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Title: The inner life of Abraham Lincoln
Six months at the White House
Author: Francis Bicknell Carpenter
Release date: May 3, 2024 [eBook #73522]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Hurd and Houghton, 1867
Credits: The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INNER LIFE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN ***
Transcriber’s Note: Italics are enclosed in _underscores_. Additional
notes will be found near the end of this ebook.
THE
INNER LIFE
OF
ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
SIX MONTHS AT THE WHITE HOUSE.
BY
F. B. CARPENTER.
_TWENTY-FOURTH THOUSAND._
[Illustration]
NEW YORK:
PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON,
459 BROOME STREET.
1868.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867 by
HURD AND HOUGHTON,
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court for the Southern District
of New York.
RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE.
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY
H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY.
PREFACE.
In offering this volume to the public I shall attempt no apology for
its shortcomings, other than to say that its production is the result
of the unexpected popularity of the series of articles, relating to the
illustrious subject of whom it mainly treats, which were commenced in
the New York “Independent” soon after the assassination.
Written in a spirit of enthusiasm and affection, which there has
been no effort to disguise, the book is, nevertheless, a simple
matter-of-fact record of daily experience and observation, fragmentary,
but _true_, in all essential particulars. There has been no disposition
to select from, embellish, or suppress, any portion of the material
in my possession. The incidents given were not in any sense isolated
exceptions to the daily routine of Mr. Lincoln’s life. My aim has been
throughout these pages to portray _the man_ as he was revealed to me,
without any attempt at idealization.
In addition to my own reminiscences, I have woven into the book various
personal incidents, published and unpublished, which bear intrinsic
evidence of genuineness,--attaching in these instances, where it seemed
necessary and proper, the sources of such contributions.
I am not one of those inclined to believe that Mr. Lincoln, in
the closing months of his career, reached the full measure of his
greatness. Man may not read the future: but it is my firm conviction,
that, had he lived through his second term, he would have continued
to grow, as he had grown, in the estimation and confidence of his
countrymen; rising to a grander moral height with every emergency,
careful always to weigh every argument opposed to his convictions, but,
once mounted upon those convictions, grounded in righteousness, as
immovable as one of the giant ranges of our own Rocky Mountains!
Aspiring in no sense to the dignity of a biography, this volume will
fulfil its object if it helps to any better knowledge of one, who,
apart from the reverence with which he ever will be regarded for his
connection with the cause of human Freedom, was the best product
and exemplar which the world has yet seen of American soil and
institutions; the study of whose character, illustrating as it did the
highest form of statesmanship, founded upon truth, justice, and solid
integrity, combining the deepest wisdom with a child-like freshness and
simplicity,--will be of perpetual interest and value.
F. B. C.
_96 West 45th Street_, NEW YORK.
SIX MONTHS AT THE WHITE HOUSE
I.
I leave to other and abler pens the proper estimate of ABRAHAM LINCOLN
as a ruler and statesman,--his work and place in history. Favored
during the year 1864 with several months of personal intercourse
with him, I shall attempt in these pages to write the story of that
association; not for any value which the record will have in itself,
but for the glimpses it may afford of the person and character of the
man,--every detail of whose life is now invested with enduring interest
for the American people.
II.
That Art should aim to embody and express the spirit and best thought
of its own age seems self-evident. If it fails to do this, whatever
else it may accomplish, it falls short of its highest object. It cannot
dwell always among classic forms, nor clothe its conceptions in the
imagery of an old and worn-out world. It must move on, if it is to keep
pace with that “increasing purpose which through the ages runs,” and
its ideals must be wrought out of the strife of a living humanity.
It has been well said by a recent writer: “The record of the human
family to the advent of CHRIST, was the preparation of the photographic
plate for its image. All subsequent history is the bringing out of
the divine ideal of true manhood.” Slowly, but surely, through the
centuries, is this purpose being accomplished. Human slavery has been
the material type or expression of spiritual bondage. On the lowest or
physical plane, it has symbolized the captivity and degradation of our
higher nature; with the breaking in of new light, and the inspiration
of a deeper life, it is inevitably doomed. That man, to attain the full
development of the faculties implanted in him, must be in spiritual and
physical freedom, is a principle which lies at the foundation of all
government; and the enfranchisement of a race to-day thus becomes the
assertion and promise of a true and coming Emancipation for all men.
III.
When ABRAHAM LINCOLN, called from the humblest rank in life to
preside over the nation during the most momentous period of its
history, uttered his Proclamation of Freedom,--shattering forever the
chains which bound four millions of human beings in slavery; an act
unparalleled for moral grandeur in the history of mankind,--it was
evident to all who sought beneath the surface for the cause of the war
that the crisis was past,--that so surely as Heaven is on the side of
Right and Justice, the North would triumph in the great struggle which
had assumed the form of a direct issue between Freedom and Slavery.
In common with many others, I had from the beginning of the war
believed that the government would not be successful in putting down
a rebellion based upon slavery as its avowed corner-stone, without
striking a death-blow at the institution itself. As the months went on,
and disappointment and disaster succeeded one another, this conviction
deepened into certainty. When at length, in obedience to what seemed
the very voice of GOD, the thunderbolt was launched, and, like the
first gun at Concord, “was heard around the world,” all the enthusiasm
of my nature was kindled. The “beast” Secession, offspring of the
“dragon” Slavery, drawing in his train a third part of our national
stars, was pierced with the deadly wound which could not be healed.
It was the combat between Michael and Satan of Apocalyptic vision,
reënacted before the eyes of the nineteenth century.
IV.
To paint a picture which should commemorate this new epoch in the
history of Liberty, was a dream which took form and shape in my mind
towards the close of the year 1863,--the year made memorable in its
dawn by the issue of the final decree. With little experience to adapt
me for the execution of such a work, there had nevertheless come to
me at times glowing conceptions of the true purpose and character of
Art, and an intense desire to do something expressive of appreciation
of the great issues involved in the war. The painters of old had
delighted in representations of the birth from the ocean of Venus, the
goddess of love. Ninety years ago upon this Western continent had been
witnessed--no dream of fable, but a substantial fact--the immaculate
conception of Constitutional Liberty; and at length through great
travail its consummation had been reached. The long-prayed-for year of
jubilee had come; the bonds of the oppressed were loosed; the prison
doors were opened. “Behold,” said a voice, “how a Man may be exalted to
a dignity and glory almost divine, and give freedom to a race. Surely
Art should unite with Eloquence and Poetry to celebrate such a theme.”
I conceived of that band of men, upon whom the eyes of the world
centred as never before upon ministers of state, gathered in council,
depressed, perhaps disheartened at the vain efforts of many months
to restore the supremacy of the government. I saw, in thought,
the head of the nation bowed down with his weight of care and
responsibility, solemnly announcing, as he unfolded the prepared
draft of the Proclamation, that the time for the inauguration of this
policy had arrived; I endeavored to imagine the conflicting emotions
of satisfaction, doubt, and distrust with which such an announcement
would be received by men of the varied characteristics of the assembled
councillors.
For several weeks the design of the picture was slowly maturing, during
which time, however, no line was drawn upon paper or canvas. Late one
evening, absorbed in thought upon the subject, I took up an unframed
photograph lying carelessly in my room, and upon the blank side of
this, roughly and hastily sketched, was embodied the central idea of
the composition as it had shaped itself in my mind.
To one disposed to look for coincidences in daily life, and regard
its events as no mere succession of accidents, there must often come
those which wear a deep significance. In seeking a point of unity
or action for the picture, I was impressed with the conviction that
important modifications followed the reading of the Proclamation at the
suggestion of the Secretary of State, and I determined upon such an
incident as the moment of time to be represented. I was subsequently
surprised and gratified when Mr. Lincoln himself, reciting the history
of the Proclamation to me, dwelt particularly upon the fact that not
only was the time of its issue decided by Secretary Seward’s advice,
but that one of the most important words in the document was added
through his strenuous representations.
The central thought of the picture once decided upon and embodied,
the rest naturally followed; one after another the seven figures
surrounding the President dropped into their places. Those supposed to
have held the purpose of the Proclamation as their long conviction,
were placed prominently in the foreground in attitudes which indicated
their support of the measure; the others were represented in varying
moods of discussion or silent deliberation.
A few evenings after the completion of the design I went to see a
friend who I knew was intimate with the Hon. Schuyler Colfax and Hon.
Owen Lovejoy, through whom I hoped to obtain Mr. Lincoln’s assent
to my plan. I revealed to him my purpose, and asked his assistance
in carrying it into effect. During the following week he went to
Washington, and in company with Mr. Colfax called upon the President,
and laid before him my project. He kindly listened to the details, and
then said: “In short, if I understand you, you wish me to consent to
sit to this artist for the picture?” My friends acknowledged this to be
the object of their errand. Mr. Lincoln at once, with his accustomed
kindness, promised his coöperation.
The last day of the year the Hon. Mr. Lovejoy, whom I had never met,
but who had become warmly interested in the execution of the work,
being in New York, called at my studio with the wife of my friend,
who had been my earnest advocate. At the close of the interview he
remarked, in his quaint way, taking me by the hand, “In the words of
Scripture, my good friend, I can say now I believe, not on account of
the saying of the woman, but because I have seen for myself.”
V.
Impracticable as my scheme had at first seemed, the way was thus opened
for its execution. When fairly committed to the purpose, however, the
want of means and the magnitude of the undertaking almost disheartened
me. My original plan embraced a canvas sufficiently large for a
life-size group of the President and entire Cabinet; to paint such a
picture would consume many months, perhaps years. Enthusiasm alone
would never accomplish the work. The few friends to whom I should have
felt at liberty to apply for help were not wealthy. Who outside of
these could be persuaded that a work of the character and proportions
contemplated, undertaken by an artist of no experience in historical
studies, would not end in utter failure?
I had left my home at the usual hour one morning, pondering the
difficulty which, like Bunyan’s lions, seemed now to block the way.
As one alternative after another presented itself to my mind and was
rejected, the prospect appeared less and less hopeful. I at length
found myself in Broadway at the foot of the stairs leading up to my
studio. A gentleman at this moment attracted my attention, standing
with his back towards me, looking at some pictures exposed in the
window of the shop below. Detecting, as I thought, something familiar
in his air and manner, I waited until he turned his face, and then
found I was not mistaken; it was an old acquaintance who five years
before lived near me in Brooklyn, engaged in a similar struggle for a
livelihood with myself, though his profession was law instead of art.
We had both changed our residences and had not met for years. After a
cordial greeting, he accepted my invitation to ascend to the studio. I
had heard that he had been successful in some business ventures, but
the matter made but little impression upon me, and had been forgotten.
Suddenly there seemed to come into my mind the words: “This man has
been sent to you.” Full of the singular impression, I laid before him
my conception. He heard me through, and then asked if I was sure of
President Lincoln’s consent and coöperation. I informed him of the
pledge which had been given me. “Then,” said he, “you shall paint
the picture. Take plenty of time,--make it the great work of your
life,--and draw upon me for whatever funds you will require to the
end.”[1]
VI.
On the evening of February 4th, 1864, I went to Washington. Shortly
after noon of the following day, I rang the bell at Mr. Lovejoy’s
residence on Fifteenth Street. To my sorrow, I found him very ill; but
it was hoped by his friends that he was then improving. Though very
feeble, he insisted upon seeing me, and calling for writing materials,
sat up in bed to indite a note introducing me to the President. This,
handed to me open, I read. One expression I have not forgotten, it was
so like Mr. Lincoln himself, as I afterward came to know him. “I am
gaining very slowly.--It is hard work drawing the sled up-hill.” And
this suggests the similarity there was between these men. Lovejoy had
much more of the agitator, the reformer, in his nature, but both drew
the inspiration of their lives from the same source, and it was founded
in sterling honesty. Their modes of thought and illustration were
remarkably alike. It is not strange that they should have been bosom
friends. The President called repeatedly to see him during his illness;
and it was on one of these occasions that he said to him, “This war is
eating my life out; I have a strong impression that I shall not live
to see the end.” Mr. Lovejoy’s health subsequently improved, and for
a change he went to Brooklyn, N. Y., where, it will be remembered,
he had a relapse, and died, universally mourned as one of the truest
and most faithful of our statesmen. Mr. Lincoln did not hear from
him directly after he left Washington. Through a friend I learned by
letter that he was lying at the point of death. This intelligence I
communicated to the President the same evening, in the vestibule of
the White House,--meeting him on his way to the War Department. He
was deeply affected by it. His only words were, “Lovejoy was the best
friend I had in Congress.”
To return from this pardonable digression,--I took the note of
introduction at once to the White House; but no opportunity was
afforded me of presenting it during the day. The following morning
passed with the same result, and I then resolved to avail myself of
Mrs. Lincoln’s Saturday afternoon reception--at which, I was told, the
President would be present--to make myself known to him. Two o’clock
found me one of the throng pressing toward the centre of attraction,
the “blue” room. From the threshold of the “crimson” parlor as I
passed, I had a glimpse of the gaunt figure of Mr. Lincoln in the
distance, haggard-looking, dressed in black, relieved only by the
prescribed white gloves; standing, it seemed to me, solitary and alone,
though surrounded by the crowd, bending low now and then in the process
of hand-shaking, and responding half abstractedly to the well-meant
greetings of the miscellaneous assemblage. Never shall I forget the
electric thrill which went through my whole being at this instant. I
seemed to see lines radiating from every part of the globe, converging
to a focus at the point where that plain, awkward-looking man stood,
and to hear in spirit a million prayers, “as the sound of many
waters,” ascending in his behalf. Mingled with supplication I could
discern a clear symphony of triumph and blessing, swelling with an
ever-increasing volume. It was the voice of those who had been bondmen
and bondwomen, and the grand diapason swept up from the coming ages.
It was soon my privilege, in the regular succession, to take that
honored hand. Accompanying the act, my name and profession were
announced to him in a low tone by one of the assistant private
secretaries, who stood by his side. Retaining my hand, he looked at
me inquiringly for an instant, and said, “Oh yes; I know; this is the
painter.” Then straightening himself to his full height, with a twinkle
of the eye, he added, playfully, “Do you think, Mr. C----, that you
can make a handsome picture of _me_?” emphasizing strongly the last
word. Somewhat confused at this point-blank shot, uttered in a tone so
loud as to attract the attention of those in immediate proximity, I
made a random reply, and took the occasion to ask if I could see him
in his study at the close of the reception. To this he responded in
the peculiar vernacular of the West, “I reckon,” resuming meanwhile the
mechanical and traditional exercise of the hand which no President has
ever yet been able to avoid, and which, severe as is the ordeal, is
likely to attach to the position, so long as the Republic endures.
VII.
The appointed hour found me at the well-remembered door of the official
chamber,--that door watched daily, with so many conflicting emotions
of hope and fear, by the anxious throng regularly gathered there. The
President had preceded me, and was already deep in Acts of Congress,
with which the writing-desk was strewed, awaiting his signature. He
received me pleasantly, giving me a seat near his own arm-chair; and
after having read Mr. Lovejoy’s note, he took off his spectacles, and
said, “Well, Mr. C----, we will turn you in loose here, and try to give
you a good chance to work out your idea.” Then, without paying much
attention to the enthusiastic expression of my ambitious desire and
purpose, he proceeded to give me a detailed account of the history and
issue of the great proclamation.
“It had got to be,” said he, “midsummer, 1862. Things had gone on
from bad to worse, until I felt that we had reached the end of our
rope on the plan of operations we had been pursuing; that we had
about played our last card, and must change our tactics, or lose the
game! I now determined upon the adoption of the emancipation policy;
and, without consultation with, or the knowledge of the Cabinet, I
prepared the original draft of the proclamation, and, after much
anxious thought, called a Cabinet meeting upon the subject. This was
the last of July, or the first part of the month of August, 1862.”
(The exact date he did not remember.) “This Cabinet meeting took
place, I think, upon a Saturday. All were present, excepting Mr.
Blair, the Postmaster-General, who was absent at the opening of the
discussion, but came in subsequently. I said to the Cabinet that I
had resolved upon this step, and had not called them together to ask
their advice, but to lay the subject-matter of a proclamation before
them; suggestions as to which would be in order, after they had heard
it read. Mr. Lovejoy,” said he, “was in error when he informed you
that it excited no comment, excepting on the part of Secretary Seward.
Various suggestions were offered. Secretary Chase wished the language
stronger in reference to the arming of the blacks. Mr. Blair, after
he came in, deprecated the policy, on the ground that it would cost
the Administration the fall elections. Nothing, however, was offered
that I had not already fully anticipated and settled in my own mind,
until Secretary Seward spoke. He said in substance: ‘Mr. President,
I approve of the proclamation, but I question the expediency of its
issue at this juncture. The depression of the public mind, consequent
upon our repeated reverses, is so great that I fear the effect of so
important a step. It may be viewed as the last measure of an exhausted
government, a cry for help; the government stretching forth its
hands to Ethiopia, instead of Ethiopia stretching forth her hands to
the government.’ His idea,” said the President, “was that it would
be considered our last _shriek_, on the retreat.” (This was his
_precise_ expression.) “‘Now,’ continued Mr. Seward, ‘while I approve
the measure, I suggest, sir, that you postpone its issue, until you
can give it to the country supported by military success, instead of
issuing it, as would be the case now, upon the greatest disasters
of the war!’” Mr. Lincoln continued: “The wisdom of the view of the
Secretary of State struck me with very great force. It was an aspect
of the case that, in all my thought upon the subject, I had entirely
overlooked. The result was that I put the draft of the proclamation
aside, as you do your sketch for a picture, waiting for a victory. From
time to time I added or changed a line, touching it up here and there,
anxiously watching the progress of events. Well, the next news we had
was of Pope’s disaster, at Bull Run. Things looked darker than ever.
Finally, came the week of the battle of Antietam. I determined to wait
no longer. The news came, I think, on Wednesday, that the advantage
was on our side. I was then staying at the Soldiers’ Home, (three
miles out of Washington.) Here I finished writing the second draft of
the preliminary proclamation; came up on Saturday; called the Cabinet
together to hear it, and it was published the following Monday.”
At the final meeting of September 20th, another interesting incident
occurred in connection with Secretary Seward. The President had written
the important part of the proclamation in these words:--
“That, on the first day of January, in the year of our Lord one
thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, all persons held as slaves
within any State or designated part of a State, the people whereof
shall then be in rebellion against the United States, shall be then,
thenceforward, and forever FREE; and the Executive Government of the
United States, including the military and naval authority thereof, will
_recognize_ the freedom of such persons, and will do no act or acts
to repress such persons, or any of them, in any efforts they may make
for their actual freedom.” “When I finished reading this paragraph,”
resumed Mr. Lincoln, “Mr. Seward stopped me, and said, ‘I think, Mr.
President, that you should insert after the word “_recognize_,” in that
sentence, the words “_and maintain_.”’ I replied that I had already
fully considered the import of that expression in this connection, but
I had not introduced it, because it was not my way to promise what I
was not entirely _sure_ that I could perform, and I was not prepared to
say that I thought we were exactly able to ‘maintain’ this.”
“But,” said he, “Seward insisted that we ought to take this ground; and
the words finally went in!”
“It is a somewhat remarkable fact,” he subsequently remarked, “that
there were just one hundred days between the dates of the two
proclamations issued upon the 22d of September and the 1st of January.
I had not made the calculation at the time.”
Having concluded this interesting statement, the President then
proceeded to show me the various positions occupied by himself and the
different members of the Cabinet, on the occasion of the first meeting.
“As nearly as I remember,” said he, “I sat near the head of the table;
the Secretary of the Treasury and the Secretary of War were here, at my
right hand; the others were grouped at the left.”
At this point, I exhibited to him a pencil sketch of the composition
as I had conceived it, with no knowledge of the facts or details.
The leading idea of this I found, as I have stated on a previous
page, to be entirely consistent with the account I had just heard. I
saw, however, that I should have to reverse the picture, placing the
President at the other end of the table, to make it accord with his
description. I had resolved to discard all appliances and tricks of
picture-making, and endeavor, as faithfully as possible, to represent
the scene as it actually transpired; room, furniture, accessories,
all were to be painted from the actualities. It was a scene second
only in historical importance and interest to that of the Declaration
of Independence; and I felt assured, that, if honestly and earnestly
painted, it need borrow no interest from imaginary curtain or column,
gorgeous furniture or allegorical statue. Assenting heartily to what is
called the “realistic” school of art, when applied to the illustration
of historic events, I felt in this case, that I had no more right to
depart from the facts, than has the historian in his record.
When friends said to me, as they frequently did, “Your picture will
be bald and barren,” my reply was, “If I cannot make the portraiture
of the scene itself sufficiently attractive without the false glitter
of tapestry hangings, velvet table-cloths, and marble columns, then I
shall at least have the satisfaction of having failed in the cause of
truth.” I reasoned in this way: The most important document submitted
to a cabinet during our existence as a nation is under discussion.
A spectator permitted to look in upon that scene would give little
thought and small heed to the mere accessories and adjuncts of the
occasion. His mind would centre upon the immortal document,--its
anxious author, conscious of his solemn responsibility, announcing
his matured and inflexible purpose to his assembled councillors. He
would listen with unparalleled eagerness to the momentous sentences
uttered for the first time in the ears of men, and to the discussion
upon them, impatient of mere formalities and technicalities. Should a
thought be sprung of important bearing, or an overlooked contingency be
brought forward, how intently would its effect be watched. What varying
emotions, consequent upon peculiarities of temperament and character,
would be expressed in the countenances of the different individuals
composing the group. How each in turn would be scanned. Above all, the
issues involved:--the salvation of the Republic--the freedom of a Race.
“Surely,” I said, “such a scene may be painted, and abiding if not
absorbing interest secured, without the aid of conventional trappings.
The republican simplicity of the room and furniture, with its thronging
associations, will more than counterbalance the lack of splendor, and
the artistic mania for effect. I will depend solely for my success upon
the interest of the subject, and its truthfulness of representation.”
And this purpose I carried with me to the end.
VIII.
The first sketch of the composition, as it was afterward placed
upon the canvas, was matured, I believe, the same afternoon, or the
following Monday after the interview recorded above, upon the back
of a visiting card; my pockets affording evidence of the employment
of all loose material at hand in leisure moments, in the study of the
work. The final arrangement of the figures was the result of much
thought and many combinations, though the original conception as to
the moment of time and incident of action was preserved throughout.
The general arrangement of the group, as described by the President,
was fortunately entirely consistent with my purpose, which was to give
that prominence to the different individuals which belonged to them
respectively in the Administration. There was a curious mingling of
fact and allegory in my mind, as I assigned to each his place on the
canvas. There were two elements in the Cabinet, the radical and the
conservative. Mr. Lincoln was placed at the head of the official table,
between two groups, nearest that representing the radical, but the
uniting point of both. The chief powers of a government are War and
Finance: the ministers of these were at his right,--the Secretary of
War, symbolizing the great struggle, in the immediate foreground; the
Secretary of the Treasury, actively supporting the new policy, standing
by the President’s side. The Army being the right hand, the Navy may
very properly be styled the left hand of the government. The place
for the Secretary of the Navy seemed, therefore, very naturally to be
on Mr. Lincoln’s left, at the rear of the table. To the Secretary
of State, as the great expounder of the principles of the Republican
party, the profound and sagacious statesman, would the attention of all
at such a time be given. Entitled to precedence in discussion by his
position in the Cabinet, he would necessarily form one of the central
figures of the group. The four chief officers of the government were
thus brought, in accordance with their relations to the Administration,
nearest the person of the President, who, with the manuscript
proclamation in hand, which he had just read, was represented leaning
forward, listening to, and intently considering the views presented
by the Secretary of State. The Attorney-General, absorbed in the
constitutional questions involved, with folded arms, was placed at the
foot of the table opposite the President. The Secretary of the Interior
and the Postmaster-General, occupying the less conspicuous positions of
the Cabinet, seemed to take their proper places in the background of
the picture.
When, at length, the conception as thus described was sketched upon the
large canvas, and Mr. Lincoln came in to see it, his gratifying remark,
often subsequently repeated, was, “It is as good as it can be made.”
IX.
I have thus revealed, step by step, the mental process by which the
picture of which I write came into being. Whether the story bears any
analogy to that by which the works of others have been produced, or the
composition conforms to established rules and precedents in art or not,
is to me a matter of indifference. I was true to my intuitions, and
endeavored to adhere as faithfully as practicable to the facts.
It is not my purpose to follow in detail the progress, thenceforward,
of the work. As the thread upon which are strung my memories of the
late President, allusions to it will be unavoidable throughout these
pages; but hereafter I intend that they shall be subordinate and
incidental to matters of more general interest. It is not too much
to say that the enthusiasm in which the work was conceived, flagged
not to the end. The days were too short for labor upon it. Lighting
at nightfall the great chandelier of the state dining-room, which was
finally assigned me for a studio instead of the library, where the
windows were shaded by the portico, the morning light frequently broke
in upon me still standing pencil or palette in hand, before the immense
canvas, unable to break the spell which bound me to it.
X.
“We will turn you in loose here,” proved an “open sesame” to me during
the subsequent months of my occupation at the White House. My access
to the official chamber was made nearly as free as that of the private
secretaries, unless special business was being transacted. Sometimes
a stranger, approaching the President with a low tone, would turn
an inquiring eye toward the place where I sat, absorbed frequently
in a pencil sketch of some object in the room. This would be met by
the hearty tones of Mr. Lincoln,--I can hear them yet ringing in my
ears,--“Oh, you need not mind him; he is but a painter.” There was
a satisfaction to me, differing from that of any other experience,
in simply sitting with him. Absorbed in his papers, he would become
unconscious of my presence, while I intently studied every line and
shade of expression in that furrowed face. In repose, it was the
saddest face I ever knew. There were days when I could scarcely look
into it without crying. During the first week of the battles of the
Wilderness he scarcely slept at all. Passing through the main hall of
the domestic apartment on one of these days, I met him, clad in a long
morning wrapper, pacing back and forth a narrow passage leading to one
of the windows, his hands behind him, great black rings under his eyes,
his head bent forward upon his breast,--altogether such a picture
of the effects of sorrow, care, and anxiety as would have melted the
hearts of the worst of his adversaries, who so mistakenly applied to
him the epithets of tyrant and usurper. With a sorrow almost divine,
he, too, could have said of the rebellious States, “How often would I
have gathered you together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under
her wings, _and ye would not_!” Like another Jeremiah, he wept over the
desolations of the nation; “he mourned the slain of the daughter of his
people.”
Surely, ruler never manifested so much sympathy, and tenderness,
and charity. How like the last words of the Divine one himself,
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do,” will the
closing sentences of his last inaugural address resound in solemn
cadence through the coming centuries. Truly and well says the London
“Spectator” of that address: “We cannot read it without a renewed
conviction that it is the noblest political document known to history,
and should have for the nation and the statesmen he left behind him
something of a sacred and almost prophetic character. Surely, none was
ever written under a stronger sense of the reality of God’s government.
And certainly none written in a period of passionate conflict ever so
completely excluded the partiality of victorious faction, and breathed
so pure a strain of mingled justice and mercy.”
XI.
The following Tuesday I spent with Mr. Lincoln in his study. The
morning was devoted to the Judge-Advocate-General, who had a large
number of court-martial cases to submit to the President. Never had I
realized what it was to have power, as on this occasion. As case after
case was presented to Mr. Lincoln, one stroke of his pen confirmed
or commuted the sentence of death. In several instances Judge Holt
referred to extenuating circumstances,--extreme youth, previous good
conduct, or recommendations to mercy. Every excuse of this kind, having
a foundation in fact, was instantly seized upon by the President, who,
taking the document containing the sentence, would write upon the back
of it the lightest penalty consistent with any degree of justice. As he
added the date to one of these papers, he remarked casually, varying
the subject of conversation, “Does your mind, Judge Holt, associate
events with dates? Every time this morning that I have had occasion to
write the day of the month, the thought has come up, ‘This was General
Harrison’s birthday.’” One of the cases brought forward at this time
I recollect distinctly. The man’s name was Burroughs; he had been a
notorious spy; convicted and sentenced to death, a strong effort had
been made in his behalf by powerful friends. It was an aggravated
case, but an impression had evidently been made upon the President by
the strength and pertinacity of the appeal. As Judge Holt opened the
record, he stated that a short time previous Burroughs had attempted to
escape from confinement, and was shot dead in the act by the sentinel
on guard. With an expression of relief, Mr. Lincoln rejoined, “I ought
to be obliged to him for taking his fate into his own hands; he has
saved _me_ a deal of trouble.”
During a brief absence of the President, Judge Holt told me that the
atrocities of some of the criminals condemned, surpassed belief. “A
guerilla leader in Missouri,” said he, “by the name of Nichols, was
in the habit of filling the ears of wounded Unionists who fell into
his hands with gunpowder, setting fire to it, and blowing their heads
to pieces. When captured, a number of human ears were found upon his
person.” Referring to Mr. Lincoln’s disposition to pardon or commute
the majority of the death sentences, he remarked, “The President is
without exception the most tender-hearted man I ever knew.”
Judge Holt, it will be remembered, was called into Mr. Buchanan’s
cabinet towards the close of his administration. Glancing around the
room,--incidentally referring to my errand there,--he said, “This
room was the theatre of some very exciting scenes during the last
months of Mr. Buchanan’s term.” He spoke warmly of the courage and
fearlessness of Stanton, on those occasions, who did not hesitate to
call _traitors_ and _treason_ their right names.
When the clock struck twelve, Mr. Lincoln drew back from the table,
and with a stretch of his long arms, remarked, “I guess we will go no
farther with these cases to-day; I am a little tired and the Cabinet
will be coming in soon.” “I believe, by the by,” he added, “that I have
not yet had my breakfast,--this business has been so absorbing that it
has crowded everything else out of my mind.”
And so ended the work of one morning; simple in its detail, but
pregnant with hope and joy, darkness and death, to many human beings.
XII.
As the different members of the Cabinet came in, the President
introduced me, adding in several instances,--“He has an idea of
painting a picture of us all together.” This, of course, started
conversation on the topic of art. Presently a reference was made by
some one to Jones, the sculptor, whose bust of Mr. Lincoln was in the
crimson parlor below. The President, I think, was writing at this
instant. Looking up, he said, “Jones tells a good story of General
Scott, of whom he once made a bust. Having a fine subject to start
with, he succeeded in giving great satisfaction. At the closing sitting
he attempted to define and elaborate the lines and markings of the
face. The General sat patiently; but when he came to see the result,
his countenance indicated decided displeasure. ‘Why, Jones, what have
you been doing?’ he asked. ‘Oh,’ rejoined the sculptor, ‘not much, I
confess, General; I have been working out the details of the face a
little more, this morning.’ ‘Details?’ exclaimed the General, warmly;
‘---- the details! Why, my man, you are spoiling the bust!’”
At three o’clock the President was to accompany me, by appointment, to
Brady’s photographic galleries on Pennsylvania Avenue. The carriage
had been ordered, and Mrs. Lincoln, who was to accompany us, had come
down at the appointed hour, dressed for the ride, when one of those
vexations, incident to all households, occurred. Neither carriage
or coachman was to be seen. The President and myself stood upon the
threshold of the door under the portico, awaiting the result of the
inquiry for the coachman, when a letter was put into his hand. While
he was reading this, people were passing, as is customary, up and down
the promenade, which leads through the grounds to the War Department,
crossing, of course, the portico. My attention was attracted to an
approaching party, apparently a countryman, plainly dressed, with
his wife and two little boys, who had evidently been straying about,
looking at the places of public interest in the city. As they reached
the portico, the father, who was in advance, caught sight of the tall
figure of Mr. Lincoln, absorbed in his letter. His wife and the little
boys were ascending the steps. The man stopped suddenly, put out his
hand with a “hush” to his family, and, after a moment’s gaze, he bent
down and whispered to them,--“There is the President!” Then leaving
them, he slowly made a half circuit around Mr. Lincoln, watching him
intently all the while. At this point, having finished his letter,
the President turned to me, and said: “Well, we will not wait any
longer for the carriage; it won’t hurt you and me to walk down.” The
countryman here approached very diffidently, and asked if he might
be allowed to take the President by the hand; after which, “Would he
extend the same privilege to his wife and little boys?” Mr. Lincoln
good-naturedly approached the latter, who had remained where they were
stopped, and, reaching down, said a kind word to the bashful little
fellows, who shrank close up to their mother, and did not reply. This
simple act filled the father’s cup full. “The Lord is with you, Mr.
President,” he said reverently; and then, hesitating a moment, he
added, with strong emphasis, “and the people too, sir; and the people
too!”
The walk, of a mile or more, was made very agreeable and interesting
to me by a variety of stories, of which Mr. Lincoln’s mind was so
prolific. Something was said soon after we started about the penalty
which attached to high positions in a democratic government--the
tribute those filling them were compelled to pay to the public. “Great
men,” said Mr. Lincoln, “have various estimates. When Daniel Webster
made his tour through the West years ago, he visited Springfield among
other places, where great preparations had been made to receive him. As
the procession was going through the town, a barefooted little darkey
boy pulled the sleeve of a man named T., and asked,--‘What the folks
were all doing down the street?’ ‘Why, Jack,’ was the reply, ‘the
biggest man in the world is coming.’ Now, there lived in Springfield a
man by the name of G.,--a very corpulent man. Jack darted off down the
street, but presently returned, with a very disappointed air. ‘Well,
did you see him?’ inquired T. ‘Yees,’ returned Jack; ‘but laws--he
ain’t half as big as old G.’”
Shortly afterward, he spoke of Mr. Ewing, who was in both President
Harrison’s and President Taylor’s cabinet. “Those men,” said he, “were,
you know, when elected, both of advanced years,--sages. Ewing had
received, in some way, the nickname of ‘Old Solitude.’ Soon after the
formation of Taylor’s cabinet, Webster and Ewing happened to meet at an
evening party. As they approached each other, Webster, who was in fine
spirits, uttered, in his deepest bass tones, the well-known lines,--
“‘O Solitude, where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face?’”
The evening of Tuesday I dined with Mr. Chase, the Secretary of the
Treasury, of whom I painted a portrait in 1855, upon the close of his
term as United States Senator. He said during the dinner, that, shortly
after the dedication of the cemetery at Gettysburg, the President told
this story at a cabinet meeting. “Thad. Stevens was asked by some one,
the morning of the day appointed for that ceremony, where the President
and Mr. Seward were going. ‘To Gettysburg,’ was the reply. ‘But where
are Stanton and Chase?’ continued the questioner. ‘At home, at work,’
was the surly answer; ‘let the dead bury the dead.’” This was some
months previous to the Baltimore Convention, when it was thought by
some of the leaders of the party, that Mr. Lincoln’s chances for a
renomination were somewhat dubious.
Levee night occurring weekly, during the regular season, was always a
trying one to the President. Whenever sympathy was expressed for him,
however, he would turn it off playfully, asserting that the tug at his
hand was much easier to bear than that upon his heartstrings for all
manner of favors beyond his power to grant, to which he had daily to
submit. As I took his hand at the levee, which closed my first day’s
experiences with him, he said in his homely way, “Well, C., you have
seen one day’s run;--what is your opinion of it?”
XIII.
Wednesday morning was devoted to the continued examination of the
court-martial cases, to the great vexation of a score of political
applicants, whom I could hear impatiently pacing the floor of the
hall and waiting-room. At one o’clock, however, the doors were thrown
open, and the throng admitted and dismissed, as rapidly as possible.
I was much amused and interested, later in the day, in a variety of
characters who presented themselves. First was an elderly lady, plainly
but comfortably dressed, whose son was a prisoner in Baltimore. Her
story, spun out to some length, was briefly this: Her son had been
serving in the Rebel army. He heard that his sister was lying dead at
home, and his mother at the supposed point of death. He determined to
see them, and succeeded in getting through our lines undiscovered. He
found his mother better. Before he got ready to return, he became very
ill himself. She said she hid him in the house until he recovered, and
on his way back to his regiment he was captured. He was now anxious
to take the oath, and his mother assured the President that he should
henceforth “have nothing to do with the Rebels.” Mr. Lincoln sat
quietly through the story, his face in half shadow. As she finished he
said, with some impatience,--“Now this is a pretty story to come to me
with, isn’t it? Your son came home from fighting against his country;
he was sick; you secreted him, nursed him up, and when cured, started
him off again to help destroy some more of our boys. Taken prisoner,
trying to get through our lines, you now want me to let him off upon
his oath.” “Yes,” said the woman, not in the least disconcerted, “and
I give you my word, Mr. President, he shall never have anything more
to do with the Rebels--never--I was always opposed to his joining
them.” “Your word,” rejoined Mr. Lincoln dryly, “what do I know about
your word?” He finally took the application, and writing something
upon the back of it, returned it to her with the words, “Now, I want
you to understand that I have done this just to get rid of you!” “Oh,”
said she, “Mr. President, I have always heard that you were such
a kind-hearted man, and now I know it is true.” And so, with much
apparent satisfaction, she withdrew.
The party that followed consisted of a lady and two gentlemen. She had
come to ask that her husband, who was also a prisoner of war, might be
permitted to take the oath and be released from confinement. To secure
a degree of interest on the part of the President, one of the gentlemen
claimed to be an acquaintance of Mrs. Lincoln; this, however, received
but little attention and the President proceeded to ask what position
the lady’s husband held in the Rebel service. “Oh,” said she, “he was
a captain.” “_A captain!_,” rejoined Mr. Lincoln, “indeed!--rather
too big a fish to set free simply upon his taking the oath. If he was
an officer, it is proof positive that he has been a zealous rebel; I
cannot release him.” Here the lady’s friend reiterated the assertion
of his acquaintance with Mrs. Lincoln. Instantly the President’s hand
was upon the bell-rope. The usher in attendance answered the summons.
