I have a seat on the stage at Haverley’s Theatre, tonight, where the Army of the Tennessee will receive Gen. Grant, and where Gen. Sherman will make a speech.  At midnight I am to attend a meeting of the Owl Club.

I love you ever so much, my darling, and am hoping to
get a word from you yet. 
                                   Saml.

Following the procession, which he describes, came the grand ceremonies of welcome at Haverley’s Theatre.  The next letter is written the following morning, or at least soiree time the following day, after a night of ratification.

To Mrs. Clemens, in Hartford: 

Chicago, Nov. 12, ’79.  Livy darling, it was a great time.  There were perhaps thirty people on the stage of the theatre, and I think I never sat elbow-to-elbow with so many historic names before.  Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, Schofield, Pope, Logan, Augur, and so on.  What an iron man Grant is!  He sat facing the house, with his right leg crossed over his left and his right boot-sole tilted up at an angle, and his left hand and arm reposing on the arm of his chair—­you note that position?  Well, when glowing references were made to other grandees on the stage, those grandees always showed a trifle of nervous consciousness—­and as these references came frequently, the nervous change of position and attitude were also frequent.  But Grant!—­he was under a tremendous and ceaseless bombardment of praise and gratulation, but as true as I’m sitting here he never moved a muscle of his body for a single instant, during 30 minutes!  You could have played him on a stranger for an effigy.  Perhaps he never would have moved, but at last a speaker made such a particularly ripping and blood-stirring remark about him that the audience rose and roared and yelled and stamped and clapped an entire minute—­Grant sitting as serene as ever—­when Gen. Sherman stepped to him, laid his hand affectionately on his shoulder, bent respectfully down and whispered in his ear.  Gen. Grant got up and bowed, and the storm of applause swelled into a hurricane.  He sat down, took about the same position and froze to it till by and by there was another of those deafening and protracted roars, when Sherman made him get up and bow again.  He broke up his attitude once more—­the extent of something more than a hair’s breadth—­to indicate me to Sherman when the house was keeping up a determined and persistent call for me, and poor bewildered Sherman, (who did not know me), was peering abroad over the packed audience for me, not knowing I was only three feet from him and most conspicuously located, (Gen. Sherman was Chairman.)

One of the most illustrious individuals on that stage was “Ole Abe,” the historic war eagle.  He stood on his perch—­the old savage-eyed rascal —­three or four feet behind Gen. Sherman, and as he had been in nearly every battle that was mentioned by the orators his soul was probably stirred pretty often, though he was too proud to let on.