We have abundance of wit, and a good deal of humor of a superficial kind, but the penetrating vision of a Socrates, a Voltaire, a Carlyle is denied the most of us, and we take ourselves and our accustomed pursuits most seriously.
On our way back from the village we stopped at the birthplace of Samuel Tilden,--an old-fashioned white frame house, situated in the very fork of the roads, and surrounded by tall trees.

Not far away is the cemetery, where a stone sarcophagus contains the remains of a man who was very able if not very great.
Probably not fifty people in the United States, aside from those living in the neighborhood, know where Tilden was born.

We did not until we came abruptly upon the house and were told; probably not a dozen could tell exactly where he is buried.

Such is fame.

And yet this man, in the belief of most of his countrymen, was chosen president, though never seated; he was governor of New York and a vital force in the politics and public life of his times,--now forgotten.
What a disappointment it must have been to come so near and yet miss the presidency.