“Cornelius, take this man’s name to Mrs. Lincoln, and ask her what
she knows of him.” The boy presently returned, with the reply that
“_the Madam_” (as she was called by the servants) knew nothing of him
whatever. The man said it was very strange. “Well, it is just as I
suspected,” said the President. The party made one more attempt to
enlist his sympathy, but without effect. “It is of no use,” was the
reply; “I cannot release him;” and the trio withdrew, the lady in high
displeasure.
Next came a Methodist minister by the name of “G.,” claiming to be the
son of the inventor of iron-clad gunboats. He had understood that the
President appointed the hospital chaplains, and he greatly desired such
a place. Mr. Lincoln replied rather curtly, that he could do nothing
for him. “But I was told, sir, that these appointments were made by the
President,” said the gentleman, very respectfully. “I will just tell
you how that is,” was the answer; “when there are vacancies I appoint,
not without.” The clergyman here alluded to his having left with the
private secretary a war-sermon which he had lately preached. Stepping
out, he returned with the pamphlet, saying, as he handed it to the
President, “I suppose, sir, you have little time to read anything of
this kind; but I shall be very glad to leave it with you.” Upon this he
bowed himself out, and the sermon was carelessly tossed aside, never to
be thought of again by Mr. Lincoln.
Subsequently the sermon fell into my hands. The only thing I remember
about it was the practical application of a professional incident.
The clergyman one day fell in with two soldiers fighting. One had
the other down, and was severely handling him. Rebuking the men, the
one underneath responded very heartily, “Plase your _riverince_, I
am willing to give up this minute, solely out of respect for your
_riverince_.” And so the preacher thought the South should be made to
say “in regard to the Constitution.”
XIV.
The examples given of the observations of two days, are fair
illustrations of the usual White House routine, varied of course
by official or diplomatic business, and a greater or less pressure
of visitors, some of whom would linger in the anteroom day after
day, waiting admission. The incidents of no two days could of course
be alike. I shall never cease to regret that an additional private
secretary could not have been appointed, whose exclusive duty it should
have been to look after and keep a record of all cases appealing to
executive clemency. It would have afforded full employment for one man,
at least; and such a volume would now be beyond all price.
Just before leaving for Washington, I met a brother artist, who, upon
learning of my proposed purpose, laid before me the details of an
interesting case, concerning his only son, begging me to bring the
circumstances to the President’s knowledge. When the war broke out the
young man in question was living at the South. Eventually driven into
the Rebel service, he was improving his first opportunity to go over to
the Union lines, when he was taken prisoner. His story was disbelieved,
and he had been in prison for more than a year at Alton, Illinois. His
father had spent many months in the endeavor to have him released,
without success. So many formalities and technicalities were in the way
that he became completely discouraged, and appealed to me as his last
hope. The boy was very ill, and he feared if not speedily released,
would soon die. Promising the father that I would bear the case in
mind, I improved an opportunity, as soon as I felt sure of having found
favor with the President, to speak to him about it. I believe it was
on the private staircase, that, meeting him one evening, I ventured
to introduce the subject. I assured him of the entire good faith and
loyalty of both father and son. Of course he had never heard of the
case before. Considering the subject a moment, he said, “Come up-stairs
by-and-by, and I guess we can fix it up.”
An hour later I entered his room, and gave him very briefly the
particulars of the case; reading one or two letters from the young
man to his father. “That will do,” said the President, putting on his
spectacles, and taking the letter out of my hand, he turned it over
and wrote on the back of it, “Release this man upon his taking the
oath. A. LINCOLN.” “There,” said he, “you can take that over to the War
Department yourself, if you choose. You will find it all right.”
XV.
Wednesday night, February 10th, was an exciting one at the White House,
the stables belonging to the mansion being burned to the ground.
The loss most severely felt was of the two ponies, one of which had
belonged to Willie Lincoln, the President’s second son, who died in
1862, and the other to Tad, the youngest, and pet of his father, who in
his infancy nicknamed him Tadpole, subsequently abbreviated to Taddie,
and then Tad. His real name is Thomas, named for the father of Mr.
Lincoln. Upon “Tad’s” learning of the loss, he threw himself at full
length upon the floor, and could not be comforted. The only allusion
I ever heard the President make to Willie was on this occasion, in
connection with the loss of his pony. John Hay, the assistant private
secretary, told me that he was rarely known to speak of his lost son.
The morning following the fire, Robert Lincoln came into his father’s
office, and said he had a point of law which he wished to submit. It
appeared that one of the coachmen had two or three hundred dollars
in greenbacks in his room over the stables, which were consumed.
Robert said that he and John Hay had been having an argument as to the
liability of the government for its notes, where it could be shown that
they had been burned, or otherwise destroyed. The President turned the
matter over in his mind for a moment, and said, “The payment of a note
presupposes its presentation to the maker of it. It is the sign or
symbol of value received; it is not _value_ itself, that is clear. At
the same time the production of the note seems a necessary warrant for
the demand; and while the moral obligation is as strong without this,
governments and banking institutions do not recognize any principle
beyond the strictly legal. It is an established rule that the citizen
cannot sue the government; therefore, I don’t see but that it is a dead
loss for Jehu.”
About this time a couple of Kentucky gentlemen called. As they rose
to take leave, one of them, who may have noticed little Tad,--as he
usually spent much time in his father’s office,--said to the President:
“General Crittenden told me an interesting incident about his son,
eight or nine years old, a few days since. A day or two after the
battle of Chickamauga, the little fellow came into camp. The General
rode during the battle a horse which went by the name of John Jay, a
great favorite with his son. Manifesting his delight upon again seeing
his father, by covering him with caresses, the child at length said,
‘Papa, where is John Jay?’ ‘Oh,’ said his father, ‘your horse behaved
very badly during the fight; he insisted, very cowardly, upon taking me
to the rear.’ The little fellow’s eyes sparkled. ‘Papa,’ said he, ‘I
know John Jay would never have done that of his own will. It must have
been _your_ work.’”
Montgomery Blair told me that when the convention which nominated
Mr. Lincoln met at Chicago, there was a hideous painting in the hall
which was brought forward subsequently as a likeness of the nominee.
Most of the delegates having never seen the original, the effect upon
them was indescribable. I replied to Mr. Blair that my friend Brady,
the photographer, insisted that his photograph of Mr. Lincoln, taken
the morning of the day he made his Cooper Institute speech in New
York,--much the best portrait, by the way, in circulation of him
during the campaign,--was the means of his election. That it helped
largely to this end I do not doubt. The effect of such influences,
though silent, is powerful. Fremont once said to me, that the villanous
wood-cut published by the New York “Tribune,” the next day after his
nomination, lost him twenty-five votes in one township, to his certain
knowledge.
On one of the last days of February, I called, with my friend W----,
of New York, upon Mr. Lovejoy, who was supposed to be convalescent. He
thought himself nearly well again, and was in fine spirits. Indications
of an organized movement to bring forward Fremont, as an opposition
candidate to Mr. Lincoln, had recently appeared. Mr. Lovejoy was very
severe upon it; he said, “Any attempt to divide the party at such a
time was criminal in the last degree.” I remember observing that many
of the extreme anti-slavery men appeared to distrust the President.
This drew out his indignant condemnation. “I tell you,” said he, “Mr.
Lincoln is at heart as strong an anti-slavery man as any of them, but
he is compelled to _feel_ his way. He has a responsibility in this
matter which many men do not seem to be able to comprehend. I say to
you frankly, that I believe his course to be right. His mind acts
slowly, but when he moves, it is _forward_. You will never find him
receding from a position once taken. It is of no use talking, or
getting up conventions against him. He is going to be the candidate
of the Baltimore Convention, and is sure to be reëlected. ‘It was
foreordained from the foundation of the world.’ I have no sympathy or
patience with those who are trying to manufacture issues against him;
but they will not succeed; he is too strong with the masses. For my
part,” he concluded, “I am not only willing to take Mr. Lincoln for
another term, but the same cabinet, right straight through.”
XVI.
Wednesday, March 2d, I had an unusually long and interesting sitting
from the President. I invited Mr. Samuel Sinclair, of New York, who was
in Washington, to be present. The news had recently been received of
the disaster under General Seymour in Florida. Many newspapers openly
charged the President with having sent the expedition with primary
reference to restoring the State in season to secure its vote at the
forthcoming Baltimore Convention. Mr. Lincoln was deeply wounded by
these charges. He referred to them during the sitting; and gave a
simple and truthful statement of the affair, which was planned, if
I remember rightly, by General Gillmore. A few days afterward, an
editorial appeared in the New York “Tribune,” which was known not to
favor Mr. Lincoln’s renomination, entirely exonerating him from all
blame. I took the article to him in his study, and he expressed much
gratification at its candor. It was, perhaps, in connection with the
newspaper attacks, that he told, during the sitting, this story.--“A
traveller on the frontier found himself out of his reckoning one night
in a most inhospitable region. A terrific thunder-storm came up, to
add to his trouble. He floundered along until his horse at length gave
out. The lightning afforded him the only clew to his way, but the peals
of thunder were frightful. One bolt, which seemed to crash the earth
beneath him, brought him to his knees. By no means a praying man, his
petition was short and to the point,--“O Lord, if it is all the same to
you, give us a little more light and a little less noise!”
Presently the conversation turned upon Shakspeare, of whom it is well
known Mr. Lincoln was very fond. He once remarked, “It matters not
to me whether Shakspeare be well or ill acted; with him the thought
suffices.” Edwin Booth was playing an engagement at this time at
Grover’s Theatre. He had been announced for the coming evening in
his famous part of _Hamlet_. The President had never witnessed his
representation of this character, and he proposed being present. The
mention of this play, which I afterward learned had at all times a
peculiar charm for Mr. Lincoln’s mind, waked up a train of thought I
was not prepared for. Said he,--and his words have often returned to
me with a sad interest since his own assassination,--“There is one
passage of the play of “Hamlet” which is very apt to be slurred over
by the actor, or omitted altogether, which seems to me the choicest
part of the play. It is the soliloquy of the king, after the murder. It
always struck me as one of the finest touches of nature in the world.”
Then, throwing himself into the very spirit of the scene, he took up
the words:--
“O my offence is rank, it smells to heaven;
It hath the primal eldest curse upon ’t,
A brother’s murder!--Pray can I not,
Though inclination be as sharp as will;
My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent;
And, like a man to double business bound,
I stand in pause where I shall first begin,
And both neglect. What if this cursed hand
Were thicker than itself with brother’s blood?
Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens
To wash it white as snow? Whereto serves mercy
But to confront the visage of offence;
And what’s in prayer but this twofold force--
To be forestalled ere we come to fall,
Or pardoned, being down? Then I’ll look up;
My fault is past. But O what form of prayer
Can serve my turn? Forgive me my foul murder?--
That cannot be; since I am still possessed
Of those effects for which I did the murder,--
My crown, my own ambition, and my queen.
May one be pardoned and retain the offence?
In the corrupted currents of this world,
Offence’s gilded hand may shove by justice,
And oft ’tis seen the wicked prize itself
Buys out the law; but ’tis not so _above_.
There is no shuffling; there the action lies
In its true nature; and we ourselves compelled,
Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults,
To give in evidence. What then? what rests?
Try what repentance can; what can it not?
Yet what can it when one cannot repent?
O wretched state! O bosom black as death!
O bruised soul that, struggling to be free,
Art more engaged! Help, angels, make assay!
Bow, stubborn knees! And heart with strings of steel,
Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe;
All may be well!”
He repeated this entire passage from memory, with a feeling and
appreciation unsurpassed by anything I ever witnessed upon the stage.
Remaining in thought for a few moments, he continued:--
“The opening of the play of ‘King Richard the Third’ seems to me often
entirely misapprehended. It is quite common for an actor to come upon
the stage, and, in a sophomoric style, to begin with a flourish:--
“‘Now is the winter of our discontent
Made glorious summer by this sun of York,
And all the clouds that lowered upon our house,
In the deep bosom of the ocean buried!’
Now,” said he, “this is all wrong. Richard, you remember, had been, and
was then, plotting the destruction of his brothers, to make room for
himself. Outwardly, the most loyal to the newly crowned king, secretly
he could scarcely contain his impatience at the obstacles still in
the way of his own elevation. He appears upon the stage, just after
the crowning of Edward, burning with repressed hate and jealousy. The
prologue is the utterance of the most intense bitterness and satire.”
Then, unconsciously assuming the character, Mr. Lincoln repeated, also
from memory, Richard’s soliloquy, rendering it with a degree of force
and power that made it seem like a new creation to me. Though familiar
with the passage from boyhood, I can truly say that never till that
moment had I fully appreciated its spirit. I could not refrain from
laying down my palette and brushes, and applauding heartily, upon his
conclusion, saying, at the same time, half in earnest, that I was not
sure but that he had made a mistake in the choice of a profession,
considerably, as may be imagined, to his amusement. Mr. Sinclair has
since repeatedly said to me that he never heard these choice passages
of Shakspeare rendered with more effect by the most famous of modern
actors.
Mr. Lincoln’s memory was very remarkable. With the multitude of
visitors whom he saw daily, I was often amazed at the readiness with
which he recalled faces and events and even names. At one of the
afternoon receptions, a stranger shook hands with him, and, as he did
so, remarked, casually, that he was elected to Congress about the
time Mr. Lincoln’s term as representative expired. “Yes,” said the
President, “you are from ----,” mentioning the State. “I remember
reading of your election in a newspaper one morning on a steamboat
going down to Mount Vernon.” At another time a gentleman addressed him,
saying, “I presume, Mr. President, that you have forgotten me?” “No,”
was the prompt reply, “your name is Flood. I saw you last, twelve years
ago, at ----,” naming the place and the occasion. “I am glad to see,”
he continued, “that the _Flood_ flows on.” Subsequent to his reëlection
a deputation of bankers from various sections were introduced one
day by the Secretary of the Treasury. After a few moments’ general
conversation, Mr. Lincoln turned to one of them, and said: “Your
district did not give me so strong a vote at the last election as it
did in 1860.” “I think, sir, that you must be mistaken,” replied the
banker. “I have the impression that your majority was considerably
increased at the last election.” “No,” rejoined the President, “you
fell off about six hundred votes.” Then taking down from the bookcase
the official canvass of 1860 and 1864, he referred to the vote of the
district named, and proved to be quite right in his assertion.
During this interview,--related to me by one of the party, Mr. P----,
of Chelsea, Mass.,--a member of the delegation referred to the severity
of the tax laid by Congress upon the State Banks. “Now,” said Mr.
Lincoln, “that reminds me of a circumstance that took place in a
neighborhood where I lived when I was a boy. In the spring of the year
the farmers were very fond of the dish which they called greens, though
the fashionable name for it nowadays is spinach, I believe. One day
after dinner, a large family were taken very ill. The doctor was called
in, who attributed it to the greens, of which all had freely partaken.
Living in the family was a half-witted boy named Jake. On a subsequent
occasion, when greens had been gathered for dinner, the head of the
house said: ‘Now, boys, before running any further risk in this thing,
we will first try them on Jake. If he stands it, we are all right.’ And
just so, I suppose,” said Mr. Lincoln, “Congress thought of the State
Banks!”
XVII.
While sitting one day, Secretary Stanton--whom I usually found quite
taciturn--referred to the meeting of the Buchanan Cabinet called upon
receipt of the news that Colonel Anderson had evacuated Moultrie, and
gone into Fort Sumter. “This little incident,” said Stanton, “was
the crisis of our history,--the pivot upon which everything turned.
Had he remained in Fort Moultrie, a very different combination of
circumstances would have arisen. The attack on Sumter--commenced by
the South--united the North, and made the success of the Confederacy
impossible. I shall never forget,” he continued, “our coming together
by special summons that night. Buchanan sat in his arm-chair in a
corner of the room, white as a sheet, with the stump of a cigar in
his mouth. The despatches were laid before us; and so much violence
ensued, that he had to turn us all out-of-doors.”
The day following, by special permission of Mr. Lincoln, I was present
at the regular Cabinet meeting. Judge Bates came in first, and,
taking a package out of his pocket, said, “You may not be aware, Mr.
President, that you have a formidable rival in the field. I received
this through the mail to-day.” He unfolded an immense placard, on which
was printed in large letters,--“I introduce for President of the United
States, Mr. T. W. Smith [I think this was the name], of Philadelphia.”
The bill then went on to enumerate the qualifications of the candidate,
which were of a stunning order; and the whole was signed “George
Bates,” which the Attorney-General said might be a relative of his,
for aught he knew. This decidedly original document was pinned up in
a conspicuous place in the council-chamber, where it hung for several
days, of course attracting the attention of all visitors, and creating
much amusement.
The disaster on the Red River was the subject of official consultation.
The positions of the respective forces were traced on the war maps,
and various suggestions and opinions offered. The Secretary of the
Interior, looking over to where the Secretary of War sat, said he had
a young friend whom he wished to have appointed a paymaster in the
army. “How old is he?” asked Stanton, gruffly. “About twenty-one, I
believe,” answered the Secretary of the Interior; “he is of good family
and excellent character.” “Usher,” was the reply, “I would not appoint
the Angel Gabriel a paymaster, if he was only twenty-one.”
Judge Bates, who was to have a sitting after the adjournment, here
beckoned to me, signifying that he was ready for the appointment. And
so ended my brief glimpse of a cabinet in session.
XVIII.
General Grant reached Washington, after his nomination to the
Lieutenant-Generalship, the evening of March 8th, 1864. His reception
at Willard’s Hotel, unaccompanied by staff or escort, was an event
never to be forgotten by those who witnessed it. Later in the evening
he attended the Presidential levee, entering the reception-room
unannounced. He was recognized and welcomed by the President with the
utmost cordiality, and the distinguished stranger was soon nearly
overwhelmed by the pressure of the crowd upon him. Secretary Seward at
length mounting a sofa, pulled the modest hero up by his side, where
he stood for some time, bowing his acknowledgments to the tumultuous
assemblage. He subsequently remarked that this was “his warmest
campaign during the war.”
The next day at one o’clock he was formally presented by the President
with his commission as Lieutenant-General. The ceremony took place in
the presence of the Cabinet, the Hon. Mr. Lovejoy, and several officers
of the army, and was very brief and simple, as became the character of
each of the illustrious chief actors.
On the day following General Grant visited the Army of the Potomac, and
upon his return to Washington he made preparations to leave immediately
for the West. At the close of a consultation with the President
and Secretary of War, he was informed that Mrs. Lincoln expected
his presence the same evening at a military dinner she proposed to
give in his honor. The General at once responded that it would be
impossible for him to remain over,--he “must be in Tennessee at a given
time.” “But we can’t excuse you,” returned the President. “It would
be the play of ‘Hamlet’ with _Hamlet_ left out, over again. Twelve
distinguished officers, now in the city, have been invited to meet
you.” “I appreciate fully the honor Mrs. Lincoln would do me,” replied
the General, hesitatingly, knocking the ashes off the end of his cigar;
“but--time is very precious just now--and--really, Mr. President, I
believe I have had enough of the ‘_show_’ business!”
The dinner was given; the twelve officers did full justice to it;
but it is needless to add, the Lieutenant-General was not one of the
number.
XIX.
The evening of March 25th was an intensely interesting one to me.
It was passed with the President alone in his study, marked by no
interruptions. Busy with pen and papers when I entered, he presently
threw them aside, and commenced talking again about Shakspeare. Little
Tad coming in, he sent him to the library for a copy of the plays, from
which he read aloud several of his favorite passages. Relapsing into a
sadder strain, he laid the book aside, and leaning back in his chair,
said, “There is a poem that has been a great favorite with me for
years, to which my attention was first called when a young man, by a
friend, and which I afterward saw and cut from a newspaper, and carried
in my pocket, till by frequent reading I had it by heart. I would give
a great deal,” he added, “to know who wrote it, but I never could
ascertain.” Then, half closing his eyes, he repeated the poem, “Oh! why
should the spirit of mortal be proud?” Surprised and delighted, I told
him that I should greatly prize a copy of the lines. He replied that he
had recently written them out for Mrs. Stanton, but promised that when
a favorable opportunity occurred he would give them to me.
Varying the subject, he continued: “There are some quaint, queer
verses, written, I think, by Oliver Wendell Holmes, entitled, ‘The Last
Leaf,’ one of which is to me inexpressibly touching. He then repeated
these also from memory. The verse he referred to occurs in about the
middle of the poem, and is this:--
“The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has pressed
In their bloom;
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.”
As he finished this verse, he said, in his emphatic way, “For pure
pathos, in my judgment, there is nothing finer than those six lines in
the English language!”
A day or two afterward, he asked me to accompany him to the temporary
studio, at the Treasury Department, of Mr. Swayne, the sculptor, who
was making a bust of him. While he was sitting, it occurred to me to
improve the opportunity to secure the promised poem. Upon mentioning
the subject, the sculptor surprised me by saying that he had at his
home, in Philadelphia, a printed copy of the verses, taken from a
newspaper some years previous. The President inquired if they were
published in any connection with his name. Mr. Swayne said that they
purported to have been _written_ “by Abraham Lincoln.” “I have heard
of that before, and that is why I asked,” returned the President. “But
there is no truth in it. The poem was first shown to me by a young man
named ‘Jason Duncan,’ many years ago.”
The sculptor was using for a studio the office of the Solicitor of
the Treasury Department, an irregular room, packed nearly full of law
books. Seating myself, I believe, upon a pile of these at Mr. Lincoln’s
feet, he kindly repeated the lines, which I wrote down, one by one, as
they fell from his lips:--
OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?[2]
Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved;
The mother that infant’s affection who proved;
The husband, that mother and infant who blest,--
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.
[The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure,--her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.]
The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.
The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap,
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep,
The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
[The saint, who enjoyed the communion of Heaven,
The sinner, who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.]
So the multitude goes--like the flower or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes--even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.
For we are the same our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, we view the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking, our fathers would shrink;
To the life we are clinging, they also would cling;--
But it speeds from us all like a bird on the wing.
They loved--but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned--but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved--but no wail from their slumber will come;
They joyed--but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
They died--ay, they died;--we things that are now,
That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
And make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together in sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
’Tis the wink of an eye--’tis the draught of a breath--
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud:--
Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
XX.
On the way to the sculptor’s studio a conversation occurred of much
significance, in view of the terrible tragedy so soon to paralyze every
loyal heart in the nation. A late number of the New York “Tribune”
had contained an account from a correspondent within the Rebel
lines, of an elaborate conspiracy, matured in Richmond, to abduct,
or assassinate--if the first was not found practicable--the person
of the President. A secret organization, composed, it was stated,
of five hundred or a thousand men, had solemnly sworn to accomplish
the deed. Mr. Lincoln had not seen or heard of this account, and at
his request, I gave him the details. Upon the conclusion, he smiled
incredulously, and said: “Well, even if true, I do not see what the
Rebels would gain by killing or getting possession of me. I am but
a single individual, and it would not help their cause or make the
least difference in the progress of the war. Everything would go right
on just the same. Soon after I was nominated at Chicago, I began to
receive letters threatening my life. The first one or two made me
a little uncomfortable, but I came at length to look for a regular
instalment of this kind of correspondence in every week’s mail, and up
to inauguration day I was in constant receipt of such letters. It is no
uncommon thing to receive them now; but they have ceased to give me any
apprehension.” I expressed some surprise at this, but he replied in
his peculiar way, “Oh, there is nothing like getting _used_ to things!”
In connection with this, Mr. Noah Brooks,--who was to have been Mr.
Nicolay’s successor as private secretary to the President,--and
Colonel Charles G. Halpine, of New York, have referred to personal
conversations of exceeding interest, which I transcribe.
In an article contributed to “Harper’s Magazine,” soon after the
assassination, Mr. Brooks says:--
“The simple habits of Mr. Lincoln were so well known that it is a
subject for surprise that watchful and malignant treason did not sooner
take that precious life which he seemed to hold so lightly. He had
an almost morbid dislike for an escort, or guide, and daily exposed
himself to the deadly aim of an assassin. One summer morning, passing
by the White House at an early hour, I saw the President standing at
the gateway, looking anxiously down the street; and, in reply to a
salutation, he said, ‘Good morning, good morning! I am looking for a
newsboy; when you get to that corner, I wish you would start one up
this way.’ In reply to the remonstrances of friends, who were afraid
of his constant exposure to danger, he had but one answer: ‘If they
kill me, the next man will be just as bad for them; and in a country
like this, where our habits are simple, and must be, assassination is
always possible, and will come, if they are determined upon it.’”
A cavalry guard was once placed at the gates of the White House for a
while, and he said, privately, that “he worried until he got rid of
it.” While the President’s family were at their summer-house, near
Washington, he rode into town of a morning, or out at night, attended
by a mounted escort; but if he returned to town for a while after dark,
he rode in unguarded, and often alone, in his open carriage. On more
than one occasion the writer has gone through the streets of Washington
at a late hour of the night with the President, without escort, or even
the company of a servant, walking all of the way, going and returning.
Considering the many open and secret threats to take his life, it is
not surprising that Mr. Lincoln had many thoughts about his coming to
a sudden and violent end. He once said that he felt the force of the
expression, “To take one’s life in his hand;” but that he would not
like to face death suddenly. He said that he thought himself a great
coward physically, and was sure that he would make a poor soldier, for,
unless there was something inspiriting in the excitement of a battle,
he was sure that he would drop his gun and run, at the first symptom
of danger. That was said sportively, and he added, “Moral cowardice is
something which I think I never had.”
Colonel Halpine, while serving as a member of General Halleck’s staff,
had frequently to wait upon the President, both during official hours
and at other times. On one of these occasions, Mr. Lincoln concluded
some interesting remarks with these words: “It would never do for
a President to have guards with drawn sabres at his door, as if he
fancied he were, or were trying to be, or were assuming to be, an
emperor.”
“This expression,” writes Colonel Halpine, “called my attention afresh
to what I had remarked to myself almost every time I entered the White
House, and to which I had very frequently called the attention both of
Major Hay and General Halleck--the utterly unprotected condition of the
President’s person, and the fact that any assassin or maniac, seeking
his life, could enter his presence without the interference of a single
armed man to hold him back. The entrance-doors, and all doors on the
official side of the building, were open at all hours of the day, and
very late into the evening; and I have many times entered the mansion,
and walked up to the rooms of the two private secretaries, as late
as nine or ten o’clock at night, without seeing or being challenged
by a single soul. There were, indeed, two attendants,--one for the
outer door, and the other for the door of the official chambers; but
these--thinking, I suppose, that none would call after office hours
save persons who were personally acquainted, or had the right of
official entry--were, not unfrequently, somewhat remiss in their
duties.
“To this fact I now ventured to call the President’s attention,
saying that to me--perhaps from my European education--it appeared a
deliberate courting of danger, even if the country were in a state of
the profoundest peace, for the person at the head of the nation to
remain so unprotected.
“‘There are two dangers,’ I wound up by saying; ‘the danger of
deliberate political assassination, and the mere brute violence of
insanity.’
“Mr. Lincoln heard me through with a smile, his hands locked across his
knees, his body rocking back and forth,--the common indication that he
was amused.
“‘Now, as to political assassination,’ he said, ‘do you think the
Richmond people would like to have Hannibal Hamlin here any better
than myself? In that one alternative, I have an insurance on my
life worth half the prairie land of Illinois. And beside,’--this
more gravely,--‘if there were such a plot, and they wanted to get
at me, no vigilance could keep them out. We are so mixed up in our
affairs, that--no matter what the system established--a conspiracy to
assassinate, if such there were, could easily obtain a pass to see me
for any one or more of its instruments.
“‘To betray fear of this, by placing guards or so forth, would only be
to put the idea into their heads, and perhaps lead to the very result
it was intended to prevent. As to the crazy folks, Major, why I must
only take my chances,--the worst crazy people at present, I fear, being
some of my own too zealous adherents. That there may be such dangers
as you and many others have suggested to me, is quite possible; but I
guess it wouldn’t improve things any to publish that we were afraid of
them in advance.’
“Upon another occasion I remember his coming over one evening after
dinner, to General Halleck’s private quarters, to protest--half
jocularly, half in earnest--against a small detachment of cavalry which
had been detailed without his request, and partly against his will, by
the lamented General Wadsworth, as a guard for his carriage in going
to and returning from the Soldiers’ Home. The burden of his complaint
was that he and Mrs. Lincoln ‘couldn’t hear themselves talk,’ for the
clatter of their sabres and spurs; and that, as many of them appeared
new hands and very awkward, he was more afraid of being shot by the
accidental discharge of one of their carbines or revolvers, than of any
attempt upon his life or for his capture by the roving squads of Jeb
Stuart’s cavalry, then hovering all round the exterior works of the
city.”
XXI.
Judge Bates, the Attorney-General, was one day very severe upon the
modern deal school of art, as applied to historic characters and
events. He instanced in sculpture, Greenough’s “Washington,” in the
Capitol grounds, which, he said, was a very good illustration of the
heathen idea of Jupiter Tonans, but was the farthest possible remove
from any American’s conception of the Father of his Country. Powell’s
painting in the Rotunda, “De Soto discovering the Mississippi,” and
Mills’s equestrian statue of Jackson, in front of the President’s
House, shared in his sarcastic condemnation. He quoted from an old
English poet--Creech, I think he said--with much unction:--
“Whatever contradicts my sense
I hate to see, and can but disbelieve.”
“Genius and talent,” said he, on another occasion, “are rarely found
combined in one individual.” I requested his definition of the
distinction. “Genius,” he replied, “conceives; talent executes.”
Referring to Mr. Lincoln’s never-failing fund of anecdote, he remarked,
“The character of the President’s mind is such that his thought
habitually takes on this form of illustration, by which the point
he wishes to enforce is invariably brought home with a strength and
clearness impossible in hours of abstract argument. Mr. Lincoln,” he
added, “comes very near being a perfect man, according to my ideal of
manhood. He lacks but one thing.” Looking up from my palette, I asked,
musingly, if this was official dignity as President. “No,” replied
Judge Bates, “that is of little consequence. His deficiency is in the
element of _will_. I have sometimes told him, for instance, that he was
unfit to be intrusted with the pardoning power. Why, if a man comes
to him with a touching story, his judgment is almost certain to be
affected by it. Should the applicant be a _woman_, a wife, a mother, or
a sister,--in nine cases out of ten, her tears, if nothing else, are
sure to prevail.”
XXII.
Mr. Seward, whose conversation much of the time, while sitting, was
like that of a man soliloquizing aloud, told me on one occasion two
or three good stories. Referring to the numerous portraits painted
of him at different times, he said, that of all artists whom he had
known, Henry Inman was most rapid in execution. For the full-length
portrait, painted while he was Governor, for the city of New York,
Inman required but two or three sittings of an hour each, with an
additional quarter of an hour for the standing figure. This drew out
something from me in relation to Elliott’s whole length of him, painted
at the same period. “My experience with Elliott,” he rejoined, “who
was then in the beginning of his career, was a very different affair.
He seemed to think me like Governor Crittenden’s hen.” Laughing at
the recollection, he lighted a cigar, and continued: “One day the
Governor was engaged with his Council, when his little boy, of five or
six years, came into the chamber, and said, ‘Father, the black hen is
_setting_.’ ‘Go away, my son,’ returned the Governor; ‘I am very busy.’
The child disappeared, but soon returned, and putting his head in at
the door, repeated the information. ‘Well, well,’ replied the Governor,
‘you must not bother me now; let her _set_.’ The door was shut, but
soon afterward again cautiously opened, in the midst of a profound
discussion, and the words rang out, ‘But father, she is setting on one
egg!’ The Governor turned around, and looking into the dilated eyes of
the excited little fellow, replied dryly, ‘Well, my son, I think we
will let her _set_. Her time is not _very_ precious!’”
Another was of General R----, formerly of the New York State Senate.
At the regular session one day, the General gave notice that the
following day he would introduce a bill providing a thermometer for
every institution of learning in the State. The next morning the clerk
was in his private office at the usual hour, reading the bills aloud,
and placing them on file for the business of the day. A gentleman who
prided himself upon his classical attainments was present, and, as the
clerk read the notice given by Senator R----, he was informed that a
word borrowed from another language should, according to the rule,
always be given its native pronunciation. The original of thermometer,
the gentleman said, was a French term, which should be pronounced
accordingly. By a process of reasoning the clerk was convinced; and
when the bill was announced, he read it according to instructions.
General R---- was observed to look up from writing, and fix his eye
upon the clerk. The second reading passed, and he rose to his feet,
bending forward upon his desk, listening intently, his eyebrows
gradually contracting. “Third reading. Senator R---- gave notice of
a bill to provide a _thermomētre_ for every institution of learning
in the State.” By this time the attention of the entire house was
drawn to the General. “Ther--what?” he demanded, in a stentorian tone.
“_Thermomētre_” quietly responded the confident clerk. “Thermometer!
thermometer! you ---- fool; don’t you know what a thermometer is?”
thundered the enraged Senator, amid roars of laughter.
Speaking once of Henry Clay and Daniel Webster, Mr. Seward remarked,
that, as statesmen, they could not well be compared; “they were no more
alike than a Grecian temple and a Gothic church.”
I was much interested in an opinion he once expressed of equestrian
statues. He said a grand character should never be represented in this
form. It was ignoring the divine in human nature to thus link man with
an animal, and seemed to him a degradation of true art. “Bucephalus,”
in marble or bronze was well enough by itself. Place “Alexander” upon
his back, and though the animal gained a degree of interest, the _man_
lost immeasurably.
XXIII.
Soon after the chalk sketch of my conception had been placed upon the
canvas, I attended one of the receptions given by the Secretary of the
Navy and Mrs. Welles. While standing as I thought unobserved, near a
corner of the room, Mr. Seward approached me, and in a manner of more
than usual warmth, said, “I told the President the other day that you
were painting your picture upon a false presumption.” Looking at him in
some surprise, I inquired his meaning. “Oh,” he rejoined, “you appear
to think in common with many other foolish people, that the great
business of this Administration is the destruction of slavery. Now
allow me to say you are much mistaken. Slavery was killed years ago.
Its death knell was tolled when Abraham Lincoln was elected President.
The work of this Administration is the suppression of the Rebellion
and the preservation of the Union. Abolitionists, like the different
religious sects, have been chasing one idea, until they have come to
believe that their horizon absolutely bounds the world. Slavery has
been in fact but an incident in the history of the nation, inevitably
bound to perish in the progress of intelligence. Future generations
will scarcely credit the record that such an institution ever existed
here; or existing, that it ever lived a day under such a government.
But suppose, for one moment, the Republic destroyed. With it is bound
up not alone the destiny of a race, but the best hopes of all mankind.
With its overthrow the sun of liberty, like the Hebrew dial, would
be set back indefinitely. The magnitude of such a calamity is beyond
our calculation. The salvation of the nation is, then, of vastly more
consequence than the destruction of slavery. Had you consulted me for
a subject to paint, I should not have given you the Cabinet Council
on Emancipation, but the meeting which took place when the news came
of the attack upon Sumter, when the first measures were organized for
the restoration of the national authority. That was the crisis in the
history of this Administration--not the issue of the Emancipation
Proclamation. If I am to be remembered by posterity,” he concluded,
with much excitement of manner, “let it not be as having loved
predominantly white men or black men, but as one who loved his country.”
Assenting to much that he had said, I replied, that with all deference,
I could not accept his conclusions regarding slavery. Although more
than a year had passed since the issue of the proclamation, the
Confederacy, founded upon it, was yet powerful enough to threaten
the destruction of the nation, though, for my own part, I did not
question the result of the conflict. I looked upon the Declaration
of Independence as the _assertion_ that all men were created free.
Mr. Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation was the _demonstration_ of
this great truth. Without slavery the Republic would have been in
no danger. That was the canker-worm gnawing away the nation’s life.
Not until the Administration was ready to strike at the root and
cause of the Rebellion, was there any reason to hope for the success
of the national cause. Without this step, however grand or high the
conception in the minds of men of the Republic, in all probability
it would have perished. Therefore, in my judgment, no single act
of the Administration could for one moment be compared with that
of emancipation. Granting the potential view, the proclamation was
necessary, as the sign and seal of the consummation.
“Well,” replied Mr. Seward, “you think so, and this generation may
agree with you; but posterity will hold a different opinion.”
Of course this conversation could not but attract the attention of
all in the immediate vicinity. A few moments later, Senator Morgan,
referring to the Secretary’s assertion that slavery was dead when
the Rebellion broke out, told me this characteristic incident of the
President, showing that he, at least, did not hold that view. Soon
after the issue of the proclamation, having official business, as
Governor of New York, which called him to Washington, Mr. Lincoln
remarked to him, speaking of his action upon this subject, “We are a
good deal like whalers who have been long on a chase. At last we have
got our harpoon fairly into the monster; but we must now look how we
steer, or with one _flop_ of his tail, he will yet send us all into
eternity!”
XXIV.
Mr. George Thompson, the English anti-slavery orator, delivered an
address in the House of Representatives, to a large audience, April
6th, 1864. Among the distinguished persons present was President
Lincoln, who was greatly interested. The following morning, Mr.
Thompson and party, consisting of Rev. John Pierpont, Oliver Johnson,
formerly President of the Anti-Slavery Society of New York, and
the Hon. Lewis Clephane, of Washington, called at the White House.
The President was alone when their names were announced, with the
exception of myself. Dropping all business, he ordered the party to
be immediately admitted. Greeting them very cordially, the gentlemen
took seats, and Mr. Thompson commenced conversation by referring to
the condition of public sentiment in England in regard to the great
conflict the nation was passing through. He said the aristocracy and
the “money interest” were desirous of seeing the Union broken up, but
that the great heart of the masses beat in sympathy with the North.
They instinctively felt that the cause of liberty was bound up with
our success in putting down the Rebellion, and the struggle was being
watched with the deepest anxiety.
Mr. Lincoln thereupon said: “Mr. Thompson, the people of Great
Britain, and of other foreign governments, were in one great error in
reference to this conflict. They seemed to think that, the moment I
was President, I had the power to abolish slavery, forgetting that,
before I could have any power whatever, I had to take the oath to
support the Constitution of the United States, and execute the laws as
I found them. When the Rebellion broke out, my duty did not admit of
a question. That was, first, by all strictly lawful means to endeavor
to maintain the integrity of the government. I did not consider that
I had a _right_ to touch the ‘State’ institution of ‘Slavery’ until
all other measures for restoring the Union had failed. The paramount
idea of the constitution is the preservation of the Union. It may
not be specified in so many words, but that this was the idea of its
founders is evident; for, without the Union, the constitution would be
worthless. It seems clear, then, that in the last extremity, if any
local institution threatened the existence of the Union, the Executive
could not hesitate as to his duty. In our case, the moment came when I
felt that slavery must die that the nation might live! I have sometimes
used the illustration in this connection of a man with a diseased
limb, and his surgeon. So long as there is a chance of the patient’s
restoration, the surgeon is solemnly bound to try to save both life
_and_ limb; but when the crisis comes, and the limb must be sacrificed
as the only chance of saving the life, no honest man will hesitate.
“Many of my strongest supporters urged _Emancipation_ before I thought
it indispensable, and, I may say, before I thought the country ready
for it. It is my conviction that, had the proclamation been issued
even six months earlier than it was, public sentiment would not have
sustained it. Just so, as to the subsequent action in reference to
enlisting blacks in the Border States. The step, taken sooner, could
not, in my judgment, have been carried out. A man watches his pear-tree
day after day, impatient for the ripening of the fruit. Let him attempt
to _force_ the process, and he may spoil both fruit and tree. But let
him patiently _wait_, and the ripe pear at length falls into his lap!
We have seen this great revolution in public sentiment slowly but
_surely_ progressing, so that, when final action came, the opposition
was not strong enough to defeat the purpose. I can now solemnly
assert,” he concluded, “that I have a clear conscience in regard to my
action on this momentous question. I have done what no man could have
helped doing, standing in my place.”
Oliver Johnson, speaking, as he said, for the old Anti-Slavery party,
assured the President that they had fully appreciated the difficulties
and embarrassments of his position; but when they realized the
importance of the grand issue, and observed the conflicting influences
that were surging around him, they were in an agony of anxiety lest
he should somehow be led to take a false position. If, in the months
preceding the issue of the Emancipation Proclamation, they had seemed
impatient and distrustful, it was because their knowledge of his
character had not been sufficient to assure them that he would be able
to stand up manfully against the opposing current. He thanked God that
the result had shown that we had a President who was equal to the
emergency; and for _his_ part he was willing to sink all minor issues
in the grand consummation he believed then in sight!
A characteristic incident occurred toward the close of the interview.
When the President ceased speaking, the Rev. Mr. Pierpont, impressed
with his earnestness, turned to Mr. Thompson, and repeated a Latin
quotation from the classics. Mr. Lincoln, leaning forward in his chair,
looked from one to the other inquiringly, and then remarked, with a
smile, “_Which_, I suppose you are both aware, _I_ do not understand.”
As the party rose to take leave, the President remarked, motioning
toward me, “We have a young man here who is painting a picture
down-stairs, which I should be glad to have you see.” The gentlemen
expressed their acknowledgments of the courtesy, and Mr. Lincoln led
the way by the private staircase to the state dining-room. In the
passage through the hall he jocularly remarked to Mr. Thompson, “Your
folks made rather sad work of this mansion when they came up the
Potomac in 1812. Nothing was left of it but the bare walls.” I do not
remember the reply to this sally, save that it was given and received
in good part. Briefly going over the portraiture and composition of
the picture, then in too early a stage for criticism, Mr. Lincoln
presently excused himself, and returned to his duties. And thus ended
an interview doubtless indelibly stamped upon the memory of each
individual privileged in sharing it.
Upon referring to the date of the “Hodges” letter, it will be seen
that it was written April 4th, only three days before the visit of
Mr. Thompson and party. The coincidence of thought and expression in
that statement, and the President’s conversation on this occasion, are
noticeable; and are explained by the fact, that, with the language of
that letter still fresh in his mind, he very naturally fell into a
similar vein of illustration.
XXV.
Dr. Holland, in his “Life of Abraham Lincoln,” I regret to observe,
has thought it worth while to notice the reports, which in one way
and another have obtained circulation, that the President habitually
indulged, in ordinary conversation, in a class of objectionable
stories. The biographer, it is true, attempts to palliate this, on
the ground that it was no innate love of impurity which prompted such
relations, but a keen relish for wit, in any form, the lack of refining
influences in early life, and his experience as a lawyer, which
necessarily induced professional familiarity with the foulest phases
of human nature. The fault is a common one with many men of otherwise
unblemished reputation, and cannot be too severely reprehended. The
sooner, however, such things can be forgotten, of neighbor, friend, or
President, the better. Weaknesses and blemishes are inseparable from
common humanity in the present stage of its development; and though,
like the spots on the sun, they may serve to inspire in us a feeling of
kindred,--let the orb once set, never again to rise on the world, and
he who should remember the trifling defects in the universal loss would
certainly be considered, if not captious, at least a most inopportune
critic.
Mr. Lincoln, I am convinced, has been greatly wronged in this respect.
Every foul-mouthed man in the country gave currency to the slime and
filth of his own imagination by attributing it to the President. It
is but simple justice to his memory that I should state, that during
the entire period of my stay in Washington, after witnessing his
intercourse with nearly all classes of men, embracing governors,
senators, members of Congress, officers of the army, and intimate
friends, I cannot recollect to have heard him relate a circumstance
to any one of them, which would have been out of place uttered in a
ladies’ drawing-room. And this testimony is not unsupported by that
of others, well entitled to consideration. Dr. Stone, his family
physician, came in one day to see my studies. Sitting in front of that
of the President,--with whom he did not sympathize politically,--he
remarked, with much feeling, “It is the province of a physician to
probe deeply the interior lives of men; and I affirm that Mr. Lincoln
is the purest hearted man with whom I ever came in contact.” Secretary
Seward, who of the Cabinet officers was probably most intimate with the
President, expressed the same sentiment in still stronger language. He
once said to the Rev. Dr. Bellows: “Mr. Lincoln is the best man I ever
knew!”
XXVI.
The 25th of April, Burnside’s command marched through Washington, on
the way from Annapolis, to reinforce the army of the Potomac. The
President reviewed the troops from the top of the eastern portico
at Willard’s Hotel, standing with uncovered head while the entire
thirty thousand men filed through Fourteenth Street. Of course the
passage of so large a body of troops through the city--presaging as
it did the opening of the campaign--drew out a numerous concourse
of spectators, and the coming movement was everywhere the absorbing
topic of conversation. Early in the evening, Governor Curtin, of
Pennsylvania, with a friend, came into the President’s office. As he
sat down he referred to the fine appearance of Burnside’s men; saying,
with much emphasis, “Mr. President, if there is in the world one man
more than another worthy of profound respect, it is the volunteer
citizen soldier.” To this Mr. Lincoln assented, in a quiet way,--the
peculiar dreaminess of expression so remarkable at times stealing over
his face as his mind reverted to the thousands whose lives had been so
freely offered upon the altar of their country, and the myriad homes
represented by the thronging columns of the day’s review, in so many
of which there was henceforth to be weary watching and waiting for
footsteps which would return no more.
I took this opportunity to get at the truth concerning a newspaper
story which went the rounds a year or two previous, purporting to be
an account of a meeting of the loyal Governors in Washington, early
in the war. It was stated that the President laid the condition of
the country before such a council, convened at the White House, and
anxiously awaited the result. An oppressive silence followed. Curtin
was represented as having been standing, looking out of one of the
windows, drumming unconsciously upon a pane of glass. Mr. Lincoln, at
length addressing him personally, said: “Andy, what is Pennsylvania
going to do?” Turning around, Curtin replied: “She is going to send
twenty thousand men to start with, and will double it, if necessary!”
“This noble response” [quoted from memory] “overwhelmed the President,
and lifted the dead weight which seemed to have paralyzed all present.”
I repeated this account substantially as here given; but both parties
smiled and shook their heads. “It is a pity to spoil so good a story,”
returned the President, “but, unfortunately, there is not a word of
truth in it. I believe the only convocation of Governors that has
taken place during the war,” he added, looking at Curtin, “was that at
Altoona--was it not?”
Subsequently the two gentlemen proposed to visit my room, and Mr.
Lincoln accompanied them. Sitting down under the chandelier on the
edge of the long table, which ran the whole length of the apartment,
swinging back and forth his long legs, passing his hand occasionally
over his brow and through his rough hair (his appearance and manner
come back to me most vividly, as I write), he listened abstractedly
to my brief explanation of the design of the picture. When I ceased,
he took up the record in his own way. “You see, Curtin,” said he, “I
was brought to the conclusion that there was no dodging this negro
question any longer. We had reached the point where it seemed that we
must avail ourselves of this element, or in all probability go under.”
He then went over the circumstances attending the step, in much the
same language he had used upon the occasion of my first interview with
him. Governor Curtin remarked that the impression prevailed in some
quarters that Secretary Seward opposed the policy. “That is not true,”
replied Mr. Lincoln; “he advised postponement, at the first meeting,
which seemed to me sound. It was Seward’s persistence which resulted
in the insertion of the word ‘maintain,’ which I feared under the
circumstances was promising more than it was quite probable we could
carry out.”
The bill empowering the Secretary of the Treasury to sell the surplus
gold had recently passed, and Mr. Chase was then in New York, giving
his attention personally to the experiment. Governor Curtin referred
to this, saying, “I see by the quotations that Chase’s movement has
already knocked gold down several per cent.” This gave occasion for the
strongest expression I ever heard fall from the lips of Mr. Lincoln.
Knotting his face in the intensity of his feeling, he said, “Curtin,
what do you think of those fellows in Wall Street, who are gambling
in gold at such a time as this?” “They are a set of sharks,” returned
Curtin. “For my part,” continued the President, bringing his clinched
hand down upon the table, “I wish every one of them had his _devilish_
head shot off!”
XXVII.
There was one marked element of Mr. Lincoln’s character admirably
expressed by the Hon. Mr. Colfax, in his oration at Chicago upon his
death: “When his judgment, which acted slowly, but which was almost as
immovable as the eternal hills when settled, was grasping some subject
of importance, the arguments against his own desires seemed uppermost
in his mind, and, in conversing upon it, he would present those
arguments to see if they could be rebutted.”
In illustration of this, it is only necessary to recall the fact that
the interview between himself and the Chicago delegation of clergymen,
appointed to urge upon him the issue of a proclamation of emancipation,
took place September 13, 1862, more than a month after he had declared
to the Cabinet his established purpose to take this step. He said to
this committee: “I do not want to issue a document that the whole
world will see must necessarily be inoperative, like the Pope’s bull
against the comet!” After drawing out their views upon the subject, he
concluded the interview with these memorable words:--
“Do not misunderstand me, because I have mentioned these objections.
They indicate the difficulties which have thus far prevented my
action in some such way as you desire. I have not decided against a
proclamation of liberty to the slaves, but hold the matter under
advisement. And I can assure you that the subject is on my mind, by day
and night, more than any other. Whatever shall appear to be God’s will,
I will do! I trust that, in the freedom with which I have canvassed
your views, I have not in any respect injured your feelings.”
In further evidence of this peculiarity of his mind, I will state
that notwithstanding his apparent hesitation in the appointment of
a successor to Judge Taney, it is well known to his most intimate
friends, that “there had never been a time during his Presidency, when,
in the event of the death of Judge Taney, he had not fully intended and
expected to nominate Salmon P. Chase for Chief Justice.” These were his
very words uttered in connection with this subject.
XXVIII.
In Barrett’s biography of Mr. Lincoln, it is stated that the first
draft of the Emancipation Proclamation was written on board of
the steamboat returning from his 8th of July visit to the army at
Harrison’s Landing. This circumstance was not included in the statement
given me, and to others in my presence, at different times; but from
the known relations of the author with the President, it is undoubtedly
true. The original draft was written upon one side of four half sheets
of official foolscap. He flung down upon the table one day for me,
several sheets of the same, saying, “There, I believe, is some of the
very paper which was used;--if not, it was, at any rate, just like it.”
The original draft is dated September 22d, 1862, and was presented to
the Army Relief Bazaar, at Albany, N. Y., in 1864. It is in the proper
handwriting of Mr. Lincoln, excepting two interlineations in pencil, by
Secretary Seward, and the formal heading and ending, which were written
by the chief clerk of the State Department.
The final Proclamation was signed on New-Year’s Day, 1863. The
President remarked to Mr. Colfax, the same evening, that the signature
appeared somewhat tremulous and uneven. “Not,” said he, “because of any
uncertainty or hesitation on my part; but it was just after the public
reception, and three hours’ hand-shaking is not calculated to improve
a man’s chirography.” Then changing his tone, he added: “The South
had fair warning, that if they did not return to their duty, I should
strike at this pillar of their strength. The promise must now be kept,
and I shall never recall one word.”
I remember to have asked him, on one occasion, if there was not some
opposition manifested on the part of several members of the Cabinet
to this policy. He replied, “Nothing more than I have stated to you.
Mr. Blair thought we should lose the fall elections, and opposed it
on that ground only.” “I have understood,” said I, “that Secretary
Smith was not in favor of your action. Mr. Blair told me that, when
the meeting closed, he and the Secretary of the Interior went away
together, and that the latter said to him, if the President carried out
that policy, he might count on losing _Indiana_, sure!” “He never said
anything of the kind to me,” returned the President. “And what is Mr.
Blair’s opinion now?” I asked. “Oh,” was the prompt reply, “he proved
right in regard to the fall elections, but he is satisfied that we have
since gained more than we lost.” “I have been told,” I added, “that
Judge Bates doubted the constitutionality of the proclamation.” “He
never expressed such an opinion in my hearing,” replied Mr. Lincoln.
“No member of the Cabinet ever dissented from the policy, in any
conversation with me.”
XXIX.
It seems necessary at this point that an explanation should be given
of a leading article which appeared in the New York “Independent,”
upon the withdrawal of Mr. Chase from the political canvass of 1864,
widely copied by the country press, in which it was stated that the
concluding paragraph of the proclamation was from the pen of Secretary
Chase. One of Mr. Lincoln’s intimate friends, who felt that there was
an impropriety in this publication, at that time, for which Mr. Chase
was in some degree responsible, went to see the President about it.
“Oh,” said Mr. Lincoln, with his characteristic simplicity and freedom
from all suspicion, “Mr. Chase had nothing to do with it; I think _I_
mentioned the circumstance to Mr. Tilton, myself.”
The facts in the case are these: While the measure was pending, Mr.
Chase submitted to the President a draft of a proclamation embodying
his views upon the subject, which closed with the appropriate and
solemn words referred to: “And upon this act, sincerely believed to
be an act of justice warranted by the Constitution, I invoke the
considerate judgment of mankind and the gracious favor of Almighty God!”
Mr. Lincoln adopted this sentence intact, excepting that he inserted
after the word “Constitution” the words “upon military necessity.”
XXX.
Mr. Chase told me that at the Cabinet meeting, immediately after the
battle of Antietam, and just prior to the issue of the September
Proclamation, the President entered upon the business before them,
by saying that “the time for the annunciation of the emancipation
policy could be no longer delayed. Public sentiment,” he thought,
“would sustain it--many of his warmest friends and supporters demanded
it--_and he had promised his God that he would do it_!” The last part
of this was uttered in a low tone, and appeared to be heard by no one
but Secretary Chase, who was sitting near him. He asked the President
if he correctly understood him. Mr. Lincoln replied: “_I made a solemn
vow before God, that if General Lee was driven back from Pennsylvania,
I would crown the result by the declaration of freedom to the slaves._”
In February 1865, a few days after the passage of the “Constitutional
Amendment,” I went to Washington, and was received by Mr. Lincoln with
the kindness and familiarity which had characterized our previous
intercourse. I said to him at this time that I was very proud to have
been the artist to have first conceived of the design of painting a
picture commemorative of the Act of Emancipation; that subsequent
occurrences had only confirmed my own first judgment of that act as the
most sublime moral event in our history. “Yes,” said he,--and never
do I remember to have noticed in him more earnestness of expression
or manner,--“as affairs have turned, _it is the central act of my
administration, and the great event of the nineteenth century_.”
XXXI.
The day after the review of Burnside’s division, some photographers
from Brady’s Gallery came up to the White House to make some
stereoscopic studies for me of the President’s office. They requested
a dark closet, in which to develop the pictures; and without a
thought that I was infringing upon anybody’s rights, I took them to
an unoccupied room of which little “Tad” had taken possession a few
days before, and with the aid of a couple of the servants, had fitted
up as a miniature theatre, with stage, curtains, orchestra, stalls,
parquette, and all. Knowing that the use required would interfere with
none of his arrangements, I led the way to this apartment.
Everything went on well, and one or two pictures had been taken, when
suddenly there was an uproar. The operator came back to the office,
and said that “Tad” had taken great offence at the occupation of
his room without his consent, and had locked the door, refusing all
admission. The chemicals had been taken inside, and there was no way
of getting at them, he having carried off the key. In the midst of
this conversation, “Tad” burst in, in a fearful passion. He laid all
the blame upon me,--said that I had no right to use his room, and that
the men should not go in even to get their things. He had locked the
door, and they should not go there again--“they had no business in his
room!” Mr. Lincoln had been sitting for a photograph, and was still
in the chair. He said, very mildly, “Tad, go and unlock the door.”
Tad went off muttering into his mother’s room, refusing to obey. I
followed him into the passage, but no coaxing would pacify him. Upon
my return to the President, I found him still sitting patiently in the
chair, from which he had not risen. He said: “Has not the boy opened
that door?” I replied that we could do nothing with him,--he had gone
off in a great pet. Mr. Lincoln’s lips came together firmly, and then,
suddenly rising, he strode across the passage with the air of one bent
on punishment, and disappeared in the domestic apartments. Directly
he returned with the key to the theatre, which he unlocked himself.
“There,” said he, “go ahead, it is all right now.” He then went back
to his office, followed by myself, and resumed his seat. “Tad,” said
he, half apologetically, “is a peculiar child. He was violently excited
when I went to him. I said, ‘Tad, do you know you are making your
father a great deal of trouble?’ He burst into tears, instantly giving
me up the key.”
This brief glimpse of the home life of the President, though trifling
in itself, is the gauge of his entire domestic character. The Hon.
W. D. Kelly, of Philadelphia, in an address delivered in that city soon
after the assassination, said: “His intercourse with his family was
beautiful as that with his friends. I think that father never loved
his children more fondly than he. The President never seemed grander
in my sight than when, stealing upon him in the evening, I would find
him with a book open before him, as he is represented in the popular
photograph, with little Tad beside him. There were of course a great
many curious books sent to him, and it seemed to be one of the special
delights of his life to open those books at such an hour, that his
boy could stand beside him, and they could talk as he turned over the
pages, the father thus giving to the son a portion of that care and
attention of which he was ordinarily deprived by the duties of office
pressing upon him.”
No matter who was with the President, or how intently he might be
absorbed, little Tad was always welcome. At the time of which I write
he was eleven years old, and of course rapidly passing from childhood
into youth. Suffering much from an infirmity of speech which developed
in his infancy, he seemed on this account especially dear to his
father. “One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,” and it was an
impressive and affecting sight to me to see the burdened President lost
for the time being in the affectionate parent, as he would take the
little fellow in his arms upon the withdrawal of visitors, and caress
him with all the fondness of a mother for the babe upon her bosom!
Tad, as he was universally called, almost always accompanied his father
upon the various excursions down the Potomac, which he was in the
habit of making. Once, on the way to Fortress Monroe, he became very
troublesome. The President was much engaged in conversation with the
party who accompanied him, and he at length said, “Tad, if you will be
a good boy, and not disturb me any more till we get to Fortress Monroe,
I will give you a dollar.” The hope of reward was effectual for a while
in securing silence, but, boy-like, Tad soon forgot his promise, and
was as noisy as ever. Upon reaching their destination, however, he said
very promptly, “Father, I want my dollar.” Mr. Lincoln turned to him
with the inquiry: “Tad, do you think you have earned it?” “Yes,” was
the sturdy reply. Mr. Lincoln looked at him half reproachfully for an
instant, and then taking from his pocket-book a dollar note, he said:
“Well, my son, at any rate, I will keep _my_ part of the bargain.”
While paying a visit to Commodore Porter at Fortress Monroe, on one
occasion, an incident occurred, subsequently related by Lieutenant
Braine, one of the officers on board the flag-ship, to the Rev. Mr.
Ewer, of New York. Noticing that the banks of the river were dotted
with spring blossoms, the President said, with the manner of one asking
a special favor: “Commodore, Tad is very fond of flowers;--won’t you
let a couple of your men take a boat and go with him for an hour or two
along shore, and gather a few?--it will be a great gratification to
him.”
There is a lesson in such simple incidents,--abounding as they did in
the life of the late President,--which should not be lost upon the
young men of this country. The Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Navy
of the United States,--with almost unlimited power in his hands,--the
meekness and simplicity with which Mr. Lincoln bore the honors of that
high position, is a spectacle for all time. How paltry do conceit and
vainglory appear in the majesty of such an example.
“Nothing was more marked in Mr. Lincoln’s personal demeanor,” writes
one who knew him well,[3] “than his utter unconsciousness of his
position. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to find another man
who would not, upon a sudden transfer from the obscurity of private
life in a country town to the dignities and duties of the Presidency,
feel it incumbent upon him to assume something of the manner and tone
befitting that position. Mr. Lincoln never seemed to be aware that his
place or his business were essentially different from those in which
he had always been engaged. He brought to every question--the loftiest
and most imposing--the same patient inquiry into details, the same
eager longing to know and to do exactly what was just and right, and
the same working-day, plodding, laborious devotion, which characterized
his management of a client’s case at his law office in Springfield. He
had duties to perform in both places--in the one case to his country,
as to his client in the other. But all duties were alike to him. All
called equally upon him for the best service of his mind and heart, and
all were alike performed with a conscientious, single-hearted devotion
that knew no distinction, but was absolute and perfect in every case.”
XXXII.
In the Executive Chamber one evening, there were present a number of
gentlemen, among them Mr. Seward.
A point in the conversation suggesting the thought, the President said:
“Seward, you never heard, did you, how I earned my first dollar?”
“No,” rejoined Mr. Seward. “Well,” continued Mr. Lincoln, “I was about
eighteen years of age. I belonged, you know, to what they call down
South, the ‘scrubs;’ people who do not own slaves are nobody there. But
we had succeeded in raising, chiefly by my labor, sufficient produce,
as I thought, to justify me in taking it down the river to sell.
“After much persuasion, I got the consent of mother to go, and
constructed a little flatboat, large enough to take a barrel or two of
things that we had gathered, with myself and little bundle, down to
New Orleans. A steamer was coming down the river. We have, you know,
no wharves on the Western streams; and the custom was, if passengers
were at any of the landings, for them to go out in a boat, the steamer
stopping and taking them on board.
“I was contemplating my new flatboat, and wondering whether I could
make it stronger or improve it in any particular, when two men came
down to the shore in carriages with trunks, and looking at the
different boats singled out mine, and asked, ‘Who owns this?’ I
answered, somewhat modestly, ‘I do.’ ‘Will you,’ said one of them,
‘take us and our trunks out to the steamer?’ ‘Certainly,’ said I. I
was very glad to have the chance of earning something. I supposed that
each of them would give me two or three bits. The trunks were put on my
flatboat, the passengers seated themselves on the trunks, and I sculled
them out to the steamboat.
“They got on board, and I lifted up their heavy trunks, and put them on
deck. The steamer was about to put on steam again, when I called out
that they had forgotten to pay me. Each of them took from his pocket
a silver half-dollar, and threw it on the floor of my boat. I could
scarcely believe my eyes as I picked up the money. Gentlemen, you may
think it was a very little thing, and in these days it seems to me
a trifle; but it was a most important incident in my life. I could
scarcely credit that I, a poor boy, had earned a dollar in less than
a day,--that by honest work I had earned a dollar. The world seemed
wider and fairer before me. I was a more hopeful and confident being
from that time.”
XXXIII.
The Hon. Robert Dale Owen was associated in a very interesting
interview with Mr. Lincoln, which took place a few weeks prior to the
issue of the President’s Message for 1863, to which was appended the
Proclamation of Amnesty. It had been understood in certain quarters
that such a step was at this period in contemplation by the Executive.
Being in Washington, Mr. Owen called upon the President on a Saturday
morning, and said that he had a matter upon which he had expended
considerable thought, which he wished to lay before him. Knowing
nothing of the object, Mr. Lincoln replied: “You see how it is this
morning; there are many visitors waiting; can’t you come up to-morrow
morning? I shall be alone then; and, if you have no scruples upon the
subject, I can give you as much time as you wish.” Mr. Owen assured him
of his readiness to come at any hour most convenient, and ten o’clock
was named. Punctual to the appointment, the hour found him at the
house. A repeated summons at the bell brought no response, and he at
length pushed open the door and walked leisurely up the stairs to the
reception-room. Neither servant or secretary was to be seen. Presently
Mr. Lincoln passed through the hall to his office, and all was still
again. Looking vainly for a servant to announce his name, Mr. Owen
finally went to the office-door, and knocked.
“Really,” said he, “Mr. President, I owe you an apology for coming
in upon you in this unceremonious way; but I have for some time been
waiting the appearance of a servant.”
“Oh,” was the good-natured reply, “the boys are all out this morning. I
have been expecting you; come in and sit down.”
Proceeding directly to the subject he had in hand, at the same time
unfolding a manuscript of large proportions, Mr. Owen said:
“I have a paper, here, Mr. President, that I have prepared with some
care, which I wish to read to you.”
Mr. Lincoln glanced at the formidable document, (really much less
voluminous than it appeared, being very coarsely written,) and then,
half unconsciously relapsing into an attitude and expression of
resignation to what he evidently considered an infliction which could
not well be avoided, signified his readiness to listen. The article was
a very carefully prepared digest of historical precedents in relation
to the subject of amnesty, in connection with treason and rebellion.
It analyzed English and continental history, and reviewed elaborately
the action of President Washington in reference to Shay’s and the
subsequent whiskey rebellion.
“I had read but two or three pages,” said Mr. Owen, in giving me this
account, “when Mr. Lincoln assumed an erect posture, and, fixing his
eyes intently upon me, seemed wholly absorbed in the contents of the
manuscript. Frequently he would break in with: ‘Was that so?’ ‘Please
read that paragraph again,’ etc. When at length I came to Washington’s
proclamation to those engaged in the whiskey rebellion, he interrupted
me with: ‘What! did Washington issue a proclamation of amnesty?’ ‘Here
it is, sir,’ was the reply. ‘Well, I never knew that,’ he rejoined; and
so on through.”
Upon the conclusion of the manuscript, Mr. Lincoln said: “Mr. Owen, is
that for me?”
“Certainly, sir,” said Mr. O., handing him the roll. “I understood that
you were considering this subject, and thought a review of this kind
might be interesting to you.”
“There is a good deal of hard work in that document,” continued Mr.
Lincoln; “may I ask how long you were preparing it?”
“About three months; but then I have more leisure for such a work than
you, Mr. President.”
Mr. Lincoln took the manuscript, and, folding it up carefully, arose,
and laid it away in the pigeon-hole marked “O,” in his desk. Returning
to his chair, he said: “Mr. Owen, it is due to you that I should say
that you have conferred a very essential service, both upon me and the
country, by the preparation of this paper. It contains that which
it was exceedingly important that I should know, but which, if left
to myself, I never should have known, because I have not the time
necessary for such an examination of authorities as a review of this
kind involves. And I want to say, secondly, if I had _had_ the time, I
could not have done the work so well as you have done it.”
This frank and generous avowal--so unlike what might be expected,
under similar circumstances, from most public men--was exceedingly
characteristic of Mr. Lincoln.
XXXIV.
The morning of the last day of April, Mr. Wilkeson, the head of the New
York “Tribune” bureau of correspondence in Washington at that period,
called upon me with his sister-in-law, Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton,
well known for her radical views on political and social questions, who
wished an introduction to the President. Later in the day, after the
accustomed pressure of visitors had subsided, I knocked at the door of
the President’s study, and asked if I might bring up two or three New
York friends. Mr. Lincoln fortunately was alone, and at once accorded
the desired permission. Laying aside his papers, as we entered, he
turned around in his chair for a leisurely conversation. One of the
party took occasion shortly to endorse very decidedly the Amnesty
Proclamation, which had been severely censured by many friends of the
Administration. This approval appeared to touch Mr. Lincoln deeply.
He said, with a great deal of emphasis, and with an expression of
countenance I shall never forget, “When a man is sincerely _penitent_
for his misdeeds, and gives satisfactory evidence of the same, he can
safely be pardoned, and there is no exception to the rule.”
Soon afterward he mentioned having received a visit the night before
from Colonel Moody, “the fighting Methodist parson,” as he was called
in Tennessee, who had come on to attend the Philadelphia Conference.
“He told me,” said he, “this story of Andy Johnson and General Buel,
which interested me intensely. The Colonel happened to be in Nashville
the day it was reported that Buel had decided to evacuate the city.
The Rebels, strongly reënforced, were said to be within two days’
march of the capital. Of course, the city was greatly excited. Moody
said he went in search of Johnson, at the edge of the evening, and
found him at his office, closeted with two gentlemen, who were walking
the floor with him, one on each side. As he entered, they retired,
leaving him alone with Johnson, who came up to him, manifesting intense
feeling, and said, ‘Moody, we are sold out! Buel is a traitor! He is
going to evacuate the city, and in forty-eight hours we shall all be
in the hands of the Rebels!’ Then he commenced pacing the floor again,
twisting his hands, and chafing like a caged tiger, utterly insensible
to his friend’s entreaties to become calm. Suddenly he turned and
said, ‘Moody, can you pray?’ ‘That is my business, sir, as a minister
of the Gospel,’ returned the Colonel. ‘Well, Moody, I wish you would
pray,’ said Johnson; and instantly both went down upon their knees, at
opposite sides of the room. As the prayer waxed fervent, Johnson began
to respond in true Methodist style. Presently he crawled over on his
hands and knees to Moody’s side, and put his arm over him, manifesting
the deepest emotion. Closing the prayer with a hearty ‘Amen’ from
each, they arose. Johnson took a long breath, and said, with emphasis,
‘Moody, I feel better!’ Shortly afterwards he asked, ‘Will you stand
by me?’ ‘Certainly I will,’ was the answer. ‘Well, Moody, I can depend
upon you; you are one in a hundred thousand!’ He then commenced pacing
the floor again. Suddenly he wheeled, the current of his thought having
changed, and said, ‘Oh! Moody, I don’t want you to think I have become
a religious man because I asked you to pray. I am sorry to say it, but
I am not, and have never pretended to be, religious. No one knows this
better than you; but, Moody, there is one thing about it--I DO believe
in ALMIGHTY GOD! And I believe also in the BIBLE, and I say “d----n”
me, if Nashville shall be surrendered!’”
_And Nashville was not surrendered._
XXXV.
I have elsewhere intimated that Mr. Lincoln was capable of much
dramatic power. It is true this was never exhibited in his public
life, or addresses, but it was shown in his keen appreciation of
Shakspeare, and unrivalled faculty of story-telling. The incident just
related, for example, was given with a thrilling effect which mentally
placed Johnson, for the time being, alongside of Luther and Cromwell.
Profanity or irreverence was lost sight of in the fervid utterance of
a highly wrought and great-souled determination, united with a rare
exhibition of pathos and self-abnegation.
A narrative of quite a different character followed closely upon
this, suggested by a remark made by myself. It was an account of how
the President and Secretary of War received the news of the capture
of Norfolk, early in the war. “Chase and Stanton,” said Mr. Lincoln,
“had accompanied me to Fortress Monroe. While we were there, an
expedition was fitted out for an attack on Norfolk. Chase and General
Wool disappeared about the time we began to look for tidings of the
result, and after vainly waiting their return till late in the evening,
Stanton and I concluded to retire. My room was on the second floor of
the Commandant’s house, and Stanton’s was below. The night was very
warm,--the moon shining brightly,--and, too restless to sleep, I threw
off my clothes and sat for some time by the table, reading. Suddenly
hearing footsteps, I looked out of the window, and saw two persons
approaching, whom I knew by their relative size to be the missing men.
They came into the passage and I heard them rap at Stanton’s door
and tell him to get up, and come up-stairs. A moment afterward they
entered my room. ‘No time for ceremony, Mr. President,’ said General
Wool; ‘Norfolk is ours!’ Stanton here burst in, just out of bed, clad
in a long night-gown, which nearly swept the floor, his ear catching,
as he crossed the threshold, Wool’s last words. Perfectly overjoyed,
he rushed at the General, whom he hugged most affectionately, fairly
lifting him from the floor in his delight. The scene altogether must
have been a comical one, though at the time we were all too greatly
excited to take much note of mere appearances.”
XXXVI.
A great deal has been said of the uniform meekness and kindness of
heart of Mr. Lincoln, but there would sometimes be afforded evidence
that one grain of sand too much would break even _this_ camel’s back.
Among the callers at the White House one day, was an officer who
had been cashiered from the service. He had prepared an elaborate
defence of himself, which he consumed much time in reading to the
President. When he had finished, Mr. Lincoln replied, that even upon
his own statement of the case, the facts would not warrant executive
interference. Disappointed, and considerably crestfallen, the man
withdrew. A few days afterward he made a second attempt to alter the
President’s convictions, going over substantially the same ground,
and occupying about the same space of time, but without accomplishing
his end. The _third_ time he succeeded in forcing himself into Mr.
Lincoln’s presence, who with great forbearance listened to another
repetition of the case to its conclusion, but made no reply. Waiting
for a moment, the man gathered from the expression of his countenance
that his mind was unconvinced. Turning very abruptly, he said: “Well,
Mr. President, I see you are fully determined not to do me justice!”
This was too aggravating, even for Mr. Lincoln. Manifesting, however,
no more feeling than that indicated by a slight compression of the
lips, he very quietly arose, laid down a package of papers he held
in his hand, and then suddenly seizing the defunct officer by the
coat-collar, he marched him forcibly to the door, saying, as he ejected
him into the passage: “Sir, I give you fair warning never to show
yourself in this room again. I can bear censure, but not insult!” In
a whining tone the man begged for his papers, which he had dropped.
“Begone, sir,” said the President, “your papers will be sent to you. I
never wish to see your face again!”
Upon another occasion, as I was going through the passage, the door of
the President’s office suddenly opened, and two ladies, one of whom
seemed in a towering passion, were unceremoniously ushered out by one
of the attendants. As they passed me on their way down the stairs, I
overheard the elder remonstrating with her companion upon the violence
of her expressions. I afterward asked old Daniel what had happened?
“Oh,” he replied, “the younger woman was very saucy to the President.
She went one step too far; and he told me to show them out of the
house.”
Of a similar character is an incident given by “N. C. J.,” in a letter
to the New York “Times”:--
“Among the various applicants, a well-dressed lady came forward,
without apparent embarrassment in her air or manner, and addressed the
President. Giving her a very close and scrutinizing look, he said,
‘Well, madam, what can I do for you?’ She proceeded to tell him that
she lived in Alexandria; that the church where she worshipped had
been taken for a hospital. ‘What church, madam?’ Mr. Lincoln asked,
in a quick, nervous manner. ‘The ---- church,’ she replied; ‘and as
there are only two or three wounded soldiers in it, I came to see
if you would not let us have it, as we want it very much to worship
God in.’ ‘Madam, have you been to see the Post Surgeon at Alexandria
about this matter?’ ‘Yes, sir; but we could do nothing with him.’
‘Well, we put him there to attend to just such business, and it is
reasonable to suppose that he knows better what should be done under
the circumstances than I do. See here: you say you live in Alexandria;
probably you own property there. How much will you give to assist in
building a hospital?’
“‘You know, Mr. Lincoln, our property is very much embarrassed by
the war;--so, really, I could hardly afford to give much for such a
purpose.’
“‘Well, madam, I expect we shall have another fight soon; and my candid
opinion is, God wants that church for poor wounded Union soldiers, as
much as he does for secesh people to worship in.’ Turning to his table,
he said, quite abruptly, ‘You will excuse me; I can do nothing for you.
Good day, madam.’
“I had noticed two other women who stood just back of me. I was
fully convinced that I had rightly guessed their errand from their
appearance; for one of them, whose wicked eyes shot fire, said to her
companion in a spiteful under-tone, ‘Oh! the old brute,--there is no
use asking for our passes; come, let’s go.’ And they did go, in evident
wrath; leaving the President to perform more pleasant duties.”
The same correspondent witnessed also the following scene:--
“A couple of aged, plain country people, poorly clad, but with frank
open countenances, now came forward. ‘Now is your time, dear,’ said
the husband, as the President dismissed the one preceding them. The
lady stepped forward, made a low courtesy, and said, ‘Mr. President.’
“Mr. Lincoln, looking over his spectacles, fixed those gray, piercing,
yet mild eyes upon her, then lifting his head and extending his hand,
he said, in the kindest tones: ‘Well, good lady, what can I do for you?’
“‘Mr. President,’ she resumed, ‘I feel so embarrassed I can hardly
speak. I never spoke to a President before; but I am a good Union woman
down in Maryland, and my son is wounded badly, and in the hospital, and
I have been trying to get him out, but somehow couldn’t, and they said
I had better come right to you. When the war first broke out I gave my
son first to God, and then told him he might go fight the Rebels; and
now if you will let me take him home I will nurse him up, and just as
soon as he gets well enough he shall go right back and help put down
the rebellion. He is a good boy, and don’t want to shirk the service.’
“I was looking full in Mr. Lincoln’s face. I saw the tears gathering in
his eyes, and his lips quivered as he replied:
“‘Yes, yes, God bless you! you shall have your son. What hospital did
you say?’ It seemed a relief to him to turn aside and write a few
words, which he handed to the woman, saying: ‘There, give that to ----;
and you will get your son, if he is able to go home with you.’
“‘God bless you, Mr. President!’ said the father, the only words he had
uttered; and the mother, making a low courtesy, fairly sobbed: ‘O sir,
we are so much obliged to you.’ ‘Yes, yes; all right; and you will find
that _that_ will bring him,’ was spoken in tones so kindly and tender,
that they have often since thrilled my memory.”
XXXVII.
In the year 1855 or ’56, George B. Lincoln, Esq., of Brooklyn, was
travelling through the West in connection with a large New York
dry-goods establishment. He found himself one night in an insignificant
town on the Illinois River, by the name of Naples. The only tavern of
the place had evidently been constructed with reference to business on
the smallest possible scale. Poor as the prospect seemed, Mr. Lincoln
had no alternative but to put up at the place. The supper-room was also
used as a lodging-room. After a tolerable supper and a comfortable
hour before the fire, Mr. L. told his host that he thought he would
“go to bed.” “Bed!” echoed the landlord; “there is no bed for you in
this house, unless you sleep with that man yonder. He has the only
one we have to spare.” “Well,” returned Mr. Lincoln, “the gentleman
has possession, and perhaps would not like a bedfellow.” Upon this,
a grizzly head appeared out of the pillows, and said, “What is your
name?” “They call me Lincoln at home,” was the reply. “Lincoln!”
repeated the stranger; “any connection of our Illinois Abraham?” “No,”
replied Mr. L., “I fear not.” “Well,” said the old man, “I will let
any man by the name of ‘Lincoln’ sleep with me, just for the sake of
the name. You have heard of Abe?” he inquired. “Oh yes, very often,”
replied Mr. Lincoln. “No man could travel far in this State without
hearing of _him_, and I would be very glad to claim connection, if I
could do so honestly.” “Well,” said the old gentleman, “my name is
Simmons. ‘Abe’ and I used to live and work together when we were young
men. Many a job of wood-cutting and rail-splitting have I done up with
him. Abe Lincoln,” said he with emphasis, “was the _likeliest_ boy in
God’s world. He would work all day as hard as any of us--and study by
firelight in the log-house half the night; and in this way he made
himself a thorough practical surveyor. Once, during those days, I was
in the upper part of the State, and I met General Ewing, whom President
Jackson had sent to the Northwest to make surveys. I told him about Abe
Lincoln, what a student he was, and that I wanted he should give him
a job; He looked over his memoranda, and, pulling out a paper, said:
‘There is ---- county must be surveyed; if your friend can do the work
properly, I shall be glad to have him undertake it--the compensation
will be six hundred dollars!’ Pleased as I could be, I hastened to Abe,
after I got home, with an account of what I had secured for him. He was
sitting before the fire in the log-cabin when I told him; and what do
you think was his answer? When I finished, he looked up very quietly,
and said, ‘Mr. Simmons, I thank you very sincerely for your kindness,
but I don’t think I will undertake the job.’ ‘In the name of wonder,’
said I, ‘why? Six hundred dollars does not grow upon every bush out
here in Illinois.’ ‘I know that,’ said Abe, ‘and I need the money bad
enough, Simmons, as you know; but I never have been under obligation to
a Democratic administration, and I never intend to be so long as I can
get my living another way. General Ewing must find another man to do
his work.’”
I related this story to the President one day, and asked him if it
was true. “Pollard Simmons!” said he: “well do I remember him. It
is correct about our working together; but the old man must have
stretched the facts somewhat about the survey of the county. I think
I should have been very glad of the job at that time, no matter
what administration was in power.” Notwithstanding this, however, I
am inclined to believe Mr. Simmons was not far out of the way. His
statement seems very characteristic of what Abraham Lincoln may be
supposed to have been at twenty-three or twenty-five years of age.
Mr. G. B. Lincoln also told me of an amusing circumstance which took
place at Springfield soon after Mr. Lincoln’s nomination in 1860. A
hatter in Brooklyn secretly obtained the size of the future President’s
head, and made for him a very elegant hat, which he sent by his
townsman, Lincoln, to Springfield. About the time it was presented,
various other testimonials of a similar character had come in from
different sections. Mr. Lincoln took the hat, and after admiring
its texture and workmanship, put it on his head and walked up to a
looking-glass. Glancing from the reflection to Mrs. Lincoln, he said,
with his peculiar twinkle of the eye, “Well, wife, there is one thing
likely to come out of this scrape, any how. We are going to have some
_new clothes_!”
One afternoon during the summer of 1862, the President accompanied
several gentlemen to the Washington Navy-yard, to witness some
experiments with a newly-invented gun. Subsequently the party went
aboard of one of the steamers lying at the wharf. A discussion was
going on as to the merits of the invention, in the midst of which
Mr. Lincoln caught sight of some _axes_ hanging up outside of the
cabin. Leaving the group, he quietly went forward, and taking one
down, returned with it, and said: “Gentlemen, you may talk about your
‘Raphael repeaters’ and ‘eleven-inch Dahlgrens;’ but _here_ is an
institution which I guess I understand better than either of you.” With
that he held the axe out at arm’s length by the end of the handle, or
“helve,” as the wood-cutters call it--a feat not another person of the
party could perform, though all made the attempt. In such acts as this,
showing that he neither forgot nor was ashamed of his humble origin,
the late President exhibited his true nobility of character. He was a
perfect illustration of his favorite poet’s words:--
“The rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the gold, for a’ that!”
XXXVIII.
In March, 1864, Edwin Forrest came to Washington to fulfil an
engagement at Ford’s Theatre. It was announced one day that he was
to appear that evening in “Richelieu.” I was with the President,
when Senator Harris of New York came in. After he had finished his
business, which was to secure the remittance of the sentence of one of
his constituents, who had been imprisoned on what seemed insufficient
grounds, I told the President that Forrest was to play _Richelieu_
that evening, and, knowing his tastes, I said it was a play which I
thought he would enjoy, for Forrest’s representation of it was the most
life-like of anything I had ever seen upon the stage. “Who wrote the
play?” said he. “Bulwer,” I replied. “Ah!” he rejoined; “well, I knew
Bulwer wrote novels, but I did not know he was a play-writer also. It
may seem somewhat strange to say,” he continued, “but I never read an
entire novel in my life!” Said Judge Harris, “Is it possible?” “Yes,”
returned the President, “it is a fact. I once commenced ‘Ivanhoe,’ but
never finished it.” This statement, in this age of the world, seems
almost incredible--but I give the circumstance as it occurred.
However it may have been with regard to novels, it is very certain--as
I have already illustrated--that he found time to read Shakspeare; and
that he was also fond of certain kinds of poetry. N. P. Willis once
told me, that he was taken quite by surprise, on a certain occasion
when he was riding with the President and Mrs. Lincoln, by Mr. Lincoln,
of his own accord, referring to, and quoting several lines from his
poem entitled “Parrhasius.”
In the spring of 1862, the President spent several days at Fortress
Monroe, awaiting military operations upon the Peninsula. As a
portion of the Cabinet were with him, that was temporarily the seat
of government, and he bore with him constantly the burden of public
affairs. His favorite diversion was reading Shakspeare. One day (it
chanced to be the day before the capture of Norfolk) as he sat reading
alone, he called to his aide[4] in the adjoining room,--“You have been
writing long enough, Colonel; come in here; I want to read you a
passage in ‘Hamlet.’” He read the discussion on ambition between Hamlet
and his courtiers, and the soliloquy, in which conscience debates of
a future state. This was followed by passages from “Macbeth.” Then
opening to “King John,” he read from the third act the passage in which
Constance bewails her imprisoned, lost boy.
Closing the book, and recalling the words,--
“And, father cardinal, I have heard you say
That we shall see and know our friends in heaven:
If that be true, I shall see my boy again,”--
Mr. Lincoln said: “Colonel, did you ever dream of a lost friend, and
feel that you were holding sweet communion with that friend, and yet
have a sad consciousness that it was not a reality?--just so I dream
of my boy Willie.” Overcome with emotion, he dropped his head on the
table, and sobbed aloud.
XXXIX.
William Wallace Lincoln, I never knew. He died Thursday, February
20th, 1862, nearly two years before my intercourse with the President
commenced. He had just entered upon his twelfth year, and has been
described to me as of an unusually serious and thoughtful disposition.
His death was the most crushing affliction Mr. Lincoln had ever been
called upon to pass through.
After the funeral, the President resumed his official duties, but
mechanically, and with a terrible weight at his heart. The following
Thursday he gave way to his feelings, and shut himself from all
society. The second Thursday it was the same; he would see no one,
and seemed a prey to the deepest melancholy. About this time the Rev.
Francis Vinton, of Trinity Church, New York, had occasion to spend
a few days in Washington. An acquaintance of Mrs. Lincoln and of
her sister, Mrs. Edwards, of Springfield, he was requested by them
to come up and see the President. The setting apart of Thursday for
the indulgence of his grief had gone on for several weeks, and Mrs.
Lincoln began to be seriously alarmed for the health of her husband,
of which fact Dr. Vinton was apprised. Mr. Lincoln received him in
the parlor, and an opportunity was soon embraced by the clergyman to
chide him for showing so rebellious a disposition to the decrees of
Providence. He told him plainly that the indulgence of such feelings,
though natural, was sinful. It was unworthy one who believed in the
Christian religion. He had duties to the living, greater than those of
any other man, as the chosen father, and leader of the people, and he
was unfitting himself for his responsibilities by thus giving way to
his grief. To mourn the departed as _lost_ belonged to heathenism--not
to Christianity. “Your son,” said Dr. Vinton, “is _alive_, in Paradise.
Do you remember that passage in the Gospels: ‘God is not the God of the
_dead_ but of the living, for _all_ live unto him’?” The President
had listened as one in a stupor, until his ear caught the words, “Your
son is alive.” Starting from the sofa, he exclaimed, “Alive! _alive!_
Surely you mock me.” “No, sir, believe me,” replied Dr. Vinton; “it
is a most comforting doctrine of the church, founded upon the words
of Christ himself.” Mr. Lincoln looked at him a moment, and then,
stepping forward, he threw his arm around the clergyman’s neck, and,
laying his head upon his breast, sobbed aloud. “_Alive? alive?_” he
repeated. “My dear sir,” said Dr. Vinton, greatly moved, as he twined
his own arm around the weeping father, “believe this, for it is God’s
most precious truth. Seek not your son among the dead; he is not there;
he lives to-day in Paradise! Think of the full import of the words I
have quoted. The Sadducees, when they questioned Jesus, had no other
conception than that Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob were dead and buried.
Mark the reply: ‘Now that the dead are raised, even Moses showed at the
bush when he called the Lord the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and
the God of Jacob. For he is not the God of the dead, but of the living,
_for all live unto him_!’ Did not the aged patriarch mourn his sons as
dead?--‘Joseph is not, and Simeon is not, and ye will take Benjamin
also.’ But Joseph and Simeon were both living, though he believed it
not. Indeed, Joseph being taken from him, was the eventual means of
the preservation of the whole family. And so God has called your son
into his upper kingdom--a kingdom and an existence as real, more real,
than your own. It may be that he too, like Joseph, has gone, in God’s
good providence, to be the salvation of _his_ father’s household. It
is a part of the Lord’s plan for the ultimate happiness of you and
yours. Doubt it not. I have a sermon,” continued Dr. Vinton, “upon this
subject, which I think might interest you.” Mr. Lincoln begged him
to send it at an early day--thanking him repeatedly for his cheering
and hopeful words. The sermon was sent, and read over and over by the
President, who caused a copy to be made for his own private use before
it was returned. Through a member of the family, I have been informed
that Mr. Lincoln’s views in relation to spiritual things seemed
changed from that hour. Certain it is, that thenceforth he ceased
the observance of the day of the week upon which his son died, and
gradually resumed his accustomed cheerfulness.
XL.
Among my visitors in the early part of May was the Hon. Mr. Alley, of
Massachusetts, who gave me a deeply interesting inside glimpse of the
Chicago Republican Convention in 1860. The popular current had, at
first, set very strongly in favor of Mr. Seward, who, many supposed,
would be nominated almost by acclamation. The evening before the
balloting the excitement was at the highest pitch. Mr. Lincoln was
telegraphed at Springfield, that his chances with the Convention
depended upon obtaining the votes of two delegations which were named
in the despatch; and that, to secure this support, he must pledge
himself, if elected, to give places in his Cabinet to the respective
heads of those delegations. A reply was immediately returned over the
wires, characteristic of the man. It was to this effect:--
“_I authorize no bargains, and will be bound by none._
A. LINCOLN.”
It is unquestionable that the country was not prepared for the final
action of this Convention. In various sections of the Eastern and
Middle States, the antecedents and even the name of Mr. Lincoln were
entirely unknown. The newspapers announced the nominee as the “Illinois
Rail-splitter;” and however popular this title may have been with
the masses, it is not to be denied that it seemed to many people a
very extraordinary qualification for the Presidency. An acquaintance
of mine, who happened to be in Boston on the evening of the day the
Convention adjourned, formed one of a large group at his hotel, eagerly
discussing the result. Only one or two of the party knew anything
whatever of the first name on the “ticket,” and what they knew was
soon told. Considerable disappointment could be seen in the faces of
those composing the circle. One rough-looking sovereign, from Cape
Cod, or Nantucket, had listened attentively, but taken no part in
the conversation. Turning away at length, with an expression of deep
disgust, he muttered: “A set of consummate fools! Nominate a man for
the Presidency who has never smelt salt water!”
Some of Mr. Lincoln’s immediate neighbors were taken as completely by
surprise as those in distant States. An old resident of Springfield
told me that there lived within a block or two of his house, in that
city, an Englishman, who of course still cherished to some extent the
ideas and prejudices of his native land. Upon hearing of the choice at
Chicago he could not contain his astonishment.
“What!” said he, “_Abe Lincoln_ nominated for President of the United
States? Can it be possible! A man that buys a ten-cent beefsteak for
his breakfast, and carries it home himself.”
A correspondent of the “Portland Press” has given to the public the
following account of Mr. Lincoln’s reception of the nomination:--
“In June, 1860, a Massachusetts gentleman was induced to take the
opportunity, in company with several delegates and others interested
in the objects of the Convention, to go to Chicago and spend a few
days in visiting that section of our country. In a very few minutes
after the final balloting, when Mr. Lincoln was nominated, it happened
that a train of cars started upon the Central Railroad, passing
through Springfield, and Mr. R. took passage in the same. Arriving
at Springfield, he put up at a public house, and, loitering upon the
front door-steps, had the curiosity to inquire of the landlord where
Mr. Lincoln lived. While giving the necessary directions, the landlord
suddenly remarked, ‘There is Mr. Lincoln now, coming down the sidewalk;
that tall, crooked man, loosely walking this way. If you wish to see
him, you will have an opportunity by putting yourself in his track.’
“In a few moments the object of his curiosity reached the point the
gentleman occupied, who, advancing, ventured to accost him thus: ‘Is
this Mr. Lincoln?’ ‘That, sir, is my name,’ was the courteous reply.
‘My name is R., from Plymouth County, Massachusetts,’ returned the
gentleman, and learning that you have to-day been made the public
property of the United States, I have ventured to introduce myself,
with a view to a brief acquaintance, hoping you will pardon such
a patriotic curiosity in a stranger.’ Mr. Lincoln received his
salutations with cordiality, told him no apology was necessary for his
introduction, and asked him to accompany him to his residence. He had
just come from the telegraph office, where he had learned the fact
of his nomination; and was on his return home, when Mr. R. met and
accompanied him thither.
“Arriving at Mr. Lincoln’s residence, he was introduced to Mrs.
Lincoln and the two boys, and entered into conversation in relation to
the Lincoln family of the Old Colony,--the Hingham General Lincoln of
the Revolutionary army, and the two Worcester Lincolns, brothers, who
were governors of Massachusetts and Maine at one and the same time.
In reply to Mr. R.’s inquiry, whether he could trace his ancestry to
either of those early families of his own name, Mr. Lincoln, with
characteristic facetiousness, replied that he could not say that he
ever had an ancestor older than his father; and therefore had it not
in his power to trace his genealogy to so patriotic a source as old
General Lincoln of the Revolution; though he wished he could. After
some further pleasant conversation, chiefly relating to the early
history of the Pilgrim Fathers, with which he seemed familiar, Mr.
R. desired the privilege of writing a letter to be despatched by the
next mail. He was very promptly and kindly provided with the necessary
means. As he began to write, Mr. Lincoln approached, and tapping him
on the shoulder, expressed the hope that he was not a spy who had come
thus early to report his faults to the public. ‘By no means, sir,’
protested Mr. R.; ‘I am writing home to my wife, who, I dare say, will
hardly credit the fact that I am writing in your house.’ ‘O, sir,’
rejoined Mr. Lincoln, ‘if your wife doubts your word, I will cheerfully
indorse it, if you will give me permission;’ and taking the pen from
Mr. R., he wrote the following words in a clear hand upon the blank
page of the letter:--
“‘I am happy to say that your husband is at the present time a
guest in my house, and in due time I trust you will greet his safe
return to the bosom of his family.
A. LINCOLN.’
“This gave Mr. R. an excellent autograph of Mr. Lincoln, besides
bearing witness to his hospitable and cheerful spirit.
“Whilst thus engaged in pleasant conversation, the cars arrived that
brought from Chicago the committee of the Convention appointed to
notify Mr. Lincoln of his nomination. He received them at the door,
and conducted them to seats in his parlor. On the reception of this
committee, Mr. Lincoln appeared somewhat embarrassed, but soon resumed
his wonted tranquillity and cheerfulness. At the proper time, Governor
Morgan, of New York, chairman of the committee, arose, and, with
becoming dignity, informed Mr. Lincoln that he and his fellows appeared
in behalf of the Convention in session at Chicago, to inform him that
he had that day been unanimously nominated to the office of President
of the United States; and asked his permission to report to that body
his acceptance of the nomination. Mr. Lincoln, with becoming modesty,
but very handsomely, replied that he felt his insufficiency for the
vast responsibilities which must devolve upon that office under the
impending circumstances of the times; but if God and his country
called for his services in that direction, he should shrink from no
duty that might be imposed upon him, and therefore he should not
decline the nomination.
“After this ceremony had passed, Mr. Lincoln remarked to the company,
that as an appropriate conclusion to an interview so important and
interesting as that which had just transpired, he supposed good manners
would require that he should treat the committee with something to
drink; and opening a door that led into a room in the rear, he called
out ‘Mary! Mary!’ A girl responded to the call, to whom Mr. Lincoln
spoke a few words in an under-tone, and, closing the door, returned
again to converse with his guests. In a few minutes the maiden entered,
bearing a large waiter, containing several glass tumblers, and a
large pitcher in the midst, and placed it upon the centre-table. Mr.
Lincoln arose, and gravely addressing the company, said: ‘Gentlemen,
we must pledge our mutual healths in the most healthy beverage which
God has given to man--it is the only beverage I have ever used or
allowed in my family, and I cannot conscientiously depart from it on
the present occasion--it is pure Adam’s ale from the spring;’ and,
taking a tumbler, he touched it to his lips, and pledged them his
highest respects in a cup of cold water. Of course, all his guests were
constrained to admire his consistency, and to join in his example.
“Mr. R., when he went to Chicago, had but little political sympathy
with the Republican Convention which nominated Mr. Lincoln; but when he
saw, as he did see for himself, his sturdy adherence to a high moral
principle, he returned an admirer of the man, and a zealous advocate of
his election.”
XLI.
In the July following Mr. Lincoln’s inauguration, an extra session
of Congress was called. In the message then sent in, speaking of
secession, and the measures taken by the Southern leaders to bring
it about, there occurs the following sentence: “With rebellion thus
_sugar-coated_, they have been drugging the public mind of their
section for more than thirty years; until, at length, they have brought
many good men to a willingness to take up arms against the government,”
etc. Mr. Defrees, the government printer, told me that, when the
message was being printed, he was a good deal disturbed by the use of
the term “sugar-coated,” and finally went to the President about it.
Their relations to each other being of the most intimate character,
he told Mr. Lincoln frankly, that he ought to remember that a message
to Congress was a different affair from a speech at a mass-meeting in
Illinois; that the messages became a part of history, and should be
written accordingly.
“What is the matter now?” inquired the President.
“Why,” said Mr. Defrees, “you have used an undignified expression in
the message;” and then, reading the paragraph aloud, he added, “I would
alter the structure of that, if I were you.”
“Defrees,” replied Mr. Lincoln, “that word expresses precisely my idea,
and I am not going to change it. The time will never come in this
country when the people won’t know exactly what _sugar-coated_ means!”
On a subsequent occasion, Mr. Defrees told me, a certain sentence of
another message was very awkwardly constructed. Calling the President’s
attention to it in the proof-copy, the latter acknowledged the force
of the objection raised, and said, “Go home, Defrees, and see if you
can better it.” The next day Mr. Defrees took in to him his amendment.
Mr. Lincoln met him by saying: “Seward found the same fault that you
did, and he has been rewriting the paragraph also.” Then, reading Mr.
Defrees’s version, he said, “I believe you have beaten Seward; but, ‘I
jings,’ I think I can beat you both.” Then, taking up his pen, he wrote
the sentence as it was finally printed.
Mr. George E. Baker, Mr. Seward’s private secretary, informed me that
he was much amused and interested in a phase of Mr. Lincoln’s character
which came under his own observation. It was Mr. Baker’s province to
take to the President all public documents from the State Department
requiring his signature. During the first few months, Mr. Lincoln
would read each paper carefully through, always remarking, “I never
sign a document I have not first read.” As his cares increased, he
at length departed from his habit so far as to say to the messenger,
“Won’t you read these papers to me?” This went on for a few months,
and he then modified this practice by requesting “a synopsis of the
contents.” His time became more and more curtailed, and for the last
year his only expression was, “Show me where you want my name?”
It is not generally known that the speech always made by the President,
upon the presentation of a foreign minister, is carefully written for
him by the Secretary of State. A clerk in the department, ignorant of
this custom, was one day sent to the White House by Mr. Seward, with
the speech to be delivered upon such an occasion. Mr. Lincoln was
writing at his desk, as the clerk entered--a half-dozen senators and
representatives occupying the sofa and chairs. Unable to disguise a
feeling of delicacy, in the discharge of such an errand, the young man
approached, and in a low voice said to the President: “The Secretary
has sent the speech you are to make to-day to the Swiss minister.”
Mr. Lincoln laid down his pen, and, taking the manuscript, said in a
loud tone: “Oh, this is a speech Mr. Seward has written for me, is it?
I guess I will try it before these gentlemen, and see how it goes.”
Thereupon he proceeded to read it, in a waggish manner, remarking, as
he concluded, with sly humor: “There, I like that. It has the merit of
_originality_.”
“Within a month after Mr. Lincoln’s first accession to office,” says
the Hon. Mr. Raymond, “when the South was threatening civil war, and
armies of office-seekers were besieging him in the Executive Mansion,
he said to a friend that he wished he could get time to attend to the
Southern question; he thought he knew what was wanted, and believed
he could do something towards quieting the rising discontent; but
the office-seekers demanded all his time. ‘I am,’ said he, ‘like a
man so busy in letting rooms in one end of his house, that he can’t
stop to put out the fire that is burning the other.’ Two or three
years later, when the people had made him a candidate for reëlection,
the same friend spoke to him of a member of his Cabinet who was a
candidate also. Mr. Lincoln said he did not concern himself much about
that. It was important to the country that the department over which
his rival presided should be administered with vigor and energy, and
whatever would stimulate the Secretary to such action would do good.
‘R----,’ said he, ‘you were brought up on a farm, were you not? Then
you know what a _chin fly_ is. My brother and I,’ he added, ‘were once
ploughing corn on a Kentucky farm, I driving the horse, and he holding
the plough. The horse was lazy; but on one occasion rushed across
the field so that I, with my long legs, could scarcely keep pace with
him. On reaching the end of the furrow, I found an enormous _chin fly_
fastened upon him, and knocked him off. My brother asked me what I did
that for. I told him I didn’t want the old horse bitten in that way.
“Why,” said my brother, “_that’s all that made him go_!” Now,’ said
Mr. Lincoln, ‘if Mr. ---- has a presidential _chin fly_ biting him, I’m
not going to knock him off, if it will only make his department _go_.’
“On another occasion the President said he was in great distress; he
had been to General McClellan’s house, and the General did not ask
to see him; and as he must talk to somebody, he had sent for General
Franklin and myself, to obtain our opinion as to the possibility of
soon commencing active operations with the Army of the Potomac. To use
his own expression, if something was not soon done, the bottom would
fall out of the whole affair; and if General McClellan did not want to
use the army, he would like to _borrow it_, provided he could see how
it could be made to do something.”[5]
XLII.
One bright morning in May, the Sunday-school children of the city
of Washington, marching in procession on anniversary day, passed in
review through the portico on the north side of the White House. The
President stood at the open window above the door, responding with
a smile and a bow to the lusty cheers of the little folks as they
passed. Hon. Mr. Odell, of Brooklyn, with one or two other gentlemen,
stood by his side as I joined the group. It was a beautiful sight; the
rosy-cheeked boys and girls, in their “Sunday’s best,” with banners
and flowers, all intent upon seeing the President, and, as they caught
sight of his tall figure, cheering as if their very lives depended upon
it. After enjoying the scene for some time, making pleasant remarks
about a face that now and then struck him, Mr. Lincoln said: “Mrs. Ann
S. Stephens told me a story last night about Daniel Webster, when a
lad, which was new to me, and it has been running in my head all the
morning. When quite young, at school, Daniel was one day guilty of a
gross violation of the rules. He was detected in the act, and called
up by the teacher for punishment. This was to be the old-fashioned
‘feruling’ of the hand. His hands happened to be very dirty. Knowing
this, on his way to the teacher’s desk, he _spit_ upon the palm of his
_right_ hand, wiping it off upon the side of his pantaloons. ‘Give me
your hand, sir,’ said the teacher, very sternly. Out went the right
hand, partly cleansed. The teacher looked at it a moment, and said,
‘Daniel, if you will find another hand in this school-room as filthy as
that, I will let you off this time!’ Instantly from behind his back
came the _left_ hand. ‘Here it is, sir,’ was the ready reply. ‘That
will do,’ said the teacher, ‘for this time; you can take your seat,
sir.’”
Mr. Lincoln’s heart was always open to children. I shall never forget
his coming into the “studio” one day, and finding my own little boy of
two summers playing on the floor. A member of the Cabinet was with him,
but laying aside all restraint, he took the little fellow at once in
his arms, and they were soon on the best of terms.
Old Daniel--alluded to on a previous page--gave me a touching
illustration of this element in his character. A poor woman from
Philadelphia had been waiting with a baby in her arms for several days
to see the President. It appeared by her story, that her husband had
furnished a substitute for the army, but sometime afterward, in a state
of intoxication, was induced to enlist. Upon reaching the post assigned
his regiment, he deserted, thinking the government was not entitled to
his services. Returning home, he was arrested, tried, convicted, and
sentenced to be shot. The sentence was to be executed on a Saturday.
On Monday his wife left her home with her baby, to endeavor to see
the President. Said Daniel, “She had been waiting here three days,
and there was no chance for her to get in. Late in the afternoon of
the third day, the President was going through the passage to his
private room to get a cup of tea. On the way he heard the baby cry.
He instantly went back to his office and rang the bell. ‘Daniel,’ said
he, ‘is there a woman with a baby in the anteroom?’ I said there was,
and if he would allow me to say it, it was a case he ought to see; for
it was a matter of life and death. Said he, ‘Send her to me at once.’
She went in, told her story, and the President pardoned her husband. As
the woman came out from his presence, her eyes were lifted and her lips
moving in prayer, the tears streaming down her cheeks.” Said Daniel, “I
went up to her, and pulling her shawl, said, ‘Madam, it was the baby
that did it.’”
When Mr. Lincoln visited New York in 1860, he felt a great interest in
many of the institutions for reforming criminals and saving the young
from a life of crime. Among others, he visited, unattended, the Five
Points’ House of Industry, and the Superintendent of the Sabbath-school
there gave the following account of the event:--
“One Sunday morning, I saw a tall, remarkable-looking man enter the
room and take a seat among us. He listened with fixed attention to our
exercises, and his countenance expressed such genuine interest that I
approached him and suggested that he might be willing to say something
to the children. He accepted the invitation with evident pleasure;
and, coming forward, began a simple address, which at once fascinated
every little hearer and hushed the room into silence. His language was
strikingly beautiful, and his tones musical with intense feeling. The
little faces would droop into sad conviction as he uttered sentences of
warning, and would brighten into sunshine as he spoke cheerful words
of promise. Once or twice he attempted to close his remarks, but the
imperative shout of ‘Go on! Oh, do go on!’ would compel him to resume.
As I looked upon the gaunt and sinewy frame of the stranger, and marked
his powerful head and determined features, now touched into softness
by the impressions of the moment, I felt an irrepressible curiosity to
learn something more about him, and while he was quietly leaving the
room I begged to know his name. He courteously replied, ‘It is Abraham
Lincoln, from Illinois.’”
Mr. Nelson Sizer, one of the gallery ushers of Henry Ward Beecher’s
church in Brooklyn, told me that about the time of the Cooper Institute
speech, Mr. Lincoln was twice present at the morning services of that
church. On the first occasion, he was accompanied by his friend,
George B. Lincoln, Esq., and occupied a prominent seat in the centre
of the house. On a subsequent Sunday morning, not long afterwards, the
church was _packed_, as usual, and the services had proceeded to the
announcement of the text, when the gallery door at the right of the
organ-loft opened, and the tall figure of Mr. Lincoln entered, alone.
Again in the city over Sunday, he started out by himself to find the
church, which he reached considerably behind time. Every seat was
occupied; but the gentlemanly usher at once surrendered his own, and,
stepping back, became much interested in watching the effect of the
sermon upon the western orator. As Mr. Beecher developed his line of
argument, Mr. Lincoln’s body swayed forward, his lips parted, and he
seemed at length entirely unconscious of his surroundings,--frequently
giving vent to his satisfaction, at a well-put point or illustration,
with a kind of involuntary Indian exclamation,--“_ugh!_”--not audible
beyond his immediate presence, but _very_ expressive! Mr. Lincoln
henceforward had a profound admiration for the talents of the famous
pastor of Plymouth Church. He once remarked to the Rev. Henry M. Field,
of New York, in my presence, that “he thought there was not upon
record, in ancient or modern biography, so _productive_ a mind, as had
been exhibited in the career of Henry Ward Beecher!”
XLIII.
One of Mr. Lincoln’s biographers, speaking of the relations which
existed between the President and his Cabinet, says:--
“He always maintained that the proper duty of each Secretary was to
direct the details of everything done within his own department,
and to tender such suggestions, information, and advice to the
President, as he might solicit at his hands. But the duty and
responsibility of deciding what line of policy should be pursued,
or what steps should be taken in any specific case, in his
judgment, belonged exclusively to the President; and he was always
willing and ready to assume it.”[6]
The suppression of a portion of Secretary Cameron’s official report for
1861, is a case in point. A number of printed copies of the report had
left Washington before the “incendiary” passage was observed by Mr.
Lincoln. The New York “Tribune” published it as originally written.
Late in the evening of the day that these were sent, the government
printer took a copy to the President, saying he thought he ought to
look it over and see if it was satisfactory. He stated, also, that
a number of copies of the report had been already ordered from the
printing-office. Mr. Lincoln glanced over the copy placed in his hands,
and his eye rested upon the passage in question, which had reference
to arming the slaves. Instantly he was aroused. “This will never do!”
said he. “Gen. Cameron must take no such responsibility. That is a
question which belongs exclusively to me!” Then, with a pencil, he
struck out the objectionable clause, and ordered measures to be taken
at once to suppress the copies already issued. This decided action
created considerable excitement at the time, as the President’s policy
in reference to slavery had not then been indicated. In the light of
subsequent history, it will be regarded as striking evidence of the
caution with which he felt his way on this intricate and momentous
question. In his own language, in the letter to Col. Hodges, he
objected, because the indispensable necessity had not then arrived. To
Simon Cameron, however, the honor will ever belong of being the first
man connected with the Administration to strike an official blow at the
great cause of the war.
Some time after the first battle of Bull Run, General Patterson, who
had been severely censured for his action, or want of action, on that
occasion, called upon Secretary Cameron, and demanded an investigation
of the causes of the failure of the campaign. After listening to his
statement, the Secretary said that he would like the President to
see the orders and correspondence, and an interview was accordingly
arranged for the same evening. The result is given in General
Patterson’s own words:--
“I called at the hour named, was most kindly received, and read the
papers, to which the President attentively listened. When I had
finished, Mr. Lincoln said, in substance, ‘General, I have never found
fault with you nor censured you; I have never been able to see that
you could have done anything else than you did do. You obeyed orders,
and I am satisfied with your conduct.’ This was said with a manner
so frank, candid, and manly as to secure my respect, confidence, and
good-will. I expressed my gratification with and sincere thanks for
his fairness toward me, and his courtesy in hearing my case,--giving
me some five hours of his time. I said that so far as he and the War
Department were concerned I was satisfied; but that I must have a trial
by my peers, to have a public approval, and to stop the abuse daily
lavished upon me. The President replied that he would cheerfully accede
to any practicable measure to do me justice, but that I need not expect
to escape abuse as long as I was of any importance or value to the
community; adding that he received infinitely more abuse than I did,
but that he had ceased to regard it, and I must learn to do the same.”
Although the friendly relations which existed between the President
and Secretary Cameron were not interrupted by the retirement of the
latter from the War Office, so important a change in the Administration
could not of course take place without the irrepressible “story” from
Mr. Lincoln. Shortly after this event some gentlemen called upon the
President, and expressing much satisfaction at the change, intimated
that in their judgment the interests of the country required an entire
reconstruction of the Cabinet. Mr. Lincoln heard them through, and
then shaking his head dubiously, replied, with his peculiar smile:
“Gentlemen, when I was a young man I used to know very well one Joe
Wilson, who built himself a log-cabin not far from where I lived. Joe
was very fond of eggs and chickens, and he took a good deal of pains
in fitting up a poultry shed. Having at length got together a choice
lot of young fowls,--of which he was very proud,--he began to be much
annoyed by the depredations of those little black and white spotted
animals, which it is not necessary to name. One night Joe was awakened
by an unusual cackling and fluttering among his chickens. Getting up,
he crept out to see what was going on. It was a bright moonlight night,
and he soon caught sight of half a dozen of the little pests, which
with their dam were running in and out of the shadow of the shed. Very
wrathy, Joe put a double charge into his old musket, and thought he
would ‘clean’ out the whole tribe at one shot. Somehow he only killed
_one_, and the balance scampered off across the field. In telling the
story, Joe would always pause here, and hold his nose. ‘Why didn’t you
follow them up, and kill the rest?’ inquired the neighbors. ‘Blast
it,’ said Joe, ‘why, it was eleven weeks before I got over killin’
_one_. If you want any more skirmishing in that line you can just do it
yourselves!’”
XLIV.
The battle of Fair Oaks was fought May 31, 1862; or rather this is the
date of the first of the series of battles before Richmond, when, as
is now abundantly established, even by Rebel testimony, it would have
been an easy matter for McClellan to have captured what proved to be
the Sebastopol of the Rebellion. During these terrible battles, many
of our wounded men were sent on steamboats and transports to White
House landing, upon the estate of Mrs. Fitz Hugh Lee, wife of the Rebel
General. Prosper M. Wetmore, of New York city, was, at this juncture,
on a visit to the army. Very ill himself while on the Peninsula, his
sympathies were greatly excited for the wounded soldiers, confined,
during the broiling weather, to the boats, compelled to quench the
burning thirst created by their wounds with the muddy water of the
Pamunkey, which caused and aggravated disease in a fearful manner.
As a civilian, he was permitted to go on shore, and there found the
magnificent lawns and grounds, including one of the finest springs
of water in the world, all under a protective guard, set over the
property by order of the commanding general; and, while civilians like
himself were permitted freely to drink at the spring, the suffering
soldiers were prohibited from approaching it! Mr. W.’s indignation
was so greatly aroused that, upon reaching Baltimore, on his return
home, he, with two other gentlemen, cognizant of the facts, determined
to go to Washington and lay the case before the War Department.
Upon hearing their statement, the Secretary of War referred them to
Surgeon-General Hammond, saying that a requisition from him, to the
effect that the grounds of the estate were needed for the wounded,
would be instantly responded to by the War Department in the issue of
the necessary order, taking possession. They immediately waited upon
the Surgeon-General, and procured the document required, upon which
Secretary Stanton made out the order, saying, as he signed it: “Now,
gentlemen, you had better see the President also about this matter, and
get his indorsement of the order.” Proceeding to the Executive Mansion,
they found, as usual, the waiting-rooms thronged with visitors; but,
representing to the usher in attendance that their business was
extremely urgent, and concerned the wounded of the army, they were at
once shown into Mr. Lincoln’s presence. It was late in what had perhaps
been a trying or vexatious day. Very briefly, but unceremoniously, the
object of their visit was stated. In the language of Mr. W----, “The
President listened to the account half impatiently, saying, as the
speaker concluded, with an expression of countenance very like a sneer,
‘This is another _raid_ upon McClellan, I take it!’ ‘Mr. President,’
was the reply, ‘we came here to lay these facts before you solely from
a sense of duty. Had I the power, sir, I would take possession of the
lawns in front of _this_ mansion for the benefit of our wounded men,
so many of whom are now dying on the Pamunkey, for want of pure air
and water. After the sights witnessed upon those seven steamboats now
lying at White House, I covet every spot of greensward my eyes rest
upon. What I have told you of the actual condition of things at that
landing is below the truth, as the gentlemen who accompany me will
confirm to your satisfaction. For myself, allow me to say, sir, that
I belong to that political organization which opposed your election
to the Presidency--the same organization to which General McClellan
is presumed to belong. This is no raid upon him or upon you. It is
simple justice to the wounded and suffering soldiers that we ask of
you.’ Entirely convinced by the candor of this reply, Mr. Lincoln then
proceeded to a minute questioning in regard to the scenes they had
witnessed; and when subsequently told that they had called at Secretary
Stanton’s request, to secure his approval of the order issued, which
embraced only the grounds and spring, ‘Not only these,’ said he, with
emphasis, ‘but the order must include the house, and everything else
which can in any way contribute to the comfort of the poor boys!’ And
so the order was made to read before it left Washington.”
There is scarcely a parallel in history to the forbearance exhibited
by the President toward General McClellan. The incident given above is
but one illustration of his impatience with those who preferred charges
against the “Commanding General.” During the last year of his life,
however, in friendly conversation, he could not refrain sometimes from
an impromptu sarcasm, nevertheless so blended with wit that it must,
one would think, effectually disarm all resentment.
About two weeks after the Chicago Convention, the Rev. J. P. Thompson,
of New York, called upon the President, in company with the Assistant
Secretary of War, Mr. Dana. In the course of conversation, Dr. T. said:
“What do you think, Mr. President, is the reason General McClellan
does not reply to the letter from the Chicago Convention?” “Oh!”
replied Mr. Lincoln, with a characteristic twinkle of the eye, “_he is
intrenching_.”
XLV.
One Saturday afternoon, when the lawn in front of the White House was
crowded with people listening to the weekly concert of the Marine Band,
the President appeared upon the portico. Instantly there was a clapping
of hands and clamor for a speech. Bowing his thanks, and excusing
himself, he stepped back into the retirement of the circular parlor,
remarking to me, with a disappointed air, as he reclined upon the
sofa, “I wish they would let me sit out there quietly, and enjoy the
music.” I stated to him on this occasion, that I believed no President,
since the days of Washington, ever secured the hearts of the people,
and carried them with him as he had done. To this he replied that, in
such a crisis as the country was then passing through, it was natural
that the people should look more earnestly to their leaders than at
other periods. He thought their regard for any man in his position
who should sincerely have done his best to save the government from
destruction, would have been equally as marked and expressive; to which
I did not by any means assent.
I do not recall an instance of Mr. Lincoln’s ever referring to
any act of his administration with an appearance of complacency
or self-satisfaction. I watched him closely during the political
excitement previous to the Baltimore Convention, to see if I could
discover signs of personal ambition, and I am free to say that, apart
from the welfare of the country, there was no evidence to show to my
mind that he ever thought of himself. And yet he was very sensitive
to the opinions of his friends. A governor of a western State, true
and loyal as the best, at a certain juncture conceived himself for
some reason aggrieved by Executive action. Having occasion to send
in the names of two officers for promotion, he said, in his note to
the President, that he hoped whatever feeling he might have against
him personally would not prevent his doing justice to the merits of
the officers in question. Mr. Lincoln had been utterly unconscious of
having given offence, either by lack of appreciation or otherwise, and
he seemed greatly touched at the aspersion. He said that, if he had
been asked to say which of all the loyal governors had been most active
and efficient in raising and equipping troops, if he had made any
distinction, where all had done so well, it would have been in favor of
the governor in question. At another time, when several conflicting
delegations were pressing the claims of different candidates for a
position of importance, he said that he had been so troubled about the
matter that he had that day refused to see one of the candidates, an
old and dear personal friend, lest his judgment should be warped. “If
I was less _thin-skinned_ about such things,” he added, “I should get
along much better.”
When he had thought profoundly, however, upon certain measures, and
felt sure of his ground, criticism, either public or private, did not
disturb him. Upon the appearance of what was known as the “Wade and
Davis manifesto,” subsequent to his renomination, an intimate friend
and supporter, who was very indignant that such a document should
have been put forth just previous to the presidential election, took
occasion to animadvert very severely upon the course that prompted it.
“It is not worth fretting about,” said the President; “it reminds me
of an old acquaintance, who, having a son of a scientific turn, bought
him a microscope. The boy went around, experimenting with his glass
upon everything that came in his way. One day, at the dinner-table, his
father took up a piece of cheese. ‘Don’t eat that, father,’ said the
boy; ‘it is full of _wrigglers_.’ ‘My son,’ replied the old gentleman,
taking, at the same time, a huge bite, ‘let’em _wriggle_; I can stand
it if they can.’”
No President ever manifested such a willingness to receive and act upon
advice and suggestions from all sources, as Mr. Lincoln. On a certain
occasion a leading officer of the government, and the governor of the
State he represented, had each a candidate for a high State position.
The claims of both were urged with great strength. The President was
“in a strait betwixt the two.” A personal friend from the same State,
to whom he mentioned the difficulty of deciding the question without
giving offence to one or the other of the parties, suggested that he
appoint neither of the candidates, but bestow the office upon a certain
officer of the army from that State, who had distinguished himself,
losing an arm or a leg in the service, but who had not solicited in any
way the position. Mr. Lincoln instantly fell in with the idea, saying
that it seemed to him “just the right thing to do;” and he immediately
made out the nomination.
XLVI.
Among the numerous visitors on one of the President’s reception days,
were a party of Congressmen, among whom was the Hon. Thomas Shannon, of
California. Soon after the customary greeting, Mr. Shannon said:--
“Mr. President, I met an old friend of yours in California last summer,
Thompson Campbell, who had a good deal to say of your Springfield
life.” “Ah!” returned Mr. Lincoln, “I am glad to hear of him.
Campbell used to be a dry fellow,” he continued. “For a time he was
Secretary of State. One day, during the legislative vacation, a meek,
cadaverous-looking man, with a white neck-cloth, introduced himself
to him at his office, and, stating that he had been informed that Mr.
C. had the letting of the Assembly Chamber, said that he wished to
secure it, if possible, for a course of lectures he desired to deliver
in Springfield. ‘May I ask,’ said the Secretary, ‘what is to be the
subject of your lectures?’ ‘Certainly,’ was the reply, with a very
solemn expression of countenance. ‘The course I wish to deliver, is
on the Second Coming of our Lord.’ ‘It is of no use,’ said C. ‘If you
will take my advice, you will not waste your time in this city. It is
my private opinion that if the Lord has been in Springfield _once_, He
will not come the second time!’”
Representative Shannon, previous to the war, had been an “Old Hunker”
Democrat. Converted by the Rebellion, he had gone to the other extreme,
and was one of the radical Abolitionists of the Thirty-Eighth Congress.
The last Sunday in May, the Rev. Dr. Cheever, of New York, delivered
one of his most pungent, denunciatory anti-slavery discourses, in the
Hall of the House of Representatives. Among the numerous auditors
attracted by the name of the preacher, I noticed Mr. Shannon, whose
face was not often seen in church. On the way to my hotel, we fell
in together. “Well, S.,” said I, “what think you of that style of
preaching?” “It was the first ‘_Gospel_’ sermon I ever heard in my
life!” was the emphatic rejoinder.
One of Mr. Shannon’s California colleagues, the Hon. Mr. Higby, told me
that having special business one evening, which called him to the White
House, the President came into the office, dressed for a state dinner.
In the conversation which followed, holding up his hands, encased in
white gloves, he remarked, with a laugh, that one of his Illinois
friends never could see his hands in that “predicament,” without being
reminded of “_canvassed hams_!”
Mr. Lincoln was always ready to join in a laugh at the expense of his
person, concerning which he was very indifferent. Many of his friends
will recognize the following story,--the incident having actually
occurred,--which he used to tell with great glee:--
“In the days when I used to be ‘on the circuit,’ I was once accosted
in the cars by a stranger, who said, ‘Excuse me, sir, but I have an
article in my possession which belongs to you.’ ‘How is that?’ I asked,
considerably astonished. The stranger took a jack-knife from his
pocket. ‘This knife,’ said he, ‘was placed in my hands some years ago,
with the injunction that I was to keep it until I found a man _uglier_
than myself. I have carried it from that time to this. Allow me _now_
to say, sir, that I think _you_ are fairly entitled to the property.’”
XLVII.
I had been engaged in the official chamber until quite late one
evening, upon some pencil studies of accessories, necessary to
introduce in my picture. The President, Mrs. Lincoln, and the Private
Secretaries had gone to the opera, and for the time being I had
undisturbed possession. Towards twelve o’clock I heard some persons
enter the sleeping apartment occupied by Mr. Nicolay and Major Hay,
which was directly opposite the room where I was sitting; and shortly
afterward the hearty laugh of Mr. Lincoln broke the stillness,
proceeding from the same quarter. Throwing aside my work, I went
across the hall to see what had occasioned this outbreak of merriment.
The Secretaries had come in and Hay had retired; Mr. Nicolay sat by
the table with his boots off, and the President was leaning over the
“footboard” of the bed, laughing and talking with the hilarity of a
schoolboy. It seemed that Hay, or “John,” as the President called
him, had met with a singular adventure, which was the subject of the
amusement. Glancing through the half-open door, Mr. Lincoln caught
sight of me, and the story had to be repeated for my benefit. The
incident was trifling in itself, but the President’s enjoyment of it
was very exhilarating. I never saw him in so frolicsome a mood as on
this occasion.
It has been well said by a critic of Shakspeare, that “the spirit which
held the woe of ‘Lear,’ and the tragedy of ‘Hamlet,’ would have broken,
had it not also had the humor of the ‘Merry Wives of Windsor,’ and the
merriment of ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream.’” With equal justice can this
profound truth be applied to the late President. The world has had no
better illustration of it since the immortal plays were written.
Mr. Lincoln’s “laugh” stood by itself. The “neigh” of a wild horse
on his native prairie is not more undisguised and hearty. A group of
gentlemen, among whom was his old Springfield friend and associate,
Hon. Isaac N. Arnold, were one day conversing in the passage near
his office, while waiting admission. A congressional delegation had
preceded them, and presently an unmistakable voice was heard through
the partition, in a burst of mirth. Mr. Arnold remarked, as the sound
died away: “That laugh has been the President’s life-preserver!”
In a corner of his desk he kept a copy of the latest humorous work; and
it was his habit when greatly fatigued, annoyed, or depressed, to take
this up and read a chapter, frequently with great relief.
Among the callers in the course of an evening which I well
remember, was a party composed of two senators, a representative,
an ex-lieutenant-governor of a western State, and several private
citizens. They had business of great importance, involving the
necessity of the President’s examination of voluminous documents.
He was at this time, from an unusual pressure of office-seekers, in
addition to his other cares, literally worn out. Pushing everything
aside, he said to one of the party: “Have you seen the ‘Nasby Papers’?”
“No, I have not,” was the answer; “who is ‘Nasby?’” “There is a chap
out in Ohio,” returned the President, “who has been writing a series of
letters in the newspapers over the signature of ‘Petroleum V. Nasby.’
Some one sent me a pamphlet collection of them the other day. I am
going to write to ‘Petroleum’ to come down here, and I intend to tell
him if he will communicate his talent to me, I will ‘_swap_’ places
with him.” Thereupon he arose, went to a drawer in his desk, and,
taking out the “Letters,” sat down and read one to the company finding
in their enjoyment of it the temporary excitement and relief which
another man would have found in a glass of wine. The instant he ceased,
the book was thrown aside, his countenance relapsed into its habitual
serious expression, and the business before him was entered upon with
the utmost earnestness.
During the dark days of ’62, the Hon. Mr. Ashley, of Ohio, had occasion
to call at the White House early one morning, just after news of a
disaster. Mr. Lincoln commenced some trifling narration, to which the
impulsive congressman was in no mood to listen. He rose to his feet and
said: “Mr. President, I did not come here this morning to hear stories;
it is too serious a time.” Instantly the smile faded from Mr. Lincoln’s
face. “Ashley,” said he, “sit down! I respect you as an earnest,
sincere man. You cannot be more anxious than I have been constantly
since the beginning of the war; and I say to you now, that were it not
for this occasional _vent_, I should die.”
XLVIII.
About the first of June I received a call from the Hon. Horace Greeley,
who was temporarily in Washington. Very near-sighted, his comments
upon my work, then about half completed, were not particularly
gratifying. He thought the steel likenesses in his book, “The American
Conflict,” were much better. I called his attention, among other
points, to a newspaper introduced in the foreground of the picture,
“symbolizing,” I said, “the agency of the ‘Press’ in bringing about
_Emancipation_;”--stating, at the same time, that this accessory was
studied from a copy of the “Tribune.” Upon this his face relaxed;--“I
would not object,” said he, “to your putting in my letter to the
President on that subject.”
Knowing that he had not been friendly to the renomination of Mr.
Lincoln, it occurred to me, in my simplicity, that if I could bring
them together, an interview might result in clearing up what was,
perhaps, a mutual misunderstanding of relative positions,--though I
had never known Mr. Lincoln to mention the name of the editor of the
“Tribune,” otherwise than with profound respect. Leaving my visitor
in front of the picture, I went to the President’s office to inform
him of the presence of Mr. G. in the house, thinking that he might
deem it best, under the circumstances, to receive him below stairs.
In this, however, I “reckoned without my host.” He looked up quickly,
as I mentioned the name, but recovering himself, said, with unusual
blandness: “Please say to Mr. Greeley that I shall be _very_ happy to
see him, _at his leisure_.”
I have been repeatedly asked to what extent Mr. Lincoln read the
newspapers. It might have dampened the patriotic ardor of many
ambitious editors, could they have known that their elaborate
disquisitions, sent in such numbers to the White House, were usually
appropriated by the servants, and rarely, or never, reached the one
they were preëminently intended to enlighten as to his duty and policy.
I recollect of but a single instance of newspaper reading on the part
of the President, during the entire period of my intercourse with him.
One evening, having occasion to go to the Private Secretary’s office,
supposing the rooms to be vacant, I came upon Mr. Lincoln, seated
quietly by himself, for once engaged in looking over the contents of a
journal, which he had casually taken up.
The Washington dailies,--the “Chronicle,” “Republican,” and
“Star,”--were usually laid upon his table, and I think he was in
the habit of glancing at the telegraphic reports of these; but
rarely beyond this. All war news of importance, of course, reached
him previous to its publication. He had, therefore, little occasion
to consult newspapers on this account. The Private Secretaries,
however, usually kept him informed of the principal subjects discussed
editorially in the leading organs of the country.
The journals I became most familiar with, in the Secretaries’ quarters,
besides those mentioned, were the Philadelphia “Press” and “North
American;” the Baltimore “American” and “Sun;” the New York “Tribune,”
“Evening Post,” “Independent,” “Times,” “Herald,” and “World;” the
Albany “Evening Journal;” the Boston “Advertiser,” “Journal,” and
“Transcript;” the Chicago “Tribune” and “Journal,” (the latter valued
chiefly for the letters of its war correspondent, B. F. Taylor); the
St. Louis “Republican” and “Democrat;” and the Cincinnati “Gazette” and
“Commercial.”
Violent criticism, attacks, and denunciations, coming either from
radicals or conservatives, rarely ruffled the President, if they
reached his ears. It must have been in connection with something
of this kind, that he once told me this story. “Some years ago,”
said he, “a couple of ‘emigrants,’ fresh from the ‘Emerald Isle,’
seeking labor, were making their way toward the West. Coming suddenly,
one evening, upon a pond of water, they were greeted with a grand
chorus of bull-frogs,--a kind of music they had never before heard.
‘B-a-u-m!’--‘B-a-u-m!’ Overcome with terror, they clutched their
‘shillelahs,’ and crept cautiously forward, straining their eyes in
every direction, to catch a glimpse of the enemy; but he was not to
be found! At last a happy idea seized the foremost one,--he sprang to
his companion and exclaimed, ‘And sure, Jamie! it is my opinion it’s
nothing but a “_noise_!”’”
On a certain occasion, the President was induced by a committee
of gentlemen to examine a newly invented “repeating” gun; the
peculiarity of which was, that it prevented the escape of gas. After
due inspection, he said: “Well, I believe this really does what it
is represented to do. Now have any of you heard of any machine,
or invention, for preventing the escape of ‘gas’ from newspaper
establishments?”
One afternoon he came into the studio, while Mrs. Secretary Welles and
a party of friends were viewing the picture. Mrs. Welles said that she
“understood from the newspapers that the work was nearly completed;
which appeared to be far from the truth.” In reply, I made the common
place remark, that the “papers” were not always “_reliable_.” “That is
to say, Mrs. Welles,” broke in the President, “they ‘_lie_,’ and then
they ‘_re-lie_!’”
At one of the “levees,” in the winter of 1864, during a lull in the
hand-shaking, Mr. Lincoln was addressed by two lady friends, one of
whom is the wife of a gentleman subsequently called into the Cabinet.
Turning to them with a weary air, he remarked that it was a relief to
have now and then those to talk to who had no favors to ask. The lady
referred to is a radical,--a New Yorker by birth, but for many years a
resident of the West. She replied, playfully, “Mr. President, I _have_
one request to make.” “Ah!” said he, at once looking grave. “Well,
what is it?” “That you suppress the infamous ‘Chicago Times,’” was the
rejoinder. After a brief pause, Mr. Lincoln asked her if she had ever
tried to imagine how she would have felt, in some former administration
to which she was opposed, if her favorite newspaper had been seized
by the government, and suppressed. The lady replied that it was not a
parallel case; that in circumstances like those then existing, when the
nation was struggling for its very life, such utterances as were daily
put forth in that journal should be suppressed by the strong hand of
authority; that the cause of loyalty and good government demanded it.
“I fear you do not fully comprehend,” returned the President, “the
danger of abridging the _liberties_ of the people. Nothing but the
very sternest necessity can ever justify it. A government had better
go to the very extreme of toleration, than to do aught that could be
construed into an interference with, or to jeopardize in any degree,
the common rights of its citizens.”
XLIX.
A morning or two after the visit of Mr. Greeley, I was called upon by
a gentleman, who requested my assistance in securing a brief interview
with the President, for the purpose of presenting him with an elaborate
pen-and-ink “allegorical, symbolic” representation of the “Emancipation
Proclamation;” which, in a massive carved frame, had been purchased at
a recent “Sanitary Fair,” in one of the large cities, by a committee of
gentlemen, expressly for this object. The composition contained a tree,
representing Liberty; a portrait of Mr. Lincoln; soldiers, monitors,
broken fetters, etc.; together with the text of the proclamation,
all executed with a pen. Artistically speaking, such works have no
value,--they are simply interesting, as curiosities. Mr. Lincoln kindly
accorded the desired opportunity to make the presentation, which
occupied but a few moments, and was in the usual form. He accepted the
testimonial, he said, not for himself, but in behalf of “the cause
in which all were engaged.” When the group dispersed, I remained with
the President. He returned to his desk; while I examined curiously
the pen work, which was exceedingly minute in detail. “This is quite
wonderful!” I said, at length. Mr. Lincoln looked up from his papers;
“Yes,” he rejoined; “it is what I call _ingenious nonsense_!”
The evening following this affair, on entering the President’s office,
about eleven o’clock, I found him alone, seated at the long table,
with a large pile of military commissions before him, which he was
signing one by one. As I sat down beside him, he presently remarked,
“I do not, as you see, pretend to read over these documents. I see
that Stanton has signed them, so I conclude they are all right.”
Pausing here, he read a portion of one, beginning with the name of
the individual, “-------- is hereby appointed adjutant-general, with
the rank of captain, etc. E. M. Stanton, Secretary of War.” “There,”
said he, appending his own signature in the opposite corner; “that
fixes _him_ out.” Thus he went on chatting and writing, until he had
finished the lot; then, rising from his chair, he stretched himself,
and said, “Well, I have got that job _husked out_; now I guess I will
go over to the War Department before I go to bed, and see if there is
any news.” Walking over with him at his request,--to divert his mind, I
repeated a story told me the night previous concerning a ‘contraband’
who had fallen into the hands of some good pious people, and was being
taught by them to read and pray. Going off by himself one day, he was
overheard to commence a prayer by the introduction of himself as “Jim
Williams--a berry good nigga’ to wash windows; ’spec’s you know me
now?’”
An amusing illustration of the fact that whatever the nature of an
incident related to the President, it never failed to remind him of
something similar, followed. After a hearty laugh at what he called
this “direct way of putting the case,” he said: “The story that
suggests to me, has no resemblance to it save in the ‘washing windows’
part. A lady in Philadelphia had a pet poodle dog, which mysteriously
disappeared. Rewards were offered for him, and a great ado made without
effect. Some weeks passed, and all hope of the favorite’s return had
been given up, when a servant brought him in one day, in the filthiest
condition imaginable. The lady was overjoyed to see her pet again, but
horrified at his appearance. ‘Where _did_ you find him?’ she exclaimed.
‘Oh,’ replied the man, very unconcernedly, ‘a negro down the street had
him tied to the end of a pole, _swabbing_ windows.’”
L.
A day or two previous to the meeting of the Republican Convention,
the President read me his letter to the “Owen Lovejoy Monument
Association,”--lately written, and not then published,--in which he
expressed his appreciation of Mr. Lovejoy in nearly the same language
I had heard him use on a former occasion. “Throughout my heavy and
perplexing responsibilities here,” ran the letter, “to the day of
his death, it would scarcely wrong any other to say he was my most
generous friend. Let him have the marble monument, along with the well
assured and more enduring one in the hearts of those who love liberty
unselfishly for all men.” A noble tribute, in fitly chosen words!
The evening following the reading of this letter, he said that Mrs.
Lincoln and he had promised half an hour to a sort of “artist” who
wished to “exhibit” before them in the red-room below. “What kind of an
artist?” I inquired. “Oh, not in your line,” he answered; “I think he
is a sort of mountebank, or comic lecturer, or something of the kind.”
On my way to my own room, I met in the passage the well-known “Jeems
Pipes of Pipesville,”--otherwise Stephen Massett,--whom I at once
conjectured to be the individual the President had referred to. The two
rooms communicating by double doors, I could not well avoid overhearing
a portion of the performance, or more properly lecture, which I think
was announced by the title of “Drifting About.” Comic imitations of
various characters were given, among others that of a stammering man,
which appeared greatly to amuse Mr. Lincoln. I could only now and then
catch a word of the burlesque, but the voice and ringing laugh of the
President were perfectly distinguishable. When the “lecture” ceased,
Mr. Lincoln said, “I want to offer a suggestion. I once knew a man
who invariably ‘_whistled_’ with his stammering,” and he then gave an
imitation. “Now,” he continued, “if you could get in a touch of nature
like that it would be irresistibly ludicrous.” “Pipes” applauded the
amendment, rehearsing it several times, until he had mastered it to the
President’s satisfaction; and I dare say the innovation became a part
of all subsequent performances.
About this period numerous delegations from various religious bodies
and associations thronged the White House. Among the number none met
so cordial a reception as that of the “Christian Commission,” composed
of volunteer clergymen who had just returned from the Wilderness
battleground. In the brief address by the chairman of the occasion,
he stated that the group before the President embraced those who had
been first on the field to offer aid and refreshments to the wounded
of that terrible series of battles. In reply Mr. Lincoln expressed his
appreciation of the self-denying services rendered by the Commission,
in feeling terms. He concluded his response in these words: “And I
desire also to add to what I have said, that there is one association
whose object and motives I have never heard in any degree impugned or
questioned; and that is the ‘Christian Commission.’ And in ‘these days
of villany,’ as Shakspeare says, that is a record, gentlemen, of which
you may justly be proud!” Upon the conclusion of the “ceremony,” he
added, in a conversational tone, “I believe, however, it is old ‘Jack
Falstaff’ who talks about ‘villany,’ though of course Shakspeare is
responsible.”
After the customary hand-shaking, which followed, several gentlemen
came forward and asked the President for his autograph. One of them
gave his name as “Cruikshank.” “That reminds me,” said Mr. Lincoln, “of
what I used to be called when a young man--‘long-shanks.’” Hereupon the
rest of the party, emboldened by the success of the few, crowded around
the desk, and the President good naturedly wrote his name for each; the
scene suggesting forcibly to my mind a country schoolmaster’s weekly
distribution of “tickets” among his pupils.
LI.
The “Baltimore Convention,” which renominated Mr. Lincoln, was convened
June 7, 1864. It created comparatively little excitement in Washington
or elsewhere, as the action of the various State legislatures and local
mass meetings had prepared the public mind for the result.
Toward evening of the 8th,--the day the nominations were made,--Major
Hay and myself were alone with the President in his office. He did not
seem in any degree exhilarated by the action of the convention; on
the contrary, his manner was subdued, if not sad. Upon the lighting
of the gas, he told us how he had that afternoon received the news
of the nomination for Vice-President before he heard of his own.
It appeared that the despatch announcing his renomination had been
sent to his office from the War Department while he was at lunch.
Afterward, without going back to the official chamber, he proceeded
to the War Department. While there, the telegram came in announcing
the nomination of Johnson. “What!” said he to the operator, “do they
nominate a Vice-President before they do a President?” “Why!” rejoined
the astonished official, “have you not heard of your own nomination? It
was sent to the White House two hours ago.” “It is all right,” was the
reply; “I shall probably find it on my return.”
Laughing pleasantly over this incident, he said, soon afterward,--“A
very singular occurrence took place the day I was nominated at Chicago,
four years ago, of which I am reminded to-night. In the afternoon
of the day, returning home from down town, I went up-stairs to Mrs.
Lincoln’s sitting-room. Feeling somewhat tired, I lay down upon a couch
in the room, directly opposite a bureau upon which was a looking-glass.
As I reclined, my eye fell upon the glass, and I saw distinctly _two_
images of myself, exactly alike, except that one was a little paler
than the other. I arose, and lay down again, with the same result.
It made me quite uncomfortable for a few moments, but some friends
coming in, the matter passed out of my mind. The next day, while
walking in the street, I was suddenly reminded of the circumstance,
and the disagreeable sensation produced by it returned. I had never
seen anything of the kind before, and did not know what to make of it.
I determined to go home and place myself in the same position, and
if the same effect was produced, I would make up my mind that it was
the natural result of some principle of refraction or optics which I
did not understand, and dismiss it. I tried the experiment, with a
like result; and, as I had said to myself, accounting for it on some
principle unknown to me, it ceased to trouble me. But,” said he, “some
time ago, I tried to produce the same effect _here_, by arranging a
glass and couch in the same position, without success.” He did not
say, at this time, that either he or Mrs. Lincoln attached any omen
to the phenomenon; neither did he say that the double reflection was
seen while he was walking about the room. On the contrary, it was only
visible in a certain position and at a certain angle; and therefore, he
thought, could be accounted for upon scientific principles.[7]
A little later in the evening, the Hon. Mr. Kelley, of Philadelphia,
came in. As he sat down, he took a letter out of his pocket, saying:
“Mr. President, while on a visit home, a week or two ago, I took up a
number of the “Anti-Slavery Standard,” in which there happened to be a
communication from Mrs. Caroline H. Dall, of Boston, giving her views
of the Fremont movement, and the situation generally; so admirable
in its tone and spirit, that I could not resist the inclination to
write to the author, expressing the interest with which I had read
the article. The result was a reply, which I hold in my hand, which
seems to me so just and able a statement of your position, from the
stand-point of a true woman, that I have brought it up to read to you.”
Mr. Lincoln nodded assent, and listened pensively to the eloquent
tones of the Congressman’s voice, who entered into the spirit of
the letter with his whole heart,--affirming, as it did, unwavering
confidence in the President; the sincerity of his anti-slavery
convictions and purposes; and appreciation of the difficulties which
had environed him,--presenting, in this respect, a marked contrast to
the letters and speeches of many of the so-called radicals. Mr. Lincoln
said but little, as Judge Kelley concluded; but one or two expressions,
and the manner accompanying them, showed that the sentiments of the
writer of the letter were gratefully appreciated.
The day following the adjournment at Baltimore, various political
organizations called to pay their respects to the President. First
came the Convention Committee, embracing one from each State
represented,--appointed to announce to him, formally, the nomination.
Next came the Ohio delegation, with Menter’s Band, of Cincinnati.
Following these were the representatives of the National Union League,
to whom he said, in concluding his brief response:--
“I do not allow myself to suppose that either the Convention, or the
League, have concluded to decide that I am either the greatest or
the best man in America; but, rather, they have concluded that it is
not best to _swap_ horses while crossing the river, and have further
concluded that I am not so poor a horse, but that they might make a
_botch_ of it in trying to _swap_!”
Another incident, which occurred in the course of the day, created
considerable amusement. When the Philadelphia delegation was being
presented, the chairman of that body, in introducing one of the
members, said: “Mr. President, this is Mr. S----, of the Second
District of our State,--a most active and earnest friend of yours and
the cause. He has, among other things, been good enough to paint, and
present to our League rooms, a most beautiful portrait of yourself.”
Mr. Lincoln took the gentleman’s hand in his, and shaking it cordially,
said with a merry voice,--“I presume, sir, in painting your beautiful
portrait, you took your idea of me from my principles, and not from my
person.”
Among the visitors, the same afternoon, were William Lloyd Garrison and
Theodore Tilton. In the “Editorial Notes,” concerning the convention
and nominations, in his newspaper, the New York “Independent,” the
following week, Mr. Tilton wrote:--
“On his reception day, the President’s face wore an expression of
satisfaction rather than elation. His reception of Mr. Garrison was
an equal honor to host and guest. In alluding to our failure to find
the old jail, he said,--‘Well, Mr. Garrison, when you first went to
Baltimore you couldn’t get _out_; but the second time you couldn’t get
_in_!’ When one of us mentioned the great enthusiasm at the convention,
after Senator Morgan’s proposition to amend the Constitution,
abolishing slavery, Mr. Lincoln instantly said,--‘It was I who
suggested to Mr. Morgan that he should put that idea into his opening
speech.’ This was the very best word he has said since the proclamation
of freedom.”
LII.
I have alluded, on a previous page, to the public concerts of the
Marine Band,--from the Washington Navy-yard,--given every Saturday
afternoon, during the summer, on the grounds in front of the White
House; which, on such occasions, were thronged with visitors. The
Saturday following the nominations I invited my friend Cropsey, the
landscape-painter, from New York,--who, with his wife, was spending a
few days in the city,--to come up with Mrs. C. to the studio, which
overlooked the pleasure-grounds, and presented a fine opportunity of
enjoying both spectacle and music. The invitation was accepted, and the
afternoon was devoted to my guests.
Towards the close of the concert the door suddenly opened, and the
President came in, as he was in the habit of doing, alone. Mr. and
Mrs. Cropsey had been presented to him in the course of the morning;
and as he came forward, half hesitatingly, Mrs. C., who held a bunch
of beautiful flowers in her hand, tripped forward playfully, and
said: “Allow me, Mr. President, to present you with a bouquet!”
The situation was momentarily embarrassing; and I was puzzled to
know how “His Excellency” would get out of it. With no appearance of
discomposure, he stooped down, took the flowers, and, looking from
them into the sparkling eyes and radiant face of the lady, said, with
a gallantry I was unprepared for,--“Really, madam, if you give them
to _me_, and they are _mine_, I think I cannot possibly make so good
a _use_ of them as to present them to _you_, in return!” Chesterfield
could not have extricated himself from the dilemma with more tact
and address; and the incident, trifling in itself, may serve to
illustrate that there existed in the _ci-devant_ “rail-splitter” and
“flat-boatman”--uncouth and half-civilized as many supposed him--the
essential elements of the true gentleman.
I was always touched by the President’s manner of receiving the salute
of the guard at the White House. Whenever he appeared in the portico,
on his way to or from the War or Treasury Department, or on any
excursion down the avenue, the first glimpse of him was, of course,
the signal for the sentinel on duty to “present arms.” This was always
acknowledged by Mr. Lincoln with a peculiar bow and touch of the hat,
no matter how many times it might occur in the course of a day; and
it always seemed to me as much a compliment to the devotion of the
soldiers, on his part, as it was the sign of duty and deference on the
part of the guard.
The Hon. Mr. Odell gave me a deeply interesting incident, which
occurred in the winter of 1864, at one of the most crowded of the
Presidential levees, illustrating very perfectly Mr. Lincoln’s true
politeness and delicacy of feeling.
On the occasion referred to, the pressure became so great that the
usual ceremony of hand-shaking was, for once, discontinued. The
President had been standing for some time, bowing his acknowledgments
to the thronging multitude, when his eye fell upon a couple who had
entered unobserved,--a wounded soldier, and his plainly dressed mother.
Before they could pass out, he made his way to where they stood,
and, taking each of them by the hand, with a delicacy and cordiality
which brought tears to many eyes, he assured them of his interest and
welcome. Governors, senators, diplomats, passed with simply a nod; but
that pale young face he might never see again. To him, and to others
like him, did the nation owe its life; and Abraham Lincoln was not the
man to forget this, even in the crowded and brilliant assembly of the
distinguished of the land.
LIII.
The opinion of the Attorney-General, Judge Bates, as to the safety of
Mr. Lincoln’s being intrusted with the pardoning power, was founded
upon an intimate knowledge of the man. A nature of such tenderness and
humanity would have been in danger of erring on what many would call
the weak side, had it not been balanced by an unusual degree of strong
practical good sense and judgment.
The Secretary of War, and generals in command, were frequently much
annoyed at being overruled,--the discipline and efficiency of the
service being thereby, as they considered, greatly endangered. But
there was no going back of the simple signature, “A. LINCOLN,” attached
to proclamation or reprieve.
The Hon. Mr. Kellogg, representative from Essex County, New York,
received a despatch one evening from the army, to the effect that
a young townsman, who had been induced to enlist through his
instrumentality, had, for a serious misdemeanor, been convicted by
a court-martial, and was to be shot the next day. Greatly agitated,
Mr. Kellogg went to the Secretary of War, and urged, in the strongest
manner, a reprieve. Stanton was inexorable. “Too many cases of the
kind had been let off,” he said; “and it was time an example was
made.” Exhausting his eloquence in vain, Mr. Kellogg said,--“Well, Mr.
Secretary, the boy is not going to be _shot_,--of that I give you fair
warning!” Leaving the War Department, he went directly to the White
House, although the hour was late. The sentinel on duty told him that
special orders had been issued to admit no one whatever that night.
After a long parley, by pledging himself to assume the responsibility
of the act, the congressman passed in. The President had retired; but,
indifferent to etiquette or ceremony, Judge Kellogg pressed his way
through all obstacles to his sleeping apartment. In an excited manner
he stated that the despatch announcing the hour of execution had but
just reached him. “This man must not be shot, Mr. President,” said he.
“I can’t help what he may have done. Why, he is an old neighbor of
mine; I can’t allow him to be shot!” Mr. Lincoln had remained in bed,
quietly listening to the vehement protestations of his old friend,
(they were in Congress together.) He at length said: “Well, I don’t
believe _shooting_ him will do him any good. Give me that pen.” And, so
saying, “red tape” was unceremoniously cut, and another poor fellow’s
lease of life was indefinitely extended.
One night Speaker Colfax left all other business to ask the President
to respite the son of a constituent, who was sentenced to be shot, at
Davenport, for desertion. He heard the story with his usual patience,
though he was wearied out with incessant calls, and anxious for
rest, and then replied: “Some of our generals complain that I impair
discipline and subordination in the army by my pardons and respites,
but it makes me rested, after a hard day’s work, if I can find some
good excuse for saving a man’s life, and I go to bed happy as I think
how joyous the signing of my name will make him and his family and his
friends.”
Mr. Van Alen, of New York, in an account furnished the “Evening Post,”
wrote: “I well remember the case of a poor woman who sought, with the
persistent affection of a mother, for the pardon of her son condemned
to death. She was successful in her petition. When she had left the
room, Mr. Lincoln turned to me and said: ‘Perhaps I have done wrong,
but at all events I have made that poor woman happy.’”
The Hon. Thaddeus Stevens told me that on one occasion he called at
the White House with an elderly lady, in great trouble, whose son had
been in the army, but for some offence had been court-martialled,
and sentenced either to death, or imprisonment at hard labor for a
long term. There were some extenuating circumstances; and after a
full hearing, the President turned to the representative, and said:
“Mr. Stevens, do you think this is a case which will warrant my
interference?” “With my knowledge of the facts and the parties,” was
the reply, “I should have no hesitation in granting a pardon.” “Then,”
returned Mr. Lincoln, “I will pardon him,” and he proceeded forthwith
to execute the paper. The gratitude of the mother was too deep for
expression, and not a word was said between her and Mr. Stevens until
they were half way down the stairs on their passage out, when she
suddenly broke forth in an excited manner with the words, “I knew
it was a copperhead lie!” “What do you refer to, madam?” asked Mr.
Stevens. “Why, they told me he was an ugly looking man,” she replied,
with vehemence. “He is the handsomest man I ever saw in my life!” And
surely for that mother, and for many another throughout the land, no
carved statue of ancient or modern art, in all its symmetry, can have
the charm which will for evermore encircle that careworn but gentle
face, expressing as lineaments of ruler never expressed before, “Malice
towards none--Charity for all.”
Though kind-hearted almost to a fault, nevertheless Mr. Lincoln always
endeavored to be _just_. The Hon. S. F. Miller, of New York, called
upon him one day with the brother of a deserter who had been arrested.
The excuse was that the soldier had been home on a sick-furlough,
and that he afterwards became partially insane, and had consequently
failed to return and report in proper time. He was on his way to his
regiment at the front to be tried. The President at once ordered him
to be stopped at Alexandria and sent before a board of surgeons for
examination as to the question of insanity. “This seemed to me so
proper,” said the representative, “that I expressed myself satisfied.
But on going out, the brother, who was anxious for an immediate
discharge, said to me, ‘The trouble with your President is, that he is
so afraid of doing something wrong.’”
A young man, connected with a New York regiment, had become to all
appearance a hardened criminal. He had deserted two or three times,
and, when at last detected and imprisoned, had attempted to poison his
guards, one of whom subsequently died from the effects of the poison
unconsciously taken. Of course, there seemed no defence possible in
such a case. But the fact came out that the boy had been of unsound
mind. Some friends of his mother took up the matter, and an appeal was
made to the Secretary of War. He declined, positively, to listen to
it,--the case was too aggravating. The prisoner (scarcely more than a
boy) was confined at Elmira, New York. The day for the execution of
his sentence had nearly arrived, when his mother made her way to the
President. He listened to her story, examined the record, and said
that his opinion accorded with that of the Secretary of War; he could
do nothing for her. Heart-broken, she was compelled to relinquish
her last hope. One of the friends who had become interested, upon
learning the result of the application, waited upon Senator Harris.
That gentleman said that his engagements utterly precluded his going
to see the President upon the subject, until twelve o’clock of the
second night following. This brought the time to Wednesday night, and
the sentence was to be executed on Thursday. Judge Harris, true to his
word, called at the White House at twelve o’clock Wednesday night. The
President had retired, but the interview was granted. The point made
was that the boy was insane,--thus irresponsible, and his execution
would be murder. Pardon was not asked, but a reprieve, until a proper
medical examination could be made. This was so reasonable that Mr.
Lincoln acquiesced in its justice. He immediately ordered a telegram
sent to Elmira, delaying the execution of the sentence. Early the next
morning he sent another, by a different line, and, before the hour of
execution arrived, he had sent no less than _four_ different reprieves,
by different lines, to different individuals in Elmira, so fearful was
he that the message would fail, or be too late.
This incident suggests another, similar only, however, in the fact that
both boys were alleged to be irresponsible. A washerwoman in Troy had a
son nearly imbecile as to intellect, yet of good physical proportions.
The boy was kidnapped, or inveigled away by some scoundrels, who
“enlisted” him, dividing his bounty among themselves. For some time his
mother could learn nothing of him. At length she was told that he was
in the army. Alone and unfriended she went to Washington to see, in
her simplicity, if she could not get his discharge. The gentleman who
related the circumstance to me said that she did not even know to which
of the New York regiments her son belonged. She could get no chance
to speak to the President. At length she watched her opportunity, and
intercepted him on his way from the War Department. The result was,
that taking down the lad’s name and place of residence, this message
was written on the back of the card, and sent to the War Department:--
“_This poor boy is said to be idiotic. Find him, if possible, and
return him to his mother._
A. LINCOLN.”
“Calling,” says Mr. Colfax, “upon the President one morning in the
winter of 1863, I found him looking more than usually pale and
careworn, and inquired the reason. He replied, with the bad news he
had received at a late hour the previous night, which had not yet been
communicated to the press,--he had not closed his eyes or breakfasted;
and, with an expression I shall never forget, he exclaimed, ‘How
willingly would I exchange places to-day with the soldier who sleeps on
the ground in the Army of the Potomac.’”
And yet, in the face of such evidence, showing how the great sympathy
and sorrow of the late President took hold upon the very roots and
springs of his nature, there are not found wanting assertions that he
showed a criminal indifference to the sufferings of our prisoners at
Libby, Andersonville, and other places; and, in proof of this, it is
stated that there is no record of his ever alluding to the subject in
any of his public addresses or messages. The questions involved in the
suspension of the exchange of prisoners are difficult of decision.
Whoever was the cause of this, certainly has a fearful responsibility.
That it was the President’s fault, I do not believe. When the reports,
in an authentic form, first reached Washington of the sufferings of the
Union prisoners, I know he was greatly excited and overcome by them.
He was told that justice demanded a stern retaliation. He said to his
friend Mr. Odell, with the deepest emotion: “_I can never, never starve
men like that!_” “_Whatever others may say or do, I never can, and
I never will, be accessory to such treatment of human beings!_” And
although he spoke with the deepest feeling at the Baltimore Fair of
the Fort Pillow massacre, and pledged retaliation, yet that pledge was
never carried into execution. It was simply impossible for Mr. Lincoln
to be cruel or vindictive, no matter what the occasion. In the serene
light of history, when party strife and bitterness shall have passed
away, it will be seen that, if he erred at all, it was always on the
side of mercy and magnanimity.
LIV.
At a private dinner-party at Willard’s Hotel, given by Charles Gould,
Esq., of New York, I met for the first time the Hon. Hugh McCulloch,
then Comptroller of the Currency. An acquaintance commenced, under
circumstances calculated to inspire in me a sentiment of profound
respect for this gentleman’s character and talents. I was much
interested, a few days afterward, in an incident in the career of Mr.
McCulloch, given me by the Rev. John Pierpont, who was an occasional
visitor at the studio, and who, in his hale old age, was occupying one
of the subordinate positions in the Department.
The desk at which Dr. Pierpont was occupied was in a room with those
of a large number of other clerks, among whom the tall figure, and
silvery beard of the poet-preacher were very conspicuous. One day,
just after Mr. McCulloch had entered upon his duties in Washington, it
was announced at the entrance of this room, that the new Comptroller
had called to see “Dr. Pierpont.” The clerks looked up from their
books, and at one another, inquiringly, as Mr. McCulloch took a seat
by the poet’s desk. “I perceive, Dr. Pierpont,” said he, “that you do
not remember me?” The venerable preacher looked at him a moment, and
replied that he did not think he ever had seen him before. “Oh yes,
you have,” returned the Comptroller; “I was a member of ---- Class, in
Cambridge, in 1833 and ’34, and used to hear you preach. Upon leaving
the Law School, purposing to take up my residence at the West, I called
upon you and requested one or two letters of introduction to parties in
Cincinnati. You gave me two letters, one to a Mr. S----, and the other
to a Mr. G----, of that city. Those letters, my dear sir, were the
stepping-stones to my fortune. I have not seen you since; but learning
that you were in Washington, I told my wife, upon leaving home to take
the position offered me here, that the first call I made in Washington
should be upon the Rev. John Pierpont.” As the Comptroller concluded,
Dr. Pierpont put on his spectacles, and looked at him a moment in
silence. He at length said:--“Why, Mr. McCulloch, you are the most
extraordinary man I ever saw in my life!” “How so?” was the reply.
“Why, you have remembered a favor for thirty years.”
Dr. Pierpont told me, on another occasion, that in the prosecution
of a duty once assigned him in the Department, he had to review a
letter-book, containing correspondence with the different officers
of the government. Among the letters was a private note, written by
Secretary Chase to the Secretary of War, calling his attention to a
complaint, made by the colored people of Cincinnati, against certain
orders, or officers of the War Department. The letter closed with these
words:--
“We cannot afford to lose the support of any part of our people. One
poor man, colored though he be, with God on his side, is stronger
_against_ us than the hosts of the rebellion.”
LV.
On the 30th of June, Washington was thrown into a ferment, by the
resignation of Mr. Chase as Secretary of the Treasury. The publication,
some weeks before, of the “‘Pomeroy’ secret circular,” in the interest
of Mr. Chase, as a presidential candidate, had created much talk, and
considerable bad feeling in the party. The President, however, took no
part in the discussion, or criticism, which followed;--on the contrary,
he manifested a sincere desire to preserve pleasant relations, and
harmonize existing differences in the Cabinet. In proof of this,
I remember his sending one day for Judge Lewis, the Commissioner
of Internal Revenue, and entering into a minute explanation of a
misapprehension, which he conceived the Secretary of the Treasury to
be laboring under; expressing the wish that the Commissioner would
mediate, on his behalf, with Mr. Chase.
Many sincere friends of Secretary Chase considered his resignation,
at this juncture, unfortunate and ill-timed. The financial situation
was more threatening than at any period during the war. Mr. Chase’s
administration of the Treasury Department, amid unparalleled
difficulties, had been such as to secure the confidence and
satisfaction of the masses; and his withdrawal at such a time was
regarded as a public calamity, giving rise to the suspicion that he
apprehended national insolvency. The resignation, however had been
twice tendered before,--the _third_ time it was accepted.
I never saw the President under so much excitement as on the day
following this event. Without consultation or advice, so far as I ever
could learn, he sent to the Senate, the previous afternoon, the name
of Ex-Governor Todd, of Ohio, for the successorship. This nomination
was not popular, and great relief was experienced the next morning,
when it was announced that Governor Todd had declined the position.
Mr. Lincoln passed an anxious night. He received the telegram from
Governor Todd, declining the nomination, in the evening. Retiring, he
laid awake some hours, canvassing in his mind the merits of various
public men. At length he settled upon the Hon. William P. Fessenden,
of Maine; and soon afterward fell asleep. The next morning he went to
his office and wrote the nomination. John Hay, the assistant private
secretary, had taken it from the President on his way to the Capitol,
when he encountered Senator Fessenden upon the threshold of the room.
As chairman of the Finance Committee, he also had passed an anxious
night, and called thus early to consult with the President, and offer
some suggestions. After a few moments’ conversation, Mr. Lincoln turned
to him with a smile, and said: “I am obliged to you, Fessenden, but the
fact is, I have just sent your own name to the Senate for Secretary
of the Treasury. Hay had just received the nomination from my hand as
you entered.” Mr. Fessenden was taken completely by surprise, and,
very much agitated, protested his inability to accept the position.
The state of his health, he said, if no other consideration, made it
impossible. Mr. Lincoln would not accept the refusal as final. He very
justly felt that with Mr. Fessenden’s experience and known ability at
the head of the Finance Committee, his acceptance would go far toward
reëstablishing a feeling of security. He said to him, very earnestly,
“Fessenden, _the_ LORD _has not deserted me thus far, and He is not
going to now_,--you must accept!” They separated, the Senator in great
anxiety of mind. Throughout the day, Mr. Lincoln urged almost all who
called to go and see Mr. Fessenden, and press upon him the duty of
accepting. Among these was a delegation of New York bankers, who, in
the name of the banking community, expressed their satisfaction at
the nomination. This was especially gratifying to the President; and,
in the strongest manner, he entreated them to “see Mr. Fessenden and
assure him of their support.”
I am tempted, just here, to introduce a circumstance which occurred
in the course of the day, in which the President and myself were the
only actors. In the solitude of the state dining-room, I resumed my
work, as usual, that morning; but my mind had been too distracted over
night for success. Participating in the general solicitude, I also
had been intently revolving the question of a successor to Mr. Chase.
Unaccustomed to political currents, and rejecting all considerations of
_this_ character in a candidate, my thought fastened upon Comptroller
McCulloch, as the man for the crisis. His name, at that time, singular
as it may seem, had not been suggested by any one, so far as I
knew,--certainly no newspaper had advocated his merits or claims. I was
at length impelled, by the force of the convictions which engaged my
mind, to lay down my palette and brushes, and go up-stairs and state
them to the President.
Improving the first opportunity when we were left alone, I said, half
playfully,--“Mr. President, would you like the opinion of a painter
as to who would make a good Secretary of the Treasury?” He looked at
me a moment, and said: “Yes, I think I would. What is your advice?”
Said I, “Nominate Hugh McCulloch.” “Why,” said he, “what do you know
of McCulloch?” “Mr. President,” I rejoined, “you know painters are
thought generally to have very little knowledge of financial matters.
I admit that this is true, so far as _I_ am concerned; but I do claim
to know something of _men_, from the study of character as expressed
in _faces_. Now, in my humble judgment, McCulloch is the most suitable
man in the community for the position. First; his ability and integrity
are unquestionable. Second; as Comptroller of the Currency, he is
fully acquainted with the past, present, and proposed future policy of
Secretary Chase, and the entire ‘machinery’ of the Department. Third;
he is a practical financier. Having made finance the study of his life,
it is obvious he is already educated to the position; whereas, a man
taken from the political arena would have everything to learn, and
then even, his judgment would be distrusted.” Upon this Mr. Lincoln
said, with emphasis,--“I believe McCulloch is a very good man!” I think
he repeated this once or twice. My errand accomplished, I returned to
my labor, satisfied that the instincts of the President could be safely
trusted with this, as with other matters; and that, though he might
temporarily err, he would ultimately solve the question satisfactorily.
LVI.
Much has been said and written, since Mr. Lincoln’s death, in regard
to his religious experience and character. Two or three stories have
been published, bearing upon this point, which I have never been able
to trace to a reliable source; and I feel impelled to state my belief
that the facts in the case--if there were such--have received in some
way an unwarranted embellishment. Of all men in the world, the late
President was the most unaffected and truthful. He rarely or never
used language loosely or carelessly, or for the sake of compliment.
He was the most indifferent to the effect he was producing, either
upon official representatives or the common people, of any man ever in
public position.
In the ordinary acceptation of the term, I would scarcely have called
Mr. Lincoln a _religious_ man,--and yet I believe him to have been a
sincere _Christian_. A constitutional tendency to dwell upon sacred
things, an emotional nature which finds ready expression in religious
conversation and revival meetings, the culture and development of the
devotional element till the expression of such thought and experience
becomes habitual, were not among his characteristics. Doubtless he
felt as deeply upon the great questions of the soul and eternity as
any other thoughtful man; but the very tenderness and humility of his
nature would not permit the exposure of his inmost convictions, except
upon the rarest occasions, and to his most intimate friends. And yet,
aside from emotional expression, I believe no man had a more abiding
sense of his dependence upon God, or faith in the Divine government,
and in the power and ultimate triumph of Truth and Right in the world.
The Rev. J. P. Thompson, of New York, in an admirable discourse upon
the life and character of the departed President, very justly observed:
“It is not necessary to appeal to apocryphal stories--which illustrate
as much the assurance of his visitors as the simplicity of his
faith--for proof of Mr. Lincoln’s Christian character.” If his daily
life and various public addresses and writings do not show this, surely
nothing can demonstrate it.
Fortunately there is sufficient material before the public, upon which
to form a judgment in this respect, without resorting to apocryphal
resources.
The Rev. Mr. Willets, of Brooklyn, gave me an account of a conversation
with Mr. Lincoln, on the part of a lady of his acquaintance, connected
with the “Christian Commission,” who in the prosecution of her duties
had several interviews with him. The President, it seemed, had been
much impressed with the devotion and earnestness of purpose manifested
by the lady, and on one occasion, after she had discharged the object
of her visit, he said to her: “Mrs. ----, I have formed a high opinion
of your Christian character, and now, as we are alone, I have a mind
to ask you to give me, in brief, your idea of what constitutes a
true religious experience.” The lady replied at some length, stating
that, in her judgment, it consisted of a conviction of one’s own
sinfulness and weakness, and personal need of the Saviour for strength
and support; that views of mere doctrine might and would differ, but
when one was really brought to feel his need of Divine help, and to
seek the aid of the Holy Spirit for strength and guidance, it was
satisfactory evidence of his having been born again. This was the
substance of her reply. When she had concluded, Mr. Lincoln was very
thoughtful for a few moments. He at length said, very earnestly, “If
what you have told me is really a correct view of this great subject,
I think I can say with sincerity, that I hope I am a Christian. I had
lived,” he continued, “until my boy Willie died, without realizing
fully these things. That blow overwhelmed me. It showed me my weakness
as I had never felt it before, and if I can take what you have stated
as a _test_, I think I can safely say that I know something of that
_change_ of which you speak; and I will further add, that it has been
my intention for some time, at a suitable opportunity, to make a public
religious profession.”
Mr. Noah Brooks, in some “reminiscences,” already quoted from in these
pages, gives the following upon this subject:--
“Just after the last Presidential election he said, ‘Being only mortal,
after all, I should have been a little mortified if I had been beaten
in this canvass; but that sting would have been more than compensated
by the thought that the people had notified me that all my official
responsibilities were soon to be lifted off my back.’ In reply to the
remark that he might remember that in all these cares he was daily
remembered by those who prayed, not to be heard of men, as no man had
ever before been remembered, he caught at the homely phrase, and said,
‘Yes, I like that phrase, “not to be heard of men,” and guess it is
generally true, as you say; at least, I have been told so, and I have
been a good deal helped by just that thought.’ Then he solemnly and
slowly added: ‘I should be the most presumptuous blockhead upon this
footstool, if I for one day thought that I could discharge the duties
which have come upon me since I came into this place, without the aid
and enlightenment of One who is stronger and wiser than all others.’”
“At another time he said cheerfully, ‘I am very sure that if I do
not go away from here a wiser man, I shall go away a better man, for
having learned here what a very poor sort of a man I am.’ Afterwards,
referring to what he called a change of heart, he said he did not
remember any precise time when he passed through any special change
of purpose, or of heart; but he would say, that his own election to
office, and the crisis immediately following, influentially determined
him in what he called ‘a process of crystallization,’ then going on in
his mind. Reticent as he was, and shy of discoursing much of his own
mental exercises, these few utterances now have a value with those who
knew him, which his dying words would scarcely have possessed.”
“On Thursday of a certain week, two ladies, from Tennessee, came before
the President, asking the release of their husbands, held as prisoners
of war at Johnson’s Island. They were put off until Friday, when they
came again, and were again put off until Saturday. At each of the
interviews one of the ladies urged that her husband was a religious
man. On Saturday, when the President ordered the release of the
prisoner, he said to this lady,--‘You say your husband is a religious
man; tell him, when you meet him, that I say I am not much of a judge
of religion, but that in my opinion the religion which sets men to
rebel and fight against their government, because, as they think, that
government does not sufficiently help _some_ men to eat their bread
in the sweat of _other_ men’s faces, is not the sort of religion upon
which people can get to heaven.’”
“On an occasion I shall never forget,” says the Hon. H. C. Deming, of
Connecticut, “the conversation turned upon religious subjects, and Mr.
Lincoln made this impressive remark: ‘I have never united myself to any
church, because I have found difficulty in giving my assent, without
mental reservation, to the long, complicated statements of Christian
doctrine which characterize their Articles of Belief and Confessions
of Faith. When any church will inscribe over its altar, as its sole
qualification for membership,’ he continued, ‘the Saviour’s condensed
statement of the substance of both Law and Gospel, “Thou shalt love the
Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all
thy mind, and thy neighbor as thyself,” that church will I join with
all my heart and all my soul.’”
At a dinner-party in Washington, composed mainly of opponents of the
war and the administration, Mr. Lincoln’s course and policy was, as
usual with this class, the subject of vehement denunciation. This had
gone on for some time, when one of the company, who had taken no part
in the discussion, asked the privilege of saying a few words.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “you may talk as you please about Mr. Lincoln’s
capacity; I don’t believe him to be the ablest statesman in America, by
any means, and I voted against him on both occasions of his candidacy.
But I happened to see, or, rather, to hear something, the other day,
that convinced me that, however deficient he may be in the head, he
is all right in the heart. I was up at the White House, having called
to see the President on business. I was shown into the office of his
private secretary, and told that Mr. Lincoln was busy just then, but
would be disengaged in a short time. While waiting, I heard a very
earnest prayer being uttered in a loud female voice in the adjoining
room. I inquired what it meant, and was told that an old Quaker lady,
a friend of the President’s, had called that afternoon and taken tea
at the White House, and that she was then praying with Mr. Lincoln.
After the lapse of a few minutes the prayer ceased, and the President,
accompanied by a Quakeress not less than eighty years old, entered the
room where I was sitting. I made up my mind then, gentlemen, that Mr.
Lincoln was not a bad man; and I don’t think it will be easy to efface
the impression that the scene I witnessed and the voice I heard made on
my mind!”
Nothing has been given to the public since Mr. Lincoln’s death, more
interesting and valuable than the following, from the pen of Dr.
Holland:--[8]
“At the time of the nominations at Chicago, Mr. Newton Bateman,
Superintendent of Public Instruction for the State of Illinois,
occupied a room adjoining and opening into the Executive Chamber
at Springfield. Frequently this door was open during Mr. Lincoln’s
receptions, and throughout the seven months or more of his occupation,
he saw him nearly every day. Often when Mr. Lincoln was tired, he
closed the door against all intruders, and called Mr. Bateman into his
room for a quiet talk. On one of these occasions Mr. Lincoln took up a
book containing a careful canvass of the city of Springfield in which
he lived, showing the candidate for whom each citizen had declared
it his intention to vote in the approaching election. Mr. Lincoln’s
friends had, doubtless at his own request, placed the result of the
canvass in his hands. This was towards the close of October, and only
a few days before election. Calling Mr. Bateman to a seat by his side,
having previously locked all the doors, he said: ‘Let us look over this
book; I wish particularly to see how the ministers of Springfield are
going to vote.’ The leaves were turned, one by one, and as the names
were examined Mr. Lincoln frequently asked if this one and that were
not a minister, or an elder, or a member of such or such church, and
sadly expressed his surprise on receiving an affirmative answer. In
that manner they went through the book, and then he closed it and sat
silently for some minutes, regarding a memorandum in pencil which
lay before him. At length he turned to Mr. Bateman, with a face full
of sadness, and said: ‘Here are twenty-three ministers, of different
denominations, and all of them are against me but three; and here are a
great many prominent members of the churches, a very large majority are
against me. Mr. Bateman, I am not a Christian,--God knows I would be
one,--but I have carefully read the Bible, and I do not so understand
this book;’ and he drew forth a pocket New Testament. ‘These men well
know,’ he continued, ‘that I am for freedom in the Territories, freedom
everywhere as free as the Constitution and the laws will permit, and
that my opponents are for slavery. They _know_ this, and yet, with this
book in their hands, in the light of which human bondage cannot live a
moment, they are going to vote against me; I do not understand it at
all.’
“Here Mr. Lincoln paused,--paused for long minutes,--his features
surcharged with emotion. Then he rose and walked up and down the
reception-room in the effort to retain or regain his self-possession.
Stopping at last, he said, with a trembling voice and his cheeks wet
with tears: ‘I know there is a God, and that He hates injustice and
slavery. I see the storm coming, and I know that his hand is in it.
If He has a place and work for me--and I think He has--I believe I
am ready. I am nothing, but Truth is everything. I know I am right,
because I know that liberty is right, for Christ teaches it, and
Christ is God. I have told them that a house divided against itself
cannot stand; and Christ and Reason say the same; and they will find it
so.’
“‘Douglas don’t care whether slavery is voted up or down, but God
cares, and humanity cares, and I care; and with God’s help I shall
not fail. I may not see the end; but it will come, and I shall be
vindicated; and these men will find that they have not read their
Bibles right.’
“Much of this was uttered as if he was speaking to himself, and with a
sad, earnest solemnity of manner impossible to be described. After a
pause, he resumed: ‘Doesn’t it appear strange that men can ignore the
moral aspect of this contest? A revelation could not make it plainer
to me that slavery or the Government must be destroyed. The future
would be something awful, as I look at it, but for this rock on which
I stand,’ (alluding to the Testament which he still held in his hand,)
‘especially with the knowledge of how these ministers are going to
vote. It seems as if God had borne with this thing [slavery] until the
very teachers of religion had come to defend it from the Bible, and
to claim for it a divine character and sanction; and now the cup of
iniquity is full, and the vials of wrath will be poured out.’ After
this the conversation was continued for a long time. Everything he
said was of a peculiarly deep, tender, and religious tone, and all
was tinged with a touching melancholy. He repeatedly referred to his
conviction that the day of wrath was at hand, and that he was to be an
actor in the terrible struggle which would issue in the overthrow of
slavery, though he might not live to see the end.
“After further reference to a belief in Divine Providence, and the
fact of God in history, the conversation turned upon prayer. He freely
stated his belief in the duty, privilege, and efficacy of prayer, and
intimated, in no unmistakable terms, that he had sought in that way the
Divine guidance and favor. The effect of this conversation upon the
mind of Mr. Bateman, a Christian gentleman whom Mr. Lincoln profoundly
respected, was to convince him that Mr. Lincoln had, in his quiet way,
found a path to the Christian stand-point--that he had found God,
and rested on the eternal truth of God. As the two men were about to
separate, Mr. Bateman remarked: ‘I have not supposed that you were
accustomed to think so much upon this class of subjects; certainly your
friends generally are ignorant of the sentiments you have expressed to
me.’ He replied quickly: ‘I know they are, but I think more on these
subjects than upon all others, and I have done so for years; and I am
willing you should know it.’”
Schuyler Colfax once said to me that “Mr. Lincoln had two ruling
ideas, or principles, which governed his life. The first was hatred
of slavery, which he inherited in part from his parents; the other
was sympathy with the lowly born and humble, and the desire to lift
them up.” I know of no better epitaph for his tombstone than this,
save that suggested by Theodore Tilton, the editor of the New York
“Independent,”--“He bound the nation, and unbound the slave.”
LVII.
On the Fourth of July an unprecedented event was witnessed in
Washington. By special consent of the President, the White House
grounds were granted to the colored people of the city for a grand
Sunday-school festival, and never did they present a busier or more
jubilant scene. Inside the grounds a platform was erected, upon which
accommodations were placed for speakers. Around this were rows of
benches, which, during the greater part of the day, were not only well
filled but crowded. Meanwhile groups reposed under every tree or walked
to and fro along the shaded paths. From the thick-leaved branches of
the trees were suspended swings, of which all, both old and young,
made abundant use. Every contrivance which could add to the pleasure
of the time was brought into energetic requisition, and altogether no
celebration of the day presented a greater appearance of enjoyment and
success.
By the Act of Emancipation, Mr. Lincoln built for himself the first
place in the affections of the African race on this continent. The
love and reverence manifested for his name and person on all occasions
during the last two years of his life, by this down-trodden people,
were always remarkable, and sometimes of a thrilling character. In the
language of one of the poor creatures who stood weeping and moaning
at the gateway of the avenue in front of the White House, while the
beloved remains were lying in state in the East Room, “_they_ had him.”
No public testimonial of regard, it is safe to say, gave Mr. Lincoln
more sincere pleasure during his entire public life, than that
presented by the colored people of the city of Baltimore, in the summer
of 1864, consisting of an elegant copy of the Holy Bible. The volume
was of the usual pulpit size, bound in violet-colored velvet. The
corners were bands of solid gold, and carved upon a plate also of gold,
not less than one fourth of an inch thick. Upon the left-hand cover,
was a design representing the President in a cotton-field knocking
the shackles off the wrists of a slave, who held one hand aloft as if
invoking blessings upon the head of his benefactor,--at whose feet was
a scroll upon which was written “Emancipation”; upon the other cover
was a similar plate bearing the inscription:--
“To ABRAHAM LINCOLN, President of the United States, the friend of
Universal Freedom. From the loyal colored people of Baltimore, as a
token of respect and gratitude. Baltimore, July 4th, 1864.”
The presentation was made by a committee of colored people, consisting
of three clergymen and two laymen, who were received by the President
in the most cordial manner, after which the Rev. S. W. Chase, on the
part of the committee, said:--
“MR. PRESIDENT: The loyal colored people of Baltimore have
delegated to us the authority to present this Bible, as a token of
their appreciation of your humane part towards the people of our
race. While all the nation are offering their tributes of respect,
we cannot let the occasion pass by without tendering ours. Since
we have been incorporated in the American family we have been true
and loyal, and we now stand by, ready to defend the country. We
are ready to be armed and trained in military matters, in order to
protect and defend the Star-spangled Banner.
“Our hearts will ever feel the most unbounded gratitude towards
you. We come forward to present a copy of the Holy Scriptures as
a token of respect to you for your active part in the cause of
emancipation. This great event will be a matter of history. In
future, when our sons shall ask what mean these tokens, they will
be told of your mighty acts, and rise up and call you blessed.
“The loyal colored people will remember your Excellency at
the throne of Divine Grace. May the King Eternal, an all-wise
Providence, protect and keep you, and when you pass from this
world, may you be borne to the bosom of your Saviour and God.”
The President, in reply, said:--
“It would be a very fitting occasion to make a response at length
to the very appropriate address which you have just made. I would
do so if I were prepared. I would promise you to make a response in
writing, had not experience taught me that business will not allow
me to do so. I can only say now, as I have often said before, it
has always been a sentiment with me that all mankind should be free.
“So far as I have been able, so far as came within my sphere, I
have always acted as I believed was right and just, and done all
I could for the good of mankind. I have, in letters and documents
sent forth from this office, expressed myself better than I can
now. In regard to the great book, I have only to say, it is the
best gift which God has ever given man.
“All the good from the Saviour of the World is communicated to us
through this book. But for that book we could not know right from
wrong. All those things desirable to man are contained in it. I
return you my sincere thanks for this very elegant copy of the
great book of God which you present.”
After some time spent in the examination of the gift, which drew out
many expressions of admiration from the President, the party withdrew,
Mr. Lincoln taking each of them by the hand as they passed out.
Caroline Johnson, an estimable colored woman of Philadelphia, an active
nurse in the hospitals during the war, who had once been a slave, as an
expression of reverence and affection for President Lincoln, prepared,
with much taste and ingenuity, a superb collection of wax fruits,
together with a stem-table, appropriately ornamented, which she
desired to present to the President. Through a friend an opportunity
was secured, and she went to Washington, with her minister, to attend
personally to the setting up of the stand and fruit.
The result is given by a correspondent of the “Anti-Slavery Standard,”
in her own words:--
“The Commissioner, Mr. Newton, received us kindly, and sent the box to
the White House, with directions that it should not be opened until
I came. The next day was reception day, but the President sent me
word that he would receive me at one o’clock. I went and arranged the
table, placing it in the centre of the room. Then I was introduced to
the President and his wife. He stood next to me; then Mrs. Lincoln,
Mr. Newton, and the minister; the others outside. Mr. Hamilton (the
minister) made an appropriate speech, and at the conclusion said:
‘Perhaps Mrs. Johnson would like to say a few words?’ I looked down to
the floor, and felt that I had not a word to say, but after a moment or
two, the fire began to burn, (laying her hand on her breast,) and it
burned and burned till it went all over me. I think it was the Spirit,
and I looked up to him and said: ‘Mr. President, I believe God has hewn
you out of a rock, for this great and mighty purpose. Many have been
led away by bribes of gold, of silver, of presents; but you have stood
firm, because God was with you, and if you are faithful to the end, he
will be with you.’ With his eyes full of tears, he walked round and
examined the present, pronounced it beautiful, thanked me kindly, but
said: ‘You must not give me the praise--it belongs to God.’”
LVIII.
“Sojourner Truth,” the slave preacher whom Mrs. Stowe has described
as embodying all the elements of an African prophetess or sibyl, when
over eighty years old, left her home, at Battlecreek, Michigan, with
the unalterable purpose of seeing the Emancipator of her race before
her death. Provided for throughout her journey, she reached Washington
the last of October, 1864, and subsequently, at her dictation, the
following account of her interview with Mr. Lincoln was written out by
a friend:--
“It was about eight o’clock, A. M., when I called on the President.
Upon entering his reception-room we found about a dozen persons in
waiting, among them two colored women. I had quite a pleasant time
waiting until he was disengaged, and enjoyed his conversation with
others; he showed as much kindness and consideration to the colored
persons as to the whites,--if there was any difference, more. One case
was that of a colored woman, who was sick and likely to be turned out
of her house on account of her inability to pay her rent. The President
listened to her with much attention, and spoke to her with kindness
and tenderness. He said he had given so much he could give no more,
but told her where to go and get the money, and asked Mrs. C----, who
accompanied me, to assist her, which she did.
“The President was seated at his desk. Mrs. C. said to him: ‘This is
Sojourner Truth, who has come all the way from Michigan to see you.’ He
then arose, gave me his hand, made a bow, and said: ‘I am pleased to
see you.’
“I said to him: ‘Mr. President, when you first took your seat I feared
you would be torn to pieces, for I likened you unto Daniel, who was
thrown into the lions’ den; and if the lions did not tear you into
pieces, I knew that it would be God that had saved you; and I said if
He spared me I would see you before the four years expired, and He has
done so, and now I am here to see you for myself.’
“He then congratulated me on my having been spared. Then I said: ‘I
appreciate you, for you are the best President who has ever taken the
seat.’ He replied thus: ‘I expect you have reference to my having
emancipated the slaves in my proclamation. But,’ said he, mentioning
the names of several of his predecessors, (and among them emphatically
that of Washington,) ‘they were all just as good, and would have done
just as I have done if the time had come. If the people over the river
(pointing across the Potomac) had behaved themselves, I could not
have done what I have; but they did not, and I was compelled to do
these things.’ I then said: ‘I thank God that you were the instrument
selected by Him and the people to do it.’
“He then showed me the Bible presented to him by the colored people of
Baltimore, of which you have heard. I have seen it for myself, and it
is beautiful beyond description. After I had looked it over, I said to
him: ‘This is beautiful indeed; the colored people have given this to
the Head of the Government, and that Government once sanctioned laws
that would not permit its people to learn enough to enable them to read
this Book. And for what? Let them answer who can.’
“I must say, and I am proud to say, that I never was treated by any one
with more kindness and cordiality than was shown me by that great and
good man, Abraham Lincoln, by the grace of God President of the United
States for four years more. He took my little book, and with the same
hand that signed the death-warrant of slavery, he wrote as follows:--
‘For Aunty Sojourner Truth,
‘Oct. 29, 1864. A. LINCOLN.’
“As I was taking my leave, he arose and took my hand, and said he would
be pleased to have me call again. I felt that I was in the presence of
a friend, and I now thank God from the bottom of my heart that I always
have advocated his cause, and have done it openly and boldly. I shall
feel still more in duty bound to do so in time to come. May God assist
me.”
Mr. Lincoln’s cordial reception of Frederick Douglass, the
distinguished anti-slavery orator, also once a slave, was widely made
known through that gentleman’s own account of it in one of his public
lectures.
In August or September, 1864, Mr. Douglass again visited Washington.
The President heard of his being in the city, and greatly desiring a
second conversation upon points on which he considered the opinion and
advice of a man of Mr. Douglass’s antecedents valuable, he sent his
carriage to the boarding-house where he was staying, with a request
that Mr. D. would “come up and take a cup of tea” with him. The
invitation was accepted; and probably never before, in our history, was
the executive carriage employed to convey _such_ a guest to the White
House. Mr. Douglass subsequently remarked that “Mr. Lincoln was one of
the few white men he ever passed an hour with, who failed to remind him
in some way, before the interview terminated, that he was a ‘negro.’”
A memorial, on a certain occasion, was presented to the President from
the children and young people of Concord, Mass., petitioning for the
freedom of all slave children. In reply, he wrote the following:--
“Tell those little people I am very glad their young hearts are so
full of just and generous sympathy, and that while I have not the
power to grant all they ask, I trust they will remember that GOD
has; and that as it seems He _wills_ to do it.
A. LINCOLN.”
LIX.
“On New Year’s day, 1865,” wrote a correspondent of the New York
“Independent,” “a memorable incident occurred, of which the like was
never before seen at the White House. I had noticed, at sundry times
during the summer, the wild fervor and strange enthusiasm which our
colored friends always manifest over the name of Abraham Lincoln. His
name with them seems to be associated with that of his namesake, the
Father of the Faithful. In the great crowds which gather from time to
time in front of the White House, in honor of the President, none shout
so loudly or so wildly, and swing their hats with such utter _abandon_,
while their eyes are beaming with the intensest joy, as do these
simple-minded and grateful people. I have often laughed heartily at
these exhibitions. But the scene yesterday excited far other emotions.
As I entered the door of the President’s House, I noticed groups of
colored people gathered here and there, who seemed to be watching
earnestly the inpouring throng. For nearly two hours they hung around,
until the crowd of white visitors began sensibly to diminish. Then they
summoned up courage, and began timidly to approach the door. Some of
them were richly and gayly dressed; some were in tattered garments, and
others in the most fanciful and grotesque costume. All pressed eagerly
forward. When they came into the presence of the President, doubting as
to their reception, the feelings of the poor creatures overcame them,
and here the scene baffles my powers of description.
“For two long hours Mr. Lincoln had been shaking the hands of the
‘sovereigns,’ and had become excessively weary, and his grasp languid;
but here his nerves rallied at the unwonted sight, and he welcomed
this motley crowd with a heartiness that made them wild with exceeding
joy. They laughed and wept, and wept and laughed,--exclaiming, through
their blinding tears: ‘God bless you!’ ‘God bless Abraham Lincoln!’
‘God bress Massa Linkum!’ Those who witnessed this scene will not soon
forget it. For a long distance down the Avenue, on my way home, I heard
fast young men cursing the President for this act; but all the way the
refrain rang in my ears,--‘God bless Abraham Lincoln!’”
Miss Betsey Canedy, of Fall River, Massachusetts, while engaged in
teaching a school among the colored people of Norfolk, Virginia, had
in her school-room a plaster bust of the President. One day she called
some colored carpenters who were at work on the building, and showed it
to them, writing down their remarks, some of which were as follows:--
“He’s brought us safe through the Red Sea.” “He looks as deep as the
sea himself.” “He’s king of the United States.” “He ought to be king
of all the world.” “We must all pray to the Lord to carry him safe
through, for it ’pears like he’s got everything hitched to him.” “There
has been a right smart praying for him, and it mustn’t stop now.”
A southern correspondent of the New York “Tribune,” in Charleston,
South Carolina, the week following the assassination, wrote:--
“I never saw such sad faces, or heard such heavy hearts beatings,
as here in Charleston the day the dreadful news came! The colored
people--the native loyalists--were like children bereaved of an only
and loved parent. I saw one old woman going up the street wringing her
hands and saying aloud, as she walked looking straight before her, so
absorbed in her grief that she noticed no one,--
“‘O Lord! O Lord! O Lord! Massa Sam’s dead! Massa Sam’s dead! O Lord!
Massa Sam’s dead!’
“‘Who’s dead, Aunty?’ I asked her.
“‘Massa Sam!’ she said, not looking at me,--renewing her lamentations:
‘O Lord! O Lord! Lord! Massa Sam’s dead!’
“‘Who’s Massa Sam?’ I asked.
“‘Uncle Sam!’ she said. ‘O Lord! Lord!’
“I was not quite sure that she meant the President, and I spoke
again:--
“‘Who’s Massa Sam, Aunty?’
“‘Mr. Lincum!’ she said, and resumed wringing her hands and moaning in
utter hopelessness of sorrow. The poor creature was too ignorant to
comprehend any difference between the very unreal Uncle Sam and the
actual President; but her heart told her that he whom Heaven had sent
in answer to her prayers was lying in a bloody grave, and she and her
race were left--_fatherless_.”
In 1863, Colonel McKaye, of New York, with Robert Dale Owen and one or
two other gentlemen, were associated as a committee to investigate the
condition of the freedmen on the coast of North Carolina. Upon their
return from Hilton Head they reported to the President; and in the
course of the interview Colonel McKaye related the following incident.
He had been speaking of the ideas of power entertained by these people.
He said they had an idea of God, as the Almighty, and they had realized
in their former condition the power of their masters. Up to the time of
the arrival among them of the Union forces, they had no knowledge of
any other power. Their masters fled upon the approach of our soldiers,
and this gave the slaves a conception of a power greater than that
exercised by them. This power they called “Massa Linkum.”
Colonel McKaye said that their place of worship was a large building
which they called “the praise house;” and the leader of the meeting, a
venerable black man, was known as “the praise man.” On a certain day,
when there was quite a large gathering of the people, considerable
confusion was created by different persons attempting to tell who
and what “Massa Linkum” was. In the midst of the excitement the
white-headed leader commanded silence. “Brederin,” said he, “you don’t
know nosen’ what you’se talkin’ ’bout. Now, you just listen to me.
Massa Linkum, he eberywhar. He know eberyting.” Then, solemnly looking
up, he added,--“_He walk de earf like de Lord!_”
Colonel McKaye told me that Mr. Lincoln seemed much affected by this
account. He did not smile, as another man might have done, but got
up from his chair, and walked in silence two or three times across
the floor. As he resumed his seat, he said, very impressively: “It
is a momentous thing to be the instrument, under Providence, of the
liberation of a race.”
LX.
The famous “peace” conference, on board the _River Queen_, in Hampton
Roads, between President Lincoln and Secretary Seward, and the Rebel
commissioners Stephens, Hunter, and Campbell, took place the 3d of
February, 1865. A few days afterward[9] I asked the President if it was
true, as reported by the New York “Herald,” that he told a “little
story” on that occasion?--“Why,” said he, “has it leaked out? I was
in hopes nothing would be said about _that_, lest some over-sensitive
people should imagine there was a degree of levity in the intercourse
between us.” He then went on to relate the circumstances which called
it out. “You see,” said he, “we had reached and were discussing the
_slavery_ question. Mr. Hunter said, substantially, that the slaves,
always accustomed to an overseer, and to work upon compulsion, suddenly
freed, as they would be if the South should consent to peace on the
basis of the ‘Emancipation Proclamation,’ would precipitate not only
themselves but the entire Southern society into irremediable ruin. No
work would be done, nothing would be cultivated, and both blacks and
whites would _starve_!” Said the President, “I waited for Seward to
answer that argument, but as he was silent, I at length said: ‘Mr.
Hunter, _you_ ought to know a great deal better about this matter than
_I_, for you have always lived under the slave system. I can only say,
in reply to your statement of the case, that it reminds me of a man
out in Illinois, by the name of Case, who undertook, a few years ago,
to raise a very large herd of hogs. It was a great trouble to _feed_
them, and how to get around this was a puzzle to him. At length he hit
on the plan of planting an immense field of potatoes, and, when they
were sufficiently grown, he turned the whole herd into the field, and
let them have full swing, thus saving not only the labor of feeding the
hogs, but also that of digging the potatoes. Charmed with his sagacity,
he stood one day leaning against the fence, counting his hogs, when a
neighbor came along. ‘Well, well,’ said he, ‘Mr. Case, this is all very
fine. Your hogs are doing very well just now, but you know out here in
Illinois the frost comes early, and the ground freezes a foot deep.
Then what are they going to do.?’ This was a view of the matter Mr.
Case had not taken into account. Butchering-time for hogs was ’way on
in December or January. He scratched his head, and at length stammered,
‘Well, it may come pretty hard on their _snouts_, but I don’t see but
that it will be “root, hog, or die!”’
“Shortly afterward,” he continued, “a reference was casually made to
Colonel Hardin, who was killed in the Mexican War,--who at one time
was a representative in Congress from Illinois; and this drew out
a story from Stephens. ‘On a certain occasion,’ he said, ‘when the
House was in session, a dispute arose between Hardin and others of the
Illinois delegation as to the proper pronunciation of the name of their
State. Some insisted it was “_Illinoy_,” others as stoutly that it was
“_Illinois_.” Hardin at length appealed to the venerable John Quincy
Adams. “If one were to judge from the character of the representatives
in this Congress from that State,” said the old man, with a malicious
smile, “I should decide unhesitatingly that the proper pronunciation
was ‘_All noise!_’”’”
In the Augusta (Ga.) “Chronicle,” of the 17th of June, 1865, there
appeared a report of this conference, purporting to have been written
out from the lips of Mr. Stephens, so characteristic of Mr. Lincoln,
that I subjoin the following extracts:--
“The three Southern gentlemen met Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Seward, and
after some preliminary remarks, the subject of peace was opened. Mr.
Stephens, well aware that one who asks much may get more than he who
confesses to humble wishes at the outset, urged the claims of his
section with that skill and address for which the Northern papers have
given him credit. Mr. Lincoln, holding the vantage-ground of conscious
power, was, however, perfectly frank, and submitted his views almost in
the form of an argument.
... “Davis had on this occasion, as on that of Mr. Stephens’s visit
to Washington, made it a condition that no conference should be had
unless his rank as commander or President should first be recognized.
Mr. Lincoln declared that the only ground on which he could rest
the justice of the war--either with his own people or with foreign
powers--was that it was not a war for conquest, for that the States
had never been separated from the Union. Consequently, he could not
recognize another government inside of the one of which he alone was
President, nor admit the separate independence of States that were yet
a part of the Union. ‘That,’ said he, ‘would be doing what you have so
long asked Europe to do in vain, and be resigning the only thing the
armies of the Union are fighting for.’
“Mr. Hunter made a long reply to this, insisting that the recognition
of Davis’s power to make a treaty was the first and indispensable step
to peace, and referred to the correspondence between King Charles I.
and his Parliament, as a trustworthy precedent of a constitutional
ruler treating with rebels.
“Mr. Lincoln’s face then wore that indescribable expression which
generally preceded his hardest hits, and he remarked: ‘Upon questions
of history I must refer you to Mr. Seward, for he is posted in such
things, and I don’t pretend to be bright. My only distinct recollection
of the matter is, that Charles lost his head.’ That settled Mr. Hunter
for a while.”
* * * * *
“During the interview it appears that Hunter declared that he had never
entertained any fears for his person or life from so mild a government
as that of the United States. To which Mr. Lincoln retorted that he,
also, had felt easy as to the Rebels, but not always so easy about the
lamp-posts around Washington City,--a hint that he had already done
more favors for the Rebels than was exactly popular with the radical
men of his own party.
“Mr. Lincoln’s manner had now grown more positive. He suggested that it
would be better for the Rebel States to return at once than to risk the
chances of continuing the war, and the increasing bitterness of feeling
in Congress. The time might come, he said, when they would not be
considered as an erring people invited back to citizenship, but would
be looked upon as enemies to be exterminated or ruined.
“During the conference, the amendment to the Federal Constitution,
which has just been adopted by Congress, was read, providing that
neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except for crime, should
exist within the United States, or any place within its jurisdiction,
and Congress should have power to enforce the amendment by appropriate
legislation.” The report says, “Mr. Seward then remarked: Mr.
President, it is as well to inform these gentlemen that yesterday
Congress acted upon the amendment of the Constitution abolishing
slavery.”
“Mr. Lincoln stated this to be true, and suggested that there was a
question as to the right of the insurgent States to return at once and
claim a right to vote upon the amendment, to which the concurrence
of two thirds of the States was required. He stated that it would be
desirable to have the institution of slavery abolished by the consent
of the people as soon as possible,--he hoped within six years. He
also stated that four hundred millions of dollars might be offered as
compensation to the owners, and remarked, ‘You would be surprised were
I to give you the names of those who favor that.’”
* * * * *
“Mr. Stephens came home with a new cause of sorrow, and those who said
he talked of coming home to make war speeches and denounce the terms
offered, simply lied. Before Mr. Lincoln’s death, he thought he was
doing a favor to him not to include that offer of four hundred millions
in gold for the Southern slaves in the published report, for it would
be used to the injury of Mr. Lincoln by those of his enemies who talk
about taxation and the debt.
“Mr. Stephens has frequently expressed no apprehensions should the
fortunes of war throw him into the hands of Mr. Lincoln, and said he
would not get out of the way of a raid were it not for appearances, on
account of the office he held. He spoke of Mr. Lincoln as an old friend
who had generally voted with him in Congress, and who had a good heart
and fine mind, and was undoubtedly honest.”
LXI.
Visitors to the Executive Chamber, during the administration of
Mr. Lincoln, will remember the lithographic map, showing the slave
population of the Southern States in graduated light and shade, which
usually leaned against a leg of his desk or table, and bore the marks
of much service. The States and counties most abounding in slaves were
indicated on this map by degrees of blackness, so that by a glance
the proportion of whites and blacks in the different States at the
commencement of the Rebellion could be easily comprehended.
Wishing to introduce this map into my picture, I carried it off one
day, without the President’s knowledge, and as the copying of it was a
tedious affair, it remained in the studio for some time. This chanced
to be during the week of Kilpatrick’s great cavalry raid in Virginia.
One afternoon the President came in alone, as was his wont,--the
observation of the daily progress of the picture appearing to afford
him a species of recreation. Presently his eye fell upon the map,
leaning against a chair, as I had left it after making the study. “Ah!”
said he, “_you_ have appropriated my map, have you? I have been looking
all around for it.” And with that he put on his spectacles, and, taking
it up, walked to the window; and sitting down upon a trunk began to
pore over it very earnestly. He pointed out Kilpatrick’s position, when
last heard from, and said:--
“It is just as I thought it was. He is close upon ---- County, where
the slaves are thickest. Now we ought to get a ‘heap’ of them, when he
returns.”
This conversation occurred, I recollect, just after his solitary
lunch,--the family being away at the time. It was often a matter of
surprise to me how the President sustained life; for it seemed, some
weeks, as though he neither ate nor slept. His habits continued as
simple as when he was a practising lawyer in Springfield, but they came
to be very irregular. During the months of my intercourse with him he
rarely entertained company at dinner. Almost daily, at this hour, I met
a servant carrying a simple meal upon a tray up-stairs, where it was
received, perhaps two hours later, in the most unceremonious manner.
I knew this irregularity of life was his own fault; but the wonder as
to how his system endured the strain brought to bear upon it was not
lessened by this knowledge.
All familiar with him will remember the weary air which became habitual
during his last years. This was more of the mind than the body, and no
rest and recreation which he allowed himself could relieve it. As he
sometimes expressed it, the remedy “seemed never to reach the _tired_
spot.”
Mr. Lincoln’s height was six feet three and three-quarter inches “in
his stocking-feet.” He stood up, one day, at the right of my large
canvas, while I marked his exact height upon it.
His frame was gaunt but sinewy, and inclined to stoop when he walked.
His head was of full medium size, with a broad brow, surmounted by
rough, unmanageable hair, which, he once said, had “a way of getting
up as far as possible in the world.” Lines of care ploughed his
face,--the hollows in his cheeks and under his eyes being very marked.
The mouth was his plainest feature, varying widely from classical
models,--nevertheless expressive of much firmness and gentleness of
character.
His complexion was inclined to sallowness, though I judged this to be
the result, in part, of his anxious life in Washington. His eyes were
blueish-gray in color,--always in deep shadow, however, from the upper
lids, which were unusually heavy, (reminding me, in this respect, of
Stuart’s portrait of Washington,)--and the expression was remarkably
pensive and tender, often inexpressibly sad, as if the reservoir
of tears lay very near the surface,--a fact proved not only by the
response which accounts of suffering and sorrow invariably drew forth,
but by circumstances which would ordinarily affect few men in his
position.
The Hon. Mr. Frank, of New York, told me that just after the nomination
of Mr. Chase as Chief Justice, a deeply interesting conversation upon
this subject took place one evening between himself and the President,
in Mrs. Lincoln’s private sitting-room. Mr. Lincoln reviewed Mr.
Chase’s political course and aspirations at some length, alluding to
what he had felt to be an estrangement from him personally, and to
various sarcastic and bitter expressions reported to him as having
been indulged in by the ex-Secretary, both before and after his
resignation. The Congressman replied that such reports were always
exaggerated, and spoke very warmly of Mr. Chase’s great services in
the hour of the country’s extremity, his patriotism, and integrity to
principle. The tears instantly sprang into Mr. Lincoln’s eyes. “Yes,”
said he, “that is true. We have stood together in the time of trial,
and I should despise myself if I allowed personal differences to affect
my judgment of his fitness for the office of Chief Justice.”
LXII.
The President’s friend, the Hon. H. C. Deming of Connecticut, once
ventured to ask him “if he had ever despaired of the country?” “When
the Peninsula campaign terminated suddenly at Harrison’s Landing,”
rejoined Mr. Lincoln, “I was as nearly inconsolable as I could be and
live.” In the same connection Colonel Deming inquired if there had
ever been a period in which he thought that better management upon
the part of the commanding general might have terminated the war?
“Yes,” answered the President, “there were three: at ‘Malvern Hill,’
when McClellan failed to command an immediate advance upon Richmond;
at ‘Chancellorville,’ when Hooker failed to reënforce Sedgwick, after
hearing his cannon upon the extreme right; and at ‘Gettysburg,’ when
Meade failed to attack Lee in his retreat at the bend of the Potomac.”
After this commentary, the Congressman waited for an outburst of
denunciation--for a criticism, at least--upon the delinquent officers;
but he waited in vain. So far from a word of censure escaping Mr.
Lincoln’s lips, he soon added, that his first remark might not appear
uncharitable: “I do not know that I could have given any different
orders had I been with them myself. I have not fully made up my mind
how I should behave when minie-balls were whistling, and those great
oblong shells shrieking in my ear. I might run away.”
The interview at which this conversation took place, occurred just
after General Fremont had declined to run against him for the
presidency. The magnificent Bible which the negroes of Baltimore
had just presented to him lay upon the table, and while examining
it, Colonel Deming recited the somewhat remarkable passage from the
Chronicles: “Eastward were six Levites, northward four a day, southward
four a day, and toward Assuppim, two and two. At Parbar westward,
four at the causeway, and two at Parbar.” The President immediately
challenged his friend to find any such passage in _his_ Bible. After
it was pointed out to him, and he was satisfied of its genuineness, he
asked the Congressman if he remembered the text which his friends had
recently applied to Fremont, and instantly turned to a verse in the
first of Samuel, put on his spectacles, and read in his slow, peculiar,
and waggish tone: “And every one that was in distress, and every
one that was in debt, and every one that was discontented, gathered
themselves unto him, and he became a captain over them, and there were
with him about four hundred men.”
LXIII.
The letter of General Fremont withdrawing from the presidential
canvass of 1864, after having accepted the nomination of the Cleveland
Convention, was an unfortunate one for his political reputation,
whatever may have been thought of the military career of that once
popular leader. Without attempting any discussion of the merits of
the controversy between him and the Government, I think it cannot be
denied that Mr. Lincoln ever bore toward General Fremont the sincerest
good will, though for reasons perhaps not yet fairly estimated, as a
commander he had failed to realize the public expectation.
Some months subsequent to Fremont’s removal from the Western
Department, one of his personal friends, Mr. Henry C. Bowen, of
Brooklyn, happened to be in Washington. Passing the Executive Chamber,
on his way to the private secretary’s office one day, he observed
the door ajar, and the President standing near it, in the act of
taking down a book from the bookcase. Catching a glimpse of him, Mr.
Lincoln said, “Come in; you are the very man I want to see.” Mr. Bowen
entered the office, and the President, laying aside other business,
said: “I have been thinking a great deal lately about Fremont; and I
want to ask you, as an old friend of his, what is thought about his
continuing inactive?” “Mr. President,” returned Mr. Bowen, “I will say
to you frankly, that a large class of people feel that General Fremont
has been badly treated, and nothing would give more satisfaction,
both to him and to his friends, than his reappointment to a command
commensurate, in some degree, with his rank and ability.” “Do you think
he would accept an inferior position to that he occupied in Missouri?”
asked the President. “I have that confidence in General Fremont’s
patriotism, that I venture to promise for him in advance,” was the
earnest reply. “Well,” rejoined Mr. Lincoln, thoughtfully, “I have had
it on my mind for some time that Fremont should be given a chance to
redeem himself. The great hue and cry about him has been concerning
his expenditure of the public money. I have looked into the matter a
little, and I can’t see as he has done any worse or any more, in that
line, than our _Eastern_ commanders. At any rate, he shall have another
trial!” The result, close upon this interview, was the appointment of
Fremont to the “Mountain Department of Western Virginia.”
While Mr. Bowen was in Washington, he drove out, by invitation one
evening, with one or two friends, to the Soldier’s Home, where the
President spent the nights of midsummer. More at leisure there
than at the “shop,” as he was in the habit of calling his official
chamber at the White House, Mr. Lincoln sat down with the party for a
leisurely conversation. “I know,” he said to Mr. Bowen, “that you are
a great admirer of Mr. Chase and Mr. Seward. Now, I will tell you a
circumstance that may please you. Before sunset of election-day, in
1860, I was pretty sure, from the despatches I received, that I was
elected. The very first thing that I settled in my mind, after reaching
this conclusion, was that these two great leaders of the party should
occupy the two first places in my cabinet.”
LXIV.
“The Soldier’s Home,” writes a California lady,[10] who visited Mr.
Lincoln there, “is a few miles out of Washington on the Maryland side.
It is situated on a beautifully wooded hill, which you ascend by a
winding path, shaded on both sides by wide-spread branches, forming a
green arcade above you. When you reach the top you stand between two
mansions, large, handsome, and substantial, but with nothing about
them indicative of the character of either. That on your left is the
Presidential country-house; that directly before you, the ‘Rest’ for
soldiers who are too old for further service.... The ‘Home’ only
admitted soldiers of the regular army; but in the graveyard near at
hand there are numberless graves--some without a spear of grass to
hide their newness--that hold the bodies of volunteers.
“While we stood in the soft evening air, watching the faint trembling
of the long tendrils of waving willow, and feeling the dewy coolness
that was flung out by the old oaks above us, Mr. Lincoln joined us, and
stood silent, too, taking in the scene.
“‘How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country’s wishes blest,’--
he said, softly.
“There was something so touching in the picture opened before us,--the
nameless graves, the solemn quiet, the tender twilight air, but more
particularly our own feminine disposition to be easily melted, I
suppose,--that it made us cry as if we stood beside the tomb of our own
dead, and gave point to the lines which he afterwards quoted:--
“‘And women o’er the graves shall weep,
Where nameless heroes calmly sleep.’”
* * * * *
“Around the ‘Home’ grows every variety of tree, particularly of the
evergreen class. Their branches brushed into the carriage as we passed
along, and left with us that pleasant, woody smell belonging to leaves.
One of the ladies, catching a bit of green from one of these intruding
branches, said it was cedar, and another thought it spruce.
“‘Let me discourse on a theme I understand,’ said the President. ‘I
know all about trees in light of being a backwoodsman. I’ll show you
the difference between spruce, pine, and cedar, and this shred of
green, which is neither one nor the other, but a kind of illegitimate
cypress.’ He then proceeded to gather specimens of each, and explain
the distinctive formation of foliage belonging to every species.
‘Trees,’ he said, ‘are as deceptive in their likeness to one another as
are certain classes of men, amongst whom none but a physiognomist’s eye
can detect dissimilar moral features until events have developed them.
Do you know it would be a good thing if in all the schools proposed
and carried out by the improvement of modern thinkers, we could have a
school of events?’
“‘A school of events?’ repeated the lady he addressed.
“‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘since it is only by that active development that
character and ability can be tested. Understand me, I now mean men, not
trees; _they_ can be tried, and an analysis of their strength obtained
less expensive to life and human interests than man’s. What I say now
is a mere whimsey, you know; but when I speak of a school of events,
I mean one in which, before entering real life, students might pass
through the mimic vicissitudes and situations that are necessary to
bring out their powers and mark the calibre to which they are assigned.
Thus, one could select from the graduates an invincible soldier, equal
to any position, with no such word as fail; a martyr to Right, ready
to give up life in the cause; a politician too cunning to be outwitted;
and so on. These things have all to be tried, and their sometime
failure creates confusion as well as disappointment. There is no more
dangerous or expensive analysis than that which consists of trying a
man.’
“‘Do you think all men are tried?’ was asked.
“‘Scarcely,’ said Mr. Lincoln, ‘or so many would not fit their place so
badly. Your friend, Mr. Beecher, being an eloquent man, explains this
well in his quaint illustration of people out of their sphere,--the
clerical faces he has met with in gay, rollicking life, and the natural
wits and good brains that have by a freak dropped into ascetic robes.’
“‘Some men seem able to do what they wish in any position, being equal
to them all,’ said some one.
“‘Versatility,’ replied the President, ‘is an injurious possession,
since it never can be greatness. It misleads you in your calculations
from its very agreeability, and it inevitably disappoints you in any
great trust from its want of depth. A versatile man, to be safe from
execration, should never soar; mediocrity is sure of detection.’
“On our return to the city we had reached that street--I forget its
name--crossing which you find yourself out of Maryland and in the
District of Columbia. Wondering at this visible boundary that made
certain laws and regulations apply to one side of a street that did not
reach the other, I lost the conversation, till I found it consisted of
a discursive review of General McClellan’s character, in which I was
directly appealed to to know if we had not at one time considered him
the second Napoleon in California.
“I hastened to say that I had found, in travelling in the New England
States, more fervent admirers of the Unready than I had ever known to
expend speculative enthusiasm upon him among us.
“‘So pleasant and scholarly a gentleman can never fail to secure
personal friends,’ said the President. ‘In fact,’ he continued, kindly,
‘“Even his failings lean to virtue’s side.”
A keen sense of genius in another, and a reverence for it that forced
expression, was out of place at Seven Oaks, as beautiful things
sometimes will be. He was lost in admiration of General Lee, and
filled with that feeling, forebore to conquer him. The quality that
would prove noble generosity in a historian, does not fit the soldier.
Another instance of the necessity for my suggestion being carried into
effect,’ he added, smiling.
“When in New York a few months afterwards, I heard the regular
dinner-table conversation turn on the ‘Nero who cracked jokes
while Rome was burning,’ and the hundred and one wicked things the
McClellanites said of Mr. Lincoln, I recalled the gentle verdict I
had heard, and acknowledged how bitterly a noble Christian gentleman
may be belied. It was after McClellan’s speech at West Point, and
his admirers were wild with enthusiasm over the learning and classic
taste it displayed. The word ‘scholarly’ rang from mouth to mouth in
characterizing it,--the very word Mr. Lincoln had used months before in
finding a merciful excuse for his inefficiency.
“There is one little incident connected with this visit to the
Soldier’s Home that remains with me as connected with my home here. I
had always noticed that the bare mention of our California cemetery
filled the minds of those who heard it with a solemn sense of awe and
sorrow,--‘Lone Mountain!’ It seemed to rise before them out of the
quiet sea, a vast mausoleum from the hand of God, wherein to lay the
dead. I was not astonished, therefore, when Mr. Lincoln alluded to it
in this way, and gave, in a few deep-toned words, a eulogy on one of
its most honored dead, Colonel Baker. Having witnessed the impressive
spectacle of that glorious soldier’s funeral, I gave him the meagre
outline one can convey in words, of something which, having been once
seen, must remain a living picture in the memory forever. I tried to
picture the solemn hush that lay like a pall on the spirit of the
people while the grand procession wound its mournful length through
the streets of the city out on that tear-stained road to the gate of
the cemetery, where the body passed beneath the prophetic words of
California’s most eloquent soul, ‘Hither in future ages they shall
bring,’ etc. When I spoke of ‘Starr King,’ I saw how strong a chord
I had touched in the great appreciative heart I addressed; and giving
a weak dilution of that wondrous draught of soul-lit eloquence, that
funeral hymn uttered by the priest of God over the sacred ashes of
the advocate and soldier of liberty, whose thrilling threnody seems
yet to linger in the sighing wind that waves the grass upon the soil
made sacred by the treasure it received that day, I felt strangely
impressed as to the power and grandeur of that mind, whose thoughts,
at second-hand and haltingly given from memory, could move and touch
the soul of such a man as Abraham Lincoln as I saw it touched when he
listened. It is the electric chain with which all genius and grandeur
of soul whatsoever is bound,--the free-masonry by which spirit hails
spirit, though unseen. Now they all three meet where it is not seeing
through a glass darkly, but in the light of a perfect day.”
LXV.
On the morning of Mr. Lincoln’s arrival in Washington, just before
his inauguration, it will be remembered that the Peace Convention
was in session. Among those who were earliest to call upon him was
a gentleman from Pennsylvania, who had been in Congress with him,
and who was a member of the Peace Convention. He at once commenced
plying the President elect with urgent reasons for _compromising_
matters in dispute, saying, “It must be done sooner or later, and
that this seemed the propitious moment.” Listening attentively to all
that was said, Mr. Lincoln finally replied: “Perhaps your reasons for
compromising the alleged difficulties are correct, and that now is the
favorable time to do it; still, if I remember correctly, _that_ is not
what _I_ was elected for!”
The same day, at Willard’s Hotel, a gentleman from Connecticut was
introduced, who said he wanted nothing but to take the incoming
President by the hand. Mr. Lincoln surveyed him from head to foot, and
giving him a cordial grasp, replied: “You are a _rare_ man.”
During the brief period that the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher was
editor-in-chief of the “Independent,” in the second year of the war,
he felt called upon to pass some severe strictures upon the course of
the administration. For several weeks the successive leaders of the
editorial page were like bugle-blasts, waking the echoes throughout
the country. Somebody cut these editorials out of the different
numbers of the paper, and mailed them all to the President under one
envelope. One rainy Sunday he took them from his drawer, and read them
through to the very last word. One or two of the articles were in Mr.
Beecher’s strongest style, and criticized the President in no measured
terms. As Mr. Lincoln finished reading them, his face flushed up with
indignation. Dashing the package to the floor, he exclaimed, “Is thy
servant a _dog_, that he should do this thing?”
The excitement, however, soon passed off, leaving no trace behind of
ill-will toward Mr. Beecher; and the impression made upon his mind by
the criticism was lasting and excellent in its effects.
Mr. Lincoln’s popularity with the soldiers and the people is well
illustrated in the following incidents.
Just after the presidential nominations had been made in 1864, a
discussion arose in a certain regiment in the Army of the Potomac as
to the merits of the two candidates. Various opinions had been warmly
expressed, when at length a German spoke. “I goes,” said he, “for Fader
Abraham. Fader Abraham, he likes the soldier-boy. Ven he serves tree
years he gives him four hundred tollar, and reënlists him von veteran.
Now Fader Abraham, he serve four years. We reënlist him four years
more, and make _von veteran of him_.”
The night following the election, a clergyman of Middletown, Conn., at
a torchlight display, exhibited a transparency over his door, with a
quotation from Genesis xxii. 15,--“The angel of the Lord called unto
Abraham out of heaven a second time.”
A few days before the reinauguration of Mr. Lincoln, my picture was
placed temporarily on exhibition in the Rotunda of the Capitol. As the
workmen were raising it to its place, over the northern door leading
to the Senate Chamber, a group gathered in front of it, among whom was
policeman R----, of the Capitol squad. As the painting reached its
position, a wandering sunbeam crept in from the top of the great dome
and settled full upon the head of Mr. Lincoln, leaving all the rest of
the picture in shadow. The effect was singular and wonderful. “Look!”
exclaimed the enthusiastic R----, pointing to the canvas; “that is as
it should be. God bless him; may the sun shine upon his head forever.”
LXVI.
The 22d of February, 1865, Lieutenant Cushing of the Navy reached
Washington, from the fleet at Wilmington, with the news of the capture
of Fort Anderson. This gallant officer, only twenty or twenty-one years
of age, had greatly distinguished himself by planning and successfully
accomplishing the destruction of the rebel ram _Savannah_, also in the
construction of the “bogus” monitor which played so effectual a part
in the capture of Fort Anderson. He was introduced to the President by
the Secretary of the Navy, and was received in the most cordial manner.
Sitting down for an hour’s talk, Mr. Lincoln, who was in high spirits
over the late military successes, sparkled with humor. Temporarily
upon the wall of the room was a portrait of himself recently painted
for Secretary Welles by a Connecticut artist friend. Turning to the
picture, Mr. Welles remarked that he thought it a successful likeness.
“Yes,” returned the President, hesitatingly; and then came a story of a
western friend whose wife pronounced her husband’s portrait, painted
secretly for a birthday present, “horridly like;” “and that,” said he,
“seems to me a just criticism of _this_!” The liability to “mistakes,”
so many instances of which had occurred during the war, both on land
and sea, was illustrated by reference to a charitably disposed woman,
with a very indifferent face, who, while visiting the rooms of the
Young Men’s Christian Association, or a similar institution, caught
sight of her own reflection in a concealed looking-glass, upon which
she retired in great confusion, saying she would have nothing more
to do with an institution which one could not visit without meeting
disreputable characters.
Lieutenant Cushing related a circumstance showing the estimation in
which General Sherman was held by the rebel privates. A deserter of
this class had lately fallen into his hands. “Our boys,” said he,
speaking of the Rebels, “say General Sherman never makes but one
speech. When ready for a movement, he says: ‘Now boys, let’s get ready
to go;’ and they get ready,” said the deserter, “on both sides.”
“There is a good deal of mother-wit in some of those fellows,” rejoined
Mr. Lincoln, much amused. “That puts me in mind of a conversation
between two opposing pickets, just after Hooker fell back across the
Rappahannock, after the battle of Chancellorville. ‘Where’s Old Joe?’
called out a ‘butternut’ one frosty morning. ‘Gone to Stonewall
Jackson’s funeral,’ was the ready reply. ‘What is the reason you
“Johnnies” never have any decent clothes?’ hallooed the ‘Union’ boy
back. ‘We-uns don’t put on our best to kill hogs in,’ was the retort.”
I was sitting in the President’s office with Mr. G. B. Lincoln, of
Brooklyn, and the Hon. John A. Bingham, of Ohio,--who were there
by appointment of the President,--the Sunday evening before the
reinauguration, when Mr. Lincoln came in through the side passage which
had lately been constructed, holding in his hand a roll of manuscripts.
“Lots of wisdom in that document, I suspect,” said he; “it is what will
be called my ‘second inaugural,’ containing about six hundred words. I
will put it away here in this drawer until I want it.”
Seating himself by the open grate, he commenced conversation in a
familiar and cheerful mood, referring to his early life in Illinois.
Nothing, he said, had ever gratified him so much as his first
election to the legislature of that State, just after his return from
the Black-Hawk war. In the election district a large majority were
Democrats, and he was known as a “talking Whig.” Nevertheless, he said,
in a vote of two hundred, he received all but three.
LXVII.
“The world,” writes one who knew Mr. Lincoln well, “will never hear
the last of the ‘little stories’ with which the President garnished
or illustrated his conversation and his early stump-speeches. He once
said, however, that as near as he could reckon, about one sixth only of
those credited to him were old acquaintances,--all the rest were the
productions of other and better story-tellers than himself. ‘I remember
a good story when I hear it,’ he continued; ‘but I never invented
anything original; I am only a retail-dealer.’”[11]
“Mr. Lincoln’s jocoseness,” wrote another, “though sometimes grim
and sarcastic, was _never_ abusive, and seldom wounded. Often nicely
adapted to the place and the occasion, it was used, as the case might
be, either as a shield or a weapon.”[12]
Humor and shrewdness, together with a certain nameless individuality,
were combined in his stories in a degree that will secure for many of
them enduring interest. These characteristics, marked and prominent
as they were, are directly traceable to the powerful effect produced
upon the plastic mind of the pioneer boy, by the early study of Æsop’s
Fables, and the “Pilgrim’s Progress.” His lightest as well as his
most powerful thought almost invariably took on the form of a figure
in speech which drove the point _home_, and _clinched_ it, as few
abstract reasoners are able to do.
The character of this volume, necessarily rambling and fragmentary,
seems to present a legitimate field for the incorporation and
preservation of some of the best of Mr. Lincoln’s “little stories” and
quaint sayings, other than those which came within my own personal
observation. Beside these, there has accumulated in my possession a
variety of incidents, many of which have never been published, throwing
light not only upon the character of the man, but upon many events and
circumstances connected with the war and the administration.
Believing everything of this kind to have more than a temporary
interest and value, I devote the following section to their embodiment.
LXVIII.
Mr. Lincoln made his first political speech in 1832, at the age of
twenty-three, when he was a candidate for the Illinois Legislature. His
opponent had wearied the audience by a long speech, leaving him but a
short time in which to present his views. He condensed all he had to
say into a few words, as follows:--
“Gentlemen, Fellow-citizens: I presume you know who I am. I am humble
Abraham Lincoln. I have been solicited by many friends to become a
candidate for the legislature. My politics can be briefly stated. I am
in favor of a national bank. I am in favor of the internal improvement
system, and a high protective tariff. These are my sentiments and
political principles. If elected, I shall be thankful. If not, it will
be all the same.”
The contrast between Mr. Lincoln and Senator Douglas is well brought
out in the following extract from a speech by Hon. I. N. Arnold of
Illinois, in 1863. Speaking of their great contest for the senatorship,
Mr. Arnold said:--
“Douglas went through this campaign like a conquering hero. He had his
special train of cars, his band of music, his body-guard of devoted
friends, a cannon carried on the train, the firing from which announced
his approach to the place of meeting. Such a canvass involved,
necessarily, very large expenditures; and it has been said that Douglas
did not expend less than $50,000 in this canvass. Some idea of the
plain, simple, frugal habits of Mr. Lincoln may be gathered, when I
tell you that at its close, having occupied several months, Mr. Lincoln
said, with the idea, apparently, that he had been somewhat extravagant:
‘I do not believe I have spent a cent less than five hundred dollars in
this canvass.’”
Soon after Mr. Lincoln entered upon the practice of his profession at
Springfield, he was engaged in a criminal case in which it was thought
there was little chance of success. Throwing all his powers into it,
he came off victorious, and promptly received for his services five
hundred dollars. A legal friend calling upon him the next morning
found him sitting before a table, upon which his money was spread out,
counting it over and over. “Look here, Judge,” said he; “see what a
heap of money I’ve got from the ---- case. Did you ever see anything
like it? Why, I never had so much money in my life before, put it all
together!” Then crossing his arms upon the table, his manner sobering
down, he added, “I have got just five hundred dollars: if it was only
seven hundred and fifty, I would go directly and purchase a quarter
section of land, and settle it upon my old step-mother.” His friend
said that if the deficiency was all he needed, he would loan him the
amount, taking his note, to which Mr. Lincoln instantly acceded.
His friend then said: “Lincoln, I would not do just what you have
indicated. Your step-mother is getting old, and will not probably live
many years. I would settle the property upon her for her use during her
lifetime, to revert to you upon her death.”
With much feeling, Mr. Lincoln replied: “I shall do no such thing. It
is a poor return, at the best, for all the good woman’s devotion and
fidelity to me, and there is not going to be any half-way business
about it;” and so saying, he gathered up his money, and proceeded
forthwith to carry his long-cherished purpose into execution.
Among the numerous delegations which thronged Washington in the early
part of the war was one from New York, which urged very strenuously
the sending of a fleet to the southern cities,--Charleston, Mobile,
and Savannah,--with the object of drawing off the rebel army from
Washington. Mr. Lincoln said the project reminded him of the case of
a girl in New Salem, who was greatly troubled with a “singing” in her
head. Various remedies were suggested by the neighbors, but nothing
tried afforded any relief. At last a man came along,--“a common-sense
sort of man,” said he, inclining his head towards the gentleman
complimentarily,--“who was asked to prescribe for the difficulty. After
due inquiry and examination, he said the cure was very simple. ‘What is
it?’ was the anxious question. ‘Make a plaster of _psalm-tunes_, and
apply to her feet, and draw the “singing” _down_,’ was the rejoinder.”
On another occasion, an anti-slavery delegation, also from New York,
were pressing the adoption of the emancipation policy. During the
interview the “chairman,” the Rev. Dr. C----, made a characteristic and
powerful appeal, largely made up of quotations from the Old Testament
Scriptures. Mr. Lincoln received the “bombardment” in silence. As the
speaker concluded, he continued for a moment in thought, and then,
drawing a long breath, responded: “Well, gentlemen, it is not often one
is favored with a delegation _direct_ from the Almighty!”
One of Mr. Lincoln’s Springfield neighbors, a clergyman, visiting
Washington early in the administration, asked the President what was
to be his policy on the slavery question. “Well,” said he, “I will
answer by telling you a story. You know Father B., the old Methodist
preacher? and you know Fox River and its freshets? Well, once in the
presence of Father B., a young Methodist was worrying about Fox River,
and expressing fears that he should be prevented from fulfilling some
of his appointments by a freshet in the river. Father B. checked him in
his gravest manner. Said he: ‘Young man, I have always made it a rule
in my life not to cross Fox River till I get to it!’ And,” added Mr.
Lincoln, “I am not going to worry myself over the slavery question till
I get to it.”
General Garfield, of Ohio, received from the President an account of
the capture of Norfolk, similar to that recorded on a previous page,
with the following preface:--
“By the way, Garfield,” said Mr. Lincoln, “you never heard, did you,
that Chase, Stanton, and I, had a campaign of our own? We went down to
Fortress Monroe in Chase’s revenue cutter, and consulted with Admiral
Goldsborough as to the feasibility of taking Norfolk by landing on
the north shore and making a march of eight miles. The Admiral said,
very positively, there was no landing on that shore, and we should
have to double the cape and approach the place from the south side,
which would be a long and difficult journey. I thereupon asked him if
he had ever tried to find a landing, and he replied that he had not.
‘Now,’ said I, ‘Admiral, that reminds me of a chap out West who had
studied law, but had never tried a case. Being sued, and not having
confidence in his ability to manage his own case, he employed a
fellow-lawyer to manage it for him. He had only a confused idea of the
meaning of law terms, but was anxious to make a display of learning,
and on the trial constantly made suggestions to his lawyer, who paid
no attention to him. At last, fearing that his lawyer was not handling
the opposing counsel very well, he lost all patience, and springing
to his feet cried out, “Why don’t you go at him with a _capias_, or a
_surre-butter_, or something, and not stand there like a confounded old
_nudum-pactum_?”’”
An officer of the Government called one day at the White House, and
introduced a clerical friend. “Mr. President,” said he, “allow me
to present to you my friend, the Rev. Mr. F., of ----. Mr. F. has
expressed a desire to see you and have some conversation with you, and
I am happy to be the means of introducing him.” The President shook
hands with Mr. F., and desiring him to be seated took a seat himself.
Then, his countenance having assumed an air of patient waiting, he
said: “I am now ready to hear what you have to say.” “Oh, bless you,
sir,” said Mr. F., “I have nothing special to say; I merely called to
pay my respects to you, and, as one of the million, to assure you of my
hearty sympathy and support.” “My dear sir,” said the President, rising
promptly, his face showing instant relief, and with both hands grasping
that of his visitor, “I am very glad to see you, indeed. _I thought you
had come to preach to me!_”
On the way to the cemetery dedication at Gettysburg, Mr. Lincoln said
to his friend, McVeagh, of Pennsylvania, speaking of Governor Gamble
and the administration troubles in Missouri:--“I do not understand the
spirit of those men who, in such a time as this, because they cannot
have a whole loaf will take no bread. For my part, I am willing to
receive any man, or class of men, who will help us even a _little_.”
On the same occasion, when the Presidential party reached Hanover
Junction they found a large concourse of people assembled to greet
them. Mr. Lincoln and Secretary Seward, an hour previous, had gone into
the sleeping-car attached to the train, for some rest. In response to
the clamor of the crowd, a friend intruded upon them, saying to the
President that he was “expected to make a speech.”
“No!” he rejoined, very emphatically; “I had enough of that sort
of thing all the way from Springfield to Washington. Seward,” said
he, turning over in his berth, “you go out and repeat some of your
‘_poetry_’ to the people!”
Upon the betrothal of the Prince of Wales to the Princess Alexandra,
Queen Victoria sent a letter to each of the European sovereigns,
and also to President Lincoln, announcing the fact. Lord Lyons, her
ambassador at Washington,--a “bachelor,” by the way,--requested an
audience of Mr. Lincoln, that he might present this important document
in person. At the time appointed he was received at the White House, in
company with Mr. Seward.
“May it please your Excellency,” said Lord Lyons, “I hold in my hand an
autograph letter from my royal mistress, Queen Victoria, which I have
been commanded to present to your Excellency. In it she informs your
Excellency that her son, his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, is
about to contract a matrimonial alliance with her Royal Highness the
Princess Alexandra of Denmark.”
After continuing in this strain for a few minutes, Lord Lyons tendered
the letter to the President and awaited his reply. It was short,
simple, and expressive, and consisted simply of the words:--
“Lord Lyons, go thou and do likewise.”
It is doubtful if an English ambassador was ever addressed in this
manner before, and it would be interesting to learn what success he met
with in putting the reply in diplomatic language when he reported it to
her Majesty.
The antagonism between the northern and southern sections of the
Democratic party, which culminated in the nomination of two separate
tickets in 1860, was a subject to draw out one of Mr. Lincoln’s hardest
hits.
“I once knew,” said he, “a sound churchman by the name of Brown, who
was a member of a very sober and pious committee having in charge
the erection of a bridge over a dangerous and rapid river. Several
architects failed, and at last Brown said he had a friend named Jones,
who had built several bridges and undoubtedly could build that one.
So Mr. Jones was called in. ‘Can you build this bridge?’ inquired the
committee. ‘Yes,’ replied Jones, ‘or any other. I could build a bridge
to the infernal regions, if necessary!’ The committee were shocked,
and Brown felt called upon to defend his friend. ‘I know Jones so
well,’ said he, ‘and he is so honest a man and so good an architect,
that if he states soberly and positively that he can build a bridge
to--to ----, why, I believe it; but I feel bound to say that I have my
doubts about the abutment on the infernal side.’ So,” said Mr. Lincoln,
“when politicians told me that the northern and southern wings of the
Democracy could be harmonized, why, I believed them, of course; but I
always had my doubts about the ‘abutment’ on the _other_ side.”[13]
About the time Mr. Lincoln began to be known as a successful lawyer,
he was waited upon by a lady, who held a real-estate claim which
she desired to have him prosecute,--putting into his hands, with the
necessary papers, a check for two hundred and fifty dollars, as a
retaining fee. Mr. Lincoln said he would look the case over, and asked
her to call again the next day. Upon presenting herself, Mr. Lincoln
told her that he had gone through the papers very carefully, and he
must tell her frankly that there was not a “peg” to hang her claim
upon, and he could not conscientiously advise her to bring an action.
The lady was satisfied, and, thanking him, rose to go. “Wait,” said Mr.
Lincoln, fumbling in his vest pocket; “here is the check you left with
me.” “But, Mr. Lincoln,” returned the lady, “I think you have earned
_that_.” “No, no,” he responded, handing it back to her; “that would
not be right. I can’t take _pay_ for doing my duty.”
Mr. Lincoln liked to feel himself the attorney of the people, not their
ruler. Speaking once of the probability of his renomination, he said:
“If the people think I have managed their ‘case’ for them well enough
to trust me to carry it up to the next term, I am sure I shall be glad
to take it.”
“Judge Baldwin of California, being in Washington, called one day
on General Halleck, and, presuming upon a familiar acquaintance in
California a few years before, solicited a pass outside of our lines
to see a brother in Virginia, not thinking that he would meet with a
refusal, as both his brother and himself were good Union men. “We have
been deceived too often,” said General Halleck, “and I regret I can’t
grant it.” Judge B. then went to Stanton, and was very briefly disposed
of, with the same result. Finally, he obtained an interview with Mr.
Lincoln, and stated his case. “Have you applied to General Halleck?”
inquired the President. “Yes, and met with a flat refusal,” said Judge
B. “Then you must see Stanton,” continued the President. “I have, and
with the same result,” was the reply. “Well, then,” said Mr. Lincoln,
with a smile, “I can do nothing; for you must know _that I have very
little influence with this Administration_.”
Mr. Colfax told me of a gentleman’s going to the President, one day,
with a bitter denunciation of Secretary Stanton and his management of
the War Department. “Go home, my friend,” interrupted Mr. Lincoln,
“and read attentively the tenth verse of the thirtieth chapter of
Proverbs!”[14]
A lieutenant, whom debts compelled to leave his father-land and
service, succeeded in being admitted to President Lincoln, and, by
reason of his commendable and winning deportment and intelligent
appearance, was promised a lieutenant’s commission in a cavalry
regiment. He was so enraptured with his success, that he deemed it a
duty to inform the President that he belonged to one of the oldest
noble houses in Germany. “Oh, never mind that,” said Mr. Lincoln; “you
will not find that to be an obstacle to your advancement.”
Just previous to the fall of Vicksburg, a self-constituted committee,
solicitous for the _morale_ of our armies, took it upon themselves to
visit the President and urge the removal of General Grant. In some
surprise Mr. Lincoln inquired, “For what reason?” “Why,” replied the
spokesman, “he drinks too much whiskey.” “Ah!” rejoined Mr. Lincoln,
dropping his lower lip. “By the way, gentlemen, can either of you tell
me where General Grant procures his whiskey? because, if I can find
out, I will send every general in the field a barrel of it!”
When the telegram from Cumberland Gap reached Mr. Lincoln that “firing
was heard in the direction of Knoxville,” he remarked that he was “glad
of it.” Some person present, who had the perils of Burnside’s position
uppermost in his mind, could not see _why_ Mr. Lincoln should be
_glad_ of it, and so expressed himself. “Why, you see,” responded the
President, “it reminds me of Mistress Sallie Ward, a neighbor of mine,
who had a very large family. Occasionally one of her numerous progeny
would be heard crying in some out-of-the-way place, upon which Mrs.
Ward would exclaim, ‘There’s one of my children that isn’t dead yet.’”
A gentleman once complimented the President on having no vices, neither
drinking nor smoking. “That is a doubtful compliment,” answered the
President; “I recollect once being outside a stage-coach, in Illinois,
and a man sitting by me offered me a cigar. I told him I had no vices.
He said nothing, but smoked for some time, and then growled out: ‘It’s
my experience that folks who have no vices have generally very few
virtues.’”
Mr. Lincoln’s aversion to calls for a speech that must be merely
“off-hand,” was decided; yet, unwilling altogether to disappoint the
crowds, who perhaps too often made such demands of him, he seldom
excused himself altogether from speaking. One evening a friend was
conversing with him in his room, when his quick ear caught the sound of
approaching music, and his countenance suddenly changed, as he inquired
its meaning, though readily divining it. A serenade was presently
announced by an usher, and Mr. Lincoln, as he arose to go forward to
the front window, lingered a moment, and said:--
“These ‘serenade’ speeches bother me a good deal, they are so hard to
make. I feel very much like the steam doctor, who said he could get
along very well in his practice with almost every case, but he was
always a little puzzled when it came to mending a broken leg.”
It has been repeatedly said that Mr. Lincoln lacked imagination and
poetic sensibility. Surely, the soul which could conceive the last
inaugural, or indite the closing sentence of the first, was not wanting
in these elements:--
“The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battle-field and
patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad
land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as
surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.”
Neither was the mind deficient in enthusiasm, which could prophesy:--
“There are already those among us, who, if the Union be preserved, will
live to see it contain two hundred and fifty millions. The struggle
_of_ to-day is not altogether _for_ to-day; it is for a vast future
also.”
“The President,” said a leading member of the Cabinet, on one occasion,
“is his own War-Minister. He directs personally the movements of the
armies, and is fond of strategy; but pays much less attention to
official details than is generally supposed.”
Mr. Lincoln’s wit was never malicious nor rudely personal. Once when
Mr. Douglas had attempted to parry an argument by impeaching the
veracity of a senator whom Mr. Lincoln had quoted, he answered that
the question was not one of veracity, but simply one of argument. “By
a course of reasoning, Euclid proves that all the angles in a triangle
are equal to two right angles. Now, if you undertake to disprove
that proposition, would you prove it to be false by calling Euclid a
liar?”[15]
A couple of well-known New York gentlemen called upon the President
one day to solicit a pardon for a man who, while acting as mate of a
sailing vessel, had struck one of his men a blow which resulted in his
death. Convicted and sentenced for manslaughter, a powerful appeal was
made in his behalf, as he had previously borne an excellent character.
Giving the facts a hearing, Mr. Lincoln responded:--
“Well, gentlemen, leave your papers, and I will have the
Attorney-General, Judge Bates, look them over, and we will see what can
be done. Being both of us ‘_pigeon-hearted_’ fellows, the chances are
that, if there is any ground whatever for interference, the scoundrel
will get off!”
Attorney-General Bates was once remonstrating with the President
against the appointment to a judicial position of considerable
importance of a western man, who, though once on the “bench,” was of
indifferent reputation as a lawyer.
“Well now, Judge,” returned Mr. Lincoln, “I think you are rather too
hard on ----. Besides that, I must tell you, he did me a good turn long
ago. When I took to the law, I was going to court one morning, with
some ten or twelve miles of bad road before me, when ---- overtook me
in his wagon. ‘Hallo, Lincoln!’ said he; ‘going to the court-house?
come in and I will give you a seat.’ Well, I got in, and ---- went
on reading his papers. Presently the wagon struck a stump on one
side of the road; then it hopped off to the other. I looked out and
saw the driver was jerking from side to side in his seat: so said I,
‘Judge, I think your coachman has been taking a drop too much this
morning.’ ‘Well, I declare, Lincoln,’ said he, ‘I should not much
wonder if you are right, for he has nearly upset me half-a-dozen times
since starting.’ So, putting his head out of the window, he shouted,
‘Why, you infernal scoundrel, you are drunk!’ Upon which, pulling up
his horses and turning round with great gravity, the coachman said:
‘Be-dad! but that’s the first rightful decision your honor has given
for the last twelve months.’”
Some gentlemen fresh from a western tour, during a call at the White
House, referred in the course of conversation to a body of water
in Nebraska which bore an Indian name signifying “weeping water.”
Mr. Lincoln instantly responded: “As ‘laughing water,’ according to
Longfellow, is ‘Minnehaha,’ this evidently should be ‘Minneboohoo.’”
A farmer from one of the border counties went to the President on a
certain occasion with the complaint that the Union soldiers in passing
his farm had helped themselves not only to hay but to his horse; and
he hoped the proper officer would be required to consider his claim
immediately.
“Why, my good sir,” replied Mr. Lincoln, “If I should attempt to
consider every such individual case, I should find work enough for
twenty Presidents! In my early days, I knew one Jack Chase, who was
a lumberman on the Illinois, and, when steady and sober, the best
raftsman on the river. It was quite a trick twenty-five years ago to
take the logs over the rapids, but he was skilful with a raft, and
always kept her straight in the channel. Finally a steamer was put on,
and Jack--he’s dead now, poor fellow!--was made captain of her. He
always used to take the wheel going through the rapids. One day, when
the boat was plunging and wallowing along the boiling current, and
Jack’s utmost vigilance was being exercised to keep her in the narrow
channel, a boy pulled his coat-tail and hailed him with: ‘Say, Mister
Captain! I wish you would just stop your boat a minute--I’ve lost my
apple overboard!’”
At a time of financial difficulty, a committee of New York bankers
waited upon the Secretary of the Treasury and volunteered a loan to
the government, which was gratefully accepted. Mr. Chase subsequently
accompanied the gentlemen to the White House and introduced them to the
President, saying they had called to have a talk with him about money.
“Money,” replied Mr. Lincoln; “I don’t know anything about ‘_money_.’ I
never had enough of my own to fret me, and I have no opinion about it
any way.”
“It is considered rather necessary to the carrying on of a war,
however,” returned the Secretary.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” rejoined Mr. Lincoln, turning
crosswise in his chair, swinging both legs backward and forward. “We
don’t read that ‘Hannibal’ had any ‘_money_’ to prosecute his wars
with.”
The President was one day speaking of a visit he had just received from
another delegation of bankers, from New York and Boston, who had been
urging the removal of General Cameron from the Cabinet.
“They talked very glibly,” said he, “especially a man named G----
from Boston; and I finally told them as much--adding, nevertheless,
that I was not convinced. ‘Now,’ said I, ‘gentlemen, if you want
General Cameron removed, you have only to bring me _one proved_ case
of dishonesty, and I promise you his “head”; but I assure you I am not
going to act on what seems to me the most unfounded gossip.’”
The Hon. Mr. Hubbard of Connecticut once called upon the President in
reference to a newly invented gun, concerning which a committee had
been appointed to make a report.
The “report” was sent for, and when it came in was found to be of the
most voluminous description. Mr. Lincoln glanced at it, and said: “I
should want a new lease of life to read this through!” Throwing it
down upon the table, he added: “Why can’t a committee of this kind
occasionally exhibit a grain of common sense? If I send a man to buy
a horse for me, I expect him to tell me his ‘_points_’--not how many
_hairs_ there are in his tail.”
Late one evening, the President brought in to see my picture his
friend and biographer, the Hon. J. H. Barrett, and a Mr. M----,
of Cincinnati. An allusion to a question of law in the course of
conversation suggesting the subject, Mr. Lincoln said: “The strongest
example of ‘rigid government’ and ‘close construction’ I ever knew,
was that of Judge ----. It was once said of him that he would _hang_ a
man for blowing his nose in the street, but that he would _quash_ the
indictment if it failed to specify which _hand_ he blew it with!”
A new levy of troops required, on a certain occasion, the appointment
of a large additional number of brigadier and major-generals. Among
the immense number of applications, Mr. Lincoln came upon one wherein
the claims of a certain worthy (not in the service at all) for a
generalship were glowingly set forth. But the applicant didn’t specify
whether he wanted to be brigadier or major-general. The President
observed this difficulty, and solved it by a lucid indorsement. The
clerk, on receiving the paper again, found written across its back:
“Major-General, I reckon. A. Lincoln.”
A juvenile “Brigadier” from New York, with a small detachment of
cavalry, having imprudently gone within the Rebel lines near Fairfax
Court House, was captured by “guerillas.” Upon the fact being reported
to Mr. Lincoln, he said that he was very sorry to lose the horses!
“What do you mean?” inquired his informant.
“Why,” rejoined the President, “I can make a better ‘brigadier’ any
day; but those horses cost the government a hundred and twenty-five
dollars a head!”
Mr. Lincoln sometimes had a very effective way of dealing with men who
troubled him with questions. A visitor once asked him how many men the
Rebels had in the field. The President replied, very seriously, “Twelve
hundred thousand, according to the best authority.” The interrogator
blanched in the face, and ejaculated, “Good Heavens!” “Yes sir, twelve
hundred thousand--no doubt of it. You see, all of our generals, when
they get whipped, say the enemy outnumbers them from three or five to
one, and I must believe them. We have four hundred thousand men in the
field, and three times four make twelve. Don’t you see it?”
Some gentlemen were discussing in Mr. Lincoln’s presence on a certain
occasion General McClellan’s military capacity. “It is doubtless true
that he is a good ‘engineer,’” said the President; “but he seems to
have a special talent for developing a ‘_stationary_’ engine.”
When Mr. Lincoln handed to his friend Gilbert his appointment as
assessor in the Wall Street district, New York, he said: “Gilbert, from
what I can learn, I judge that you are going upon good ‘missionary’
ground. Preach God and Liberty to the ‘bulls’ and ‘bears,’ and get all
the money you can for the government!”
A gentleman calling at the White House one evening carried a cane,
which, in the course of conversation, attracted the President’s
attention. Taking it in his hand, he said: “I always used a cane when
I was a boy. It was a freak of mine. My favorite one was a knotted
beech stick, and I carved the head myself. There’s a mighty amount
of character in sticks. Don’t you think so? You have seen these
fishing-poles that fit into a cane? Well that was an old idea of mine.
Dogwood clubs were favorite ones with the boys. I suppose they use them
yet. Hickory is too heavy, unless you get it from a young sapling. Have
you ever noticed how a stick in one’s hand will change his appearance?
Old women and witches wouldn’t look so without sticks. Meg Merrilies
understands that.”
One of Mr. Lincoln’s “illustrations” in my hearing, on one occasion,
was of a man who, in driving the hoops of a hogshead to “head” it up,
was much annoyed by the constant falling in of the top. At length the
bright idea struck him of putting his little boy inside to “hold it
up.” This he did; it never occurring to him till the job was done, how
he was to get his child out. “This,” said he, “is a fair sample of the
way some people always do business.”
In a time of despondency, some visitors were telling the President of
the “breakers” so often seen ahead--“this time surely coming.” “That,”
said he, “suggests the story of the school-boy, who never could
pronounce the names ‘Shadrach,’ ‘Meshach,’ and ‘Abednego.’ He had been
repeatedly whipped for it without effect. Sometime afterwards he saw
the names in the regular lesson for the day. Putting his finger upon
the place, he turned to his next neighbor, an older boy, and whispered,
‘Here come those “tormented Hebrews” again.’”
Referring to the divisions upon the Missouri Compromise, Mr. Lincoln
once said: “It used to amuse me to hear the slave-holders talk about
wanting more territory, because they had not room enough for their
slaves; and yet they complained of not having the slave-trade, because
they wanted more slaves for their room.”
Speaking on a certain occasion, of a prominent man who had the
year before been violent in his manifestations of hostility to the
Administration, but was then ostensibly favoring the same policy
previously denounced, Mr. Lincoln expressed his entire readiness to
treat the past as if it had not been, saying, “I choose always to make
my ‘statute of limitations’ a short one.”
At the White House one day some gentlemen were present from the
West, excited and troubled about the commissions or omissions of the
Administration. The President heard them patiently, and then replied:
“Gentlemen, suppose all the property you were worth was in gold, and
you had put it in the hands of Blondin to carry across the Niagara
River on a rope, would you shake the cable, or keep shouting out to
him, ‘Blondin, stand up a little straighter--Blondin, stoop a little
more--go a little faster--lean a little more to the north--lean a
little more to the south.’ No, you would hold your breath as well
as your tongue, and keep your hands off until he was safe over. The
Government are carrying an immense weight. Untold treasures are in
their hands. They are doing the very best they can. Don’t badger them.
Keep silence, and we’ll get you safe across.”
The President was once speaking of an attack made on him by the
Committee on the Conduct of the War, for a certain alleged blunder, or
some thing worse, in the Southwest--the matter involved being one which
had fallen directly under the observation of the officer to whom he was
talking, who possessed official evidence completely upsetting all the
conclusions of the Committee.
“Might it not be well for me,” queried the officer, “to set this matter
right in a letter to some paper, stating the facts as they actually
transpired?”
“Oh, no,” replied the President, “at least, not now. If I were to try
to read, much less answer, all the attacks made on me, this shop might
as well be closed for any other business. I do the very best I know
how--the very best I can; and I mean to keep doing so until the end. If
the end brings me out all right, what is said against me won’t amount
to anything. If the end brings me out wrong, ten angels swearing I was
right would make no difference.”
“I shall ever cherish among the brightest memories of my life,” says
the Rev. J. P. Thompson, of New York, “the recollection of an hour
in Mr. Lincoln’s working-room in September, ’64, which was one broad
sheet of sunshine.... I spoke of the rapid rise of Union feeling since
the promulgation of the Chicago Platform, and the victory at Atlanta;
and the question was started, which had contributed the most to the
reviving of Union sentiment--the victory or the platform. ‘I guess,’
said the President, ‘it was the victory; at any rate, I’d rather have
that repeated.’”
Being informed of the death of John Morgan, he said: “Well, I wouldn’t
crow over anybody’s death; but I can take this as _resignedly_ as any
dispensation of Providence.”
The celebrated case of Franklin W. Smith and brother, was one of those
which most largely helped to bring military tribunals into public
contempt. Those two gentlemen were arrested and kept in confinement,
their papers seized, their business destroyed, their reputation
damaged, and a naval court-martial, “organized to convict,” pursued
them unrelentingly till a wiser and juster hand arrested the malice
of their persecutors. It is known that President Lincoln, after full
investigation of the case, annulled the whole proceedings, but it
is remarkable that the actual record of his decision could never be
obtained from the Navy Department. An exact copy being withheld, the
following was presented to the Boston Board of Trade as being very
nearly the words of the late President:--
“_Whereas_, Franklin W. Smith had transactions with the Navy
Department to the amount of one million and a quarter of a million
of dollars; and _whereas_, he had the chance to steal a quarter of
a million, and was only charged with stealing twenty-two hundred
dollars--and the question now is about his stealing a hundred--I
don’t believe he stole anything at all. Therefore, the record
and findings are disapproved--declared null and void, and the
defendants are fully discharged.”
“It would be difficult,” says the New York “Tribune,” “to sum up the
rights and wrongs of the business more briefly than that, or to find a
paragraph more characteristically and unmistakably Mr. Lincoln’s.”
A gentleman was pressing very strenuously the promotion of an officer
to a “Brigadiership.” “But we have already more generals than we know
what to do with,” replied the President. “But,” persisted the visitor,
“my friend is very strongly recommended.” “Now, look here,” said Mr.
Lincoln, throwing one leg over the arm of his chair, “you are a farmer,
I believe; if not, you will understand me. Suppose you had a large
cattle-yard full of all sorts of cattle,--cows, oxen, bulls,--and
you kept killing and selling and disposing of your cows and oxen, in
one way and another,--taking good care of your bulls. By-and-by you
would find that you had nothing but a yard full of old bulls, good for
nothing under heaven. Now, it will be just so with the army, if I don’t
stop making brigadier-generals.”
Captain Mix, the commander, at one period, of the President’s
body-guard, told me that on their way to town one sultry morning,
from the “Soldiers’ Home,” they came upon a regiment marching into
the city. A “straggler,” very heavily loaded with camp equipage, was
accosted by the President with the question: “My lad, what is that?”
referring to the designation of his regiment. “It’s a regiment,” said
the soldier, curtly, plodding on, his gaze bent steadily upon the
ground. “Yes, I see that,” rejoined the President, “but I want to know
_what_ regiment.” “---- Pennsylvania,” replied the man in the same
tone, looking neither to the right nor the left. As the carriage passed
on, Mr. Lincoln turned to Captain Mix and said, with a merry laugh,
“It is very evident that chap smells no blood of ‘_royalty_’ in this
establishment.”
Captain Mix was frequently invited to breakfast with the family at
the “Home” residence. “Many times,” said he, “have I listened to our
most eloquent preachers, but _never_ with the same feeling of awe and
reverence, as when our Christian President, his arm around his son,
with his deep, earnest tone, each morning read a chapter from the
Bible.”
Some one was discussing, in the presence of Mr. Lincoln, the character
of a time-serving Washington clergyman. Said Mr. Lincoln to his
visitor:--
“I think you are rather hard upon Mr. ----. He reminds me of a man
in Illinois, who was tried for passing a counterfeit bill. It was in
evidence that before passing it he had taken it to the cashier of a
bank and asked his opinion of the bill, and he received a very prompt
reply that it was a counterfeit. His lawyer, who had heard of the
evidence to be brought against his client, asked him, just before going
into court, ‘Did you take the bill to the cashier of the bank and ask
him if it was good?’ ‘I did,’ was the reply. ‘Well, what was the reply
of the cashier?’ The rascal was in a corner, but he got out of it in
this fashion: ‘He said it was a pretty tolerable, respectable sort of a
bill.’”
Mr. Lincoln thought the clergyman was “a pretty tolerable, respectable
sort of a clergyman.”
A visitor, congratulating Mr. Lincoln on the prospects of his
reëlection, was answered with an anecdote of an Illinois farmer who
undertook to blast his own rocks. His first effort at producing an
explosion proved a failure. He explained the cause by exclaiming,
“Pshaw, this powder has been shot before!”
An amusing, yet touching instance of the President’s preoccupation of
mind, occurred at one of his levees, when he was shaking hands with
a host of visitors passing him in a continuous stream. An intimate
acquaintance received the usual conventional hand-shake and salutation,
but perceiving that he was not recognized, kept his ground instead
of moving on, and spoke again; when the President, roused to a dim
consciousness that something unusual had happened, perceived who stood
before him, and seizing his friend’s hand, shook it again heartily,
saying, “How do you do? How do you do? Excuse me for not noticing
you. I was thinking of a man down South.” He afterward privately
acknowledged that the “man down South” was Sherman, then on his march
to the sea.
Mr. Lincoln may not have expected death from the hand of an assassin,
but he had an impression, amounting to a “presentiment,” that his life
would end with the war. This was expressed not only to Mr. Lovejoy, as
stated on a previous page, but to Mrs. Stowe and others.
“He told me, in July, 1864,” says a correspondent of the Boston
“Journal,” “that he was certain he should not outlast the rebellion.
“It was a time of dissension among the Republican leaders. Many of
his best friends had deserted him, and were talking of an opposition
convention to nominate another candidate; and universal gloom was among
the people.
“The North was tired of the war, and supposed an honorable peace
attainable. Mr. Lincoln knew it was not,--that any peace at that time
would be only disunion. Speaking of it, he said: ‘I have faith in the
people. They will not consent to disunion. The danger is, in their
being misled. Let them know the truth, and the country is safe.’ He
looked haggard and careworn; and further on in the interview I remarked
on his appearance, ‘You are wearing yourself out with work.’ ‘I can’t
work less,’ he answered; ‘but it isn’t that,--work never troubled
me. Things look badly, and I can’t avoid anxiety. Personally, I care
nothing about a reëlection; but if our divisions defeat us, I fear for
the country.’ When I suggested that right must eventually triumph, that
I had never despaired of the result, he said:--
“‘Neither have I, but I may never live to see it. I feel a presentiment
that I shall not outlast the Rebellion. When it is over, my work will
be done.’”
“The Freedmen,” once said the President to the Secretary of War, “are
the ‘wards’ of the nation.”
“Yes,” replied Stanton, “wards in chancery.”
A few days before the President’s death, Secretary Stanton tendered
his resignation of the War Department. He accompanied the act with a
heart-felt tribute to Mr. Lincoln’s constant friendship and faithful
devotion to the country; saying, also, that he as Secretary had
accepted the position to hold it only until the war should end, and
that now he felt his work was done, and his duty was to resign.
Mr. Lincoln was greatly moved by the Secretary’s words, and tearing
in pieces the paper containing the resignation, and throwing his arms
about the Secretary, he said: “Stanton, you have been a good friend and
a faithful public servant, and it is not for you to say when you will
no longer be needed here.” Several friends of both parties were present
on the occasion, and there was not a dry eye that witnessed the scene.
“On the night of the 3rd of March, the Secretary of War, with others
of the Cabinet, were in the company of the President, at the Capitol,
awaiting the passage of the final bills of Congress. In the intervals
of reading and signing these documents, the military situation was
considered,--the lively conversation tinged by the confident and
glowing account of General Grant, of his mastery of the position,
and of his belief that a few days more would see Richmond in our
possession, and the army of Lee either dispersed utterly or captured
bodily,--when the telegram from Grant was received, saying that Lee had
asked an interview with reference to peace. Mr. Lincoln was elated,
and the kindness of his heart was manifest in intimations of favorable
terms to be granted to the conquered Rebels.
“Stanton listened in silence, restraining his emotion, but at
length the tide burst forth. ‘Mr. President,’ said he, ‘to-morrow is
inauguration day. If you are not to be the President of an obedient
and united people, you had better not be inaugurated. Your work is
already done, if any other authority than yours is for one moment to be
recognized, or any terms made that do not signify you are the supreme
head of the nation. If generals in the field are to negotiate peace,
or any other chief magistrate is to be acknowledged on this continent,
then you are not needed, and you had better not take the oath of
office.’
“‘Stanton, you are right!’ said the President, his whole tone changing.
‘Let me have a pen.’
“Mr. Lincoln sat down at the table, and wrote as follows:--
“The President directs me to say to you that he wishes you to have no
conference with General Lee, unless it be for the capitulation of Lee’s
army, or on some minor or purely military matter. He instructs me to
say that you are not to decide, discuss, or confer upon any political
question. Such questions the President holds in his own hands, and will
submit them to no military conferences or conventions. In the mean time
you are to press to the utmost your military advantages.’
“The President read over what he had written, and then said:--
“‘Now Stanton, date and sign this paper, and send it to Grant. We’ll
see about this peace business.’
“The duty was discharged only too gladly by the energetic and
far-sighted Secretary; with what effect and renown the country knows
full well.”[16]
Governor Yates, of Illinois, in a speech at Springfield, quoted one
of Mr. Lincoln’s early friends--W. T. Greene--as having said that
the first time he ever saw Mr. Lincoln, he was in the Sangamon River
with his trousers rolled up five feet, more or less, trying to pilot
a flatboat over a mill-dam. The boat was so full of water that it was
hard to manage. Lincoln got the prow over, and then, instead of waiting
to bail the water out, bored a hole through the projecting part and let
it run out; affording a forcible illustration of the ready ingenuity of
the future President in the quick invention of moral expedients.
“Some two years ago,” said Colonel Forney, in a speech at Weldon,
Pennsylvania, before the “Soldiers’ Aid Society,” in 1865, “a
deputation of colored people came from Louisiana, for the purpose of
laying before the President a petition asking certain rights, not
including the right of universal suffrage. The interview took place
in the presence of a number of distinguished gentlemen. After reading
their memorial, he turned to them and said: ‘I regret, gentlemen, that
you are not able to secure all your rights, and that circumstances
will not permit the government to confer them upon you. I wish you
would amend your petition, so as to include several suggestions which
I think will give more effect to your prayer, and after having done
so please hand it to me.’ The leading colored man said: ‘If you will
permit me, I will do so here.’ ‘Are you, then, the author of this
eloquent production?’ asked Mr. Lincoln. ‘Whether eloquent or not,’
was the reply, ‘it is my work;’ and the Louisiana negro sat down at
the President’s side and rapidly and intelligently carried out the
suggestions that had been made to him. The Southern gentlemen who were
present at this scene did not hesitate to admit that their prejudices
had just received another shock.
“To show the magnanimity of Mr. Lincoln, I may mention that on one
occasion, when an editorial article appeared in my newspaper, the
Washington ‘Chronicle,’ speaking well of the bravery and the mistaken
sincerity of Stonewall Jackson, the news of whose death had been just
received, the President wrote me a letter thanking me warmly for
speaking kindly of a fallen foe. These were his words:--
“‘I honor you for your generosity to one who, though contending against
us in a guilty cause, was nevertheless a gallant man. Let us forget his
sins over his fresh-made grave.’
“Again, I happened to be in the Executive Chamber when a number of
Kentuckians insisted that troops should not be sent through that State
for the purpose of putting down the rebel spirit in Tennessee. The
President was hesitating what to do, and they were pressing immediate
action.
“‘I am,’ he said, ‘a good deal like the farmer who, returning to his
home one winter night, found his two sweet little boys asleep with a
hideous serpent crawling over their bodies. He could not strike the
serpent without wounding or killing the children, so he calmly waited
until it had moved away. Now I do not want to act in a hurry about this
matter; I don’t want to hurt anybody in Kentucky; but I will get the
serpent out of Tennessee.’
“And he did march through Kentucky, to the aid of Andrew Johnson’s
mountaineers.”
“The roll containing the Emancipation Proclamation was taken to Mr.
Lincoln at noon on the first day of January, 1863, by Secretary Seward
and his son Frederick. As it lay unrolled before him, Mr. Lincoln took
a pen, dipped it in ink, moved his hand to the place for the signature,
held it a moment, and then removed his hand and dropped the pen. After
a little hesitation he again took up the pen and went through the same
movement as before. Mr. Lincoln then turned to Mr. Seward, and said:--
“‘I have been shaking hands since nine o’clock this morning, and my
right arm is almost paralyzed. If my name ever goes into history it
will be for this act, and my whole soul is in it. If my hand trembles
when I sign the Proclamation, all who examine the document hereafter
will say, “He hesitated.”’
“He then turned to the table, took up the pen again, and slowly,
firmly wrote that ‘Abraham Lincoln’ with which the whole world is now
familiar. He looked up, smiled, and said: ‘That will do.’”[17]
What Mr. Lincoln’s policy on the subject of “reconstruction” would
have been, had he lived, is clearly foreshadowed in the following
extract from a letter to General Wadsworth, who was killed in one of
the battles of the Wilderness. Few sentences from Mr. Lincoln’s lips or
pen are more worthy the profound consideration and remembrance of his
countrymen.
“You desire to know, in the event of our complete success in the field,
the same being followed by a loyal and cheerful submission on the part
of the South, if universal amnesty should not be accompanied with
universal suffrage.
“Now, since you know my private inclinations as to what terms should
be granted to the South in the contingency mentioned, I will here add,
that if our success should thus be realized, followed by such desired
results, I cannot see, if universal amnesty is granted, how, under the
circumstances, I can avoid exacting in return universal suffrage, or at
least suffrage on the basis of intelligence and military service.
“How to better the condition of the colored race has long been a
study which has attracted my serious and careful attention; hence I
think I am clear and decided as to what course I shall pursue in the
premises, regarding it a religious duty, as the nation’s guardian of
these people who have so heroically vindicated their manhood on the
battle-field, where, in assisting to save the life of the Republic,
they have demonstrated in blood their right to the ballot, which is but
the humane protection of the flag they have so fearlessly defended.”
When Mr. Lincoln was in Congress, General Cass was nominated by the
Democratic party for President. In a speech on the floor of the House
shortly afterward, Mr. Lincoln subjected the political course of the
candidate to scathing criticism. Quoting extracts from the speeches
of General Cass, to show his vacillation in reference to the Wilmot
Proviso, he added: “These extracts show that in 1846 General Cass was
for the Proviso at once; that in March, 1847, he was still for it, but
not just then; and that in December, he was against it altogether.
This is a true index of the whole man. When the question was raised in
1846, he was in a blustering hurry to take ground for it, ... but soon
he began to see glimpses of the great Democratic ox-gad waving in his
face, and to hear indistinctly a voice saying: ‘Back! back, sir! back
a little!’ He shakes his head, and bats his eyes, and blunders back to
his position of March, 1847; but still the ‘gad’ waves, and the voice
grows more distinct and sