ery itself; and after a third of a century its poison still disturbs the politics of the country. The call was made in the forenoon. General Cass sat at a small, plain table, engaged in writing. He was in a large room, from which the furniture, including the carpets, had been removed. He said that he had been kept in Washington by the illness of his daughter, and that upon her improvement he should leave for Michigan. He was dressed in a much worn suit of black—his shirt had seen more than one day’s service—he had not been shaved recently, and his russet-colored wig was on awry. The room had an aspect of desolation, and General Cass appeared like a man for whom life had nothing of interest. As soon as the ceremony of introduction was over, he commenced walking and talking, while the tears ran down his wan and worn cheeks. He gave us an account of his early life, of his residence in Virginia, and then he said:
“I crossed the Ohio with only a dollar in my pocket. I went to Michigan. I was four times Governor of the Territory, and on more than one occasion I was confirmed by the Senate without a single dissenting vote. I have been a Senator, and Minister to France; and I am going home to Michigan to die. If I wanted the office of constable, there isn’t a town in the State that would elect me.”
He reminded me of Cardinal Wolsey, rather than of the Senator, Minister to France, and Secretary of the Department of State that he had been. He spoke of his course in politics, the substance of which was that he had always opposed secession and nullification, although he had maintained the right of the States to hold slaves if they chose to tolerate the institution.
General Cass was the last of the statesmen of the middle period of our history whom it was my fortune to meet. As a whole, and as individuals their fortunes were unenviable. They struggled against the order of things. They accom-
