a mighty game, the change from childhood to manhood is not without
interest.

I have often wished we could have the recorded truth of a child's life as
it seemed to him day by day, but this can never be. The man it is who
writes the life of the boy, and his recollection of it is perplexed by the
sittings of memory, which let so much of thought and feeling escape,
keeping little more than barren facts, or the remembrance of periods of
trouble or of emotion, sometimes quite valueless, while more important
moral events are altogether lost.

As these pages will show, I have found it agreeable, and at times useful,
to try to understand, as far as in me lay, not only the men who were my
captains or mates in war or in peace, but also myself. I have often been
puzzled by that well-worn phrase as to the wisdom of knowing thyself, for
with what manner of knowledge you know yourself is a grave question, and it
is sometimes more valuable to know what is truly thought of you by your
nearest friends than to be forever teasing yourself to determine whether
what you have done in the course of your life was just what it should have
been.

I may be wrong in the belief that my friend Warder saw others more clearly
than he saw himself. He was of that opinion, and he says in one place that
he is like a mirror, seeing all things sharply except that he saw not
himself. Whether he judged me justly or not, I must leave to others to
decide. I should be glad to think that, in the great account, I shall be as
kindly dealt with as in the worn and faded pages which tell brokenly of the
days of our youth. I am not ashamed to say that my eyes have filled many
times as I have lingered over these records of my friend, surely as sweet
and true a gentleman as I have ever known. Perhaps sometimes they have even