in no contradiction of this last, his simple pleasure in the flowers and general ruck sent to him by Tom, Dick and Harry from everywhere—­a pleasure that suggested a perennial surprise that he should be the object of so much fine attention—­he was the most lovable great child in the world; (I mentioned his loyalty:  you remember Harrison, the colored body-servant? the whole family hated him, but that did not make any difference, the General always stood at his back, wouldn’t allow him to be scolded; always excused his failures and deficiencies with the one unvarying formula, “We are responsible for these things in his race—­it is not fair to visit our fault upon them —­let him alone;” so they did let him alone, under compulsion, until the great heart that was his shield was taken away; then—­well they simply couldn’t stand him, and so they were excusable for determining to discharge him—­a thing which they mortally hated to do, and by lucky accident were saved from the necessity of doing;) his toughness as a bargainer when doing business for other people or for his country (witness his “terms” at Donelson, Vicksburg, etc.; Fred Grant told me his father wound up an estate for the widow and orphans of a friend in St. Louis—­it took several years; at the end every complication had been straightened out, and the property put upon a prosperous basis; great sums had passed through his hands, and when he handed over the papers there were vouchers to show what had been done with every penny) and his trusting, easy, unexacting fashion when doing business for himself (at that same time he was paying out money in driblets to a man who was running his farm for him—­and in his first Presidency he paid every one of those driblets again (total, $3,000 F. said,) for he hadn’t a scrap of paper to show that he had ever paid them before; in his dealings with me he would not listen to terms which would place my money at risk and leave him protected—­the thought plainly gave him pain, and he put it from him, waved it off with his hands, as one does accounts of crushings and mutilations—­wouldn’t listen, changed the subject;) and his fortitude!  He was under, sentence of death last spring; he sat thinking, musing, several days—­nobody knows what about; then he pulled himself together and set to work to finish that book, a colossal task for a dying man.  Presently his hand gave out; fate seemed to have got him checkmated.  Dictation was suggested.  No, he never could do that; had never tried it; too old to learn, now.  By and by—­if he could only do Appomattox-well.  So he sent for a stenographer, and dictated 9,000 words at a single sitting!—­never pausing, never hesitating for a word, never repeating —­and in the written-out copy he made hardly a correction.  He dictated again, every two or three days—­the intervals were intervals of exhaustion and slow recuperation—­and at last he was able to tell me that he had written more matter than could be got into the book.