Ulysses S. Grant died of throat cancer. He was 63 years old, which, for perspective, is younger than my husband is now. Being an almost absurdly popular famous person, there was, of course, a Big To-Do for his funeral, zillions of people turned out in celebration and mourning for his life. W.T. Sherman and Samuel Clemens were both there, of course (Sherman was a pallbearer, along with two other Union generals and three Confederate generals). They were both close friends of the deceased.
But when all the pomp and sad circumstance was over and the crowds went away, Sherman and Clemens went away from the crowds and went for a drink together to toast their absent friend.
And Sherman complained, saying that everybody was running around mythologizing Grant, saying, among other things, that he had delicate sensibilities and never cursed or told dirty jokes. Made Sherman angry. He knew the man. Loved him. Knew that Grant liked dirty jokes just as much as the next guy.
Yes, there was once a moment in time in which William Tecumseh Sherman and Mark Twain had a drink together to memorialize U.S. Grant and to assert that, yes, he liked dirty jokes.
Could anything be more perfect?
Grant’s birthday was the day before yesterday. He would have been 202, were such a thing possible.
(Note: this event took place in the summer, as Grant died in July. It counts as a literary event not only because all three men were giants of American letters–Clemens obviously so, the giant of giants, but Grant’s memoir is considered one of the best of its type, and Sherman’s memoir…well, if it didn’t inspire Hemingway I’d be very much surprised)
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