“I entered the rear parlor and sat down at the glowing grate. He came, and leaning his elbow upon the marble mantel, said: ‘My army, sir, is not demoralized—has improved on the march—Christian army I’ve got—soldiers are Christians, if anybody is—noble fellows—God will take care of them—war improves character. My army, sir, is growing better all the while.’ “I expressed satisfaction at having such testimony, and the group of officers who stood around could not suppress a smile at the General’s earnest Christian eulogium. “Such is W. T. Sherman. A genius, with greatness grim and terrible, yet simple and unaffected as a child. The thunderbolt or sunbeam, as circumstances call him out. “On the march from Atlanta his order was ‘No plunder by the individual soldier;’ but his daily inquiry as he rode among them would be, ‘Well, boys, how do you get along? like to see soldiers enterprising; ought to live well, boys; you know I don’t carry any thing in my haversack, so don’t fail to have a chicken leg for me when I come along; must live well boys on such a march as this.’ The boys always took the hint. The chicken leg was ready for the General, and there were very few courts-martial between Atlanta and Savannah to punish men for living as best they could. “When McAllister fell, he stood with his staff and Howard by his side, awaiting the assaulting column. ‘They are repulsed,’ he exclaimed, as the smoke of bursting torpedoes enveloped the troops; ‘must try something else.’ It was a moment of agony. The strong heart did not quail! A distant shout was heard. Again raising his glass the colors of each of the three brigades were seen planting themselves simultaneously on the parapet. ‘The fort is ours,’ said he, calmly. He could not restrain his tears. ‘It’s my old division,’ he added. ‘I knew they’d do it.’ “‘How long, General,’ said a Southron, ‘do you think this war will last; we hear the Northern people are nearly exhausted?’ ‘Well, well,’ said he, ‘about six or seven years of this kind of war, then twenty or twenty-five of guerrilla, until you are all killed off, then we will begin anew.’ “A wealthy planter appealing to his pity, ‘Yes, yes,’ said he, ‘war is a bad thing, _very_ bad, cruel institution—very cruel; but you brought it on yourselves, and you are only getting a taste of it.’ “The English ex-consul asked him for protection and a pass on the ground of his neutrality and that of his country. ‘Don’t talk to me,’ said Sherman, ‘of your neutrality, my soldiers have seen on a hundred battle fields the shot and shell of England with your queen’s mark upon them all, and they _never_ can forget it. Don’t tell me you couldn’t leave before I came; you could send out your cotton to pay Confederate bonds and bring cannon in return—don’t tell me you couldn’t get away _yourself_.’ “The consul stood abashed, and awkwardly bowed himself from his presence.