THE REMINISCENCES OF CARL SCHURZ
cordially as of old and bade me pull up a chair and sit by his side. Then he brought his large hand with a slap down on my knee and said with a smile: “Now tell me, young man, whether you really think that I am as poor a fellow as you have made me out in your letter!” I must confess, this reception disconcerted me. I looked into his face and felt something like a big lump in my throat. After a while I gathered up my wits and after a word of sorrow, if I had written anything that could have pained him, I explained to him my impressions of the situation and my reasons for writing to him as I had done. He listened with silent attention and when I stopped, said very seriously: “Well, I know that you are a warm anti-slavery man and a good friend to me. Now let me tell you all about it.” Then he unfolded in his peculiar way his view of the then existing state of affairs, his hopes and his apprehensions, his troubles and embarrassments, making many quaint remarks about men and things. I regret I cannot remember all. Then he described how the criticisms coming down upon him from all sides chafed him, and how my letter, although containing some points that were well founded and useful, had touched him as a terse summing up of all the principal criticisms and offered him a good chance at me for a reply. Then, slapping my knee again, he broke out in a loud laugh and exclaimed: “Didn't I give it to you hard in my letter? Didn't I? But it didn't hurt, did it? I did not mean to, and therefore I wanted you to come so quickly.” He laughed again and seemed to enjoy the matter heartily. “Well,” he added, “I guess we understand one another now, and it's all right.” When after a conversation of more than an hour I left him, I asked whether he still wished that I should write to him. “Why, certainly,” he answered; “write me whenever the spirit moves you.” We parted, as better friends than ever.
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