was admitted to the Union in 1863, and Nevada in 1864.

The following chapters will be devoted to more peaceful details, while
we cheerfully close the sorrowful pages in which we have confessed that,
with all our greatness as a nation, we could not stay the tide of war.

CHAPTER XXIX.

TOO MUCH LIBERTY IN PLACES AND NOT ENOUGH ELSEWHERE.--THOUGHTS ON THE
LATE WAR--WHO IS THE BIGGER ASS, THE MAN WHO WILL NOT FORGIVE AND
FORGET, OR THE MAWKISH AND MOIST-EYED SNIVELLER WHO WANTS TO DO THAT ALL
THE TIME?

When Patrick Henry put his old cast-iron spectacles on the top of his
head and whooped for liberty, he did not know that some day we should
have more of it than we knew what to do with. He little dreamed that the
time would come when we should have more liberty than we could pay for.
When Mr. Henry sawed the air and shouted for liberty or death, I do not
believe that he knew the time would come when Liberty would stand on
Bedloe's Island and yearn for rest and change of scene.

It seems to me that we have too much liberty in this country in some
ways. We have more liberty than we have money. We guarantee that every
man in America shall fill himself up full of liberty at our expense, and
the less of an American he is the more liberty he can have. Should he
desire to enjoy himself, all he needs is a slight foreign accent and a
willingness to mix up with politics as soon as he can get his baggage
off the steamer. The more I study American institutions the more I
regret that I was not born a foreigner, so that I could have something
to say about the management of our great land. If I could not be a
foreigner, I believe I should prefer to be a policeman or an Indian not
taxed.

[Illustration: PATRICK HENRY'S GREAT SPEECH.]

I am often led to ask, in the language of the poet, "Is civilization a
failure, and is the Caucasian played out?"

[Illustration: THE MORE I REGRET THAT I WAS NOT BORN A FOREIGNER.]

Almost every one can have a good deal of fun in America except the
American. He seems to be so busy paying his taxes that he has very
little time to vote, or to mingle in society's giddy whirl, or to mix up
with the nobility. That is the reason why the alien who rides across the
United States in the "Limited Mail" and writes a book about us before
breakfast wonders why we are always in a hurry. That also is the reason
why we have to throw our meals into ourselves with such despatch, and
hardly have time to mai