle rein of his big black stallion to an orderly and strode into the editorial room. A crowd of citizens gathered on the other side of the street mourned for the fate of the newspaper and the editors. I think they had an idea that Sherman was going to amputate our heads and 'pi' all the forms. But he didn't. He sat down and rested his feet on the table and said: