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.
The actual facts of his public life do not anywhere show that his politics shifted with his own interests.

On the contrary, he was singularly regardless of his interests where his convictions interposed.
Though an alien, and always an alien, he possessed none of the shifty traits of the soldier of fortune.

Never in his career did he crook the pregnant hinges of the knee before any worldly throne of grace or flatter any mob that place might follow fawning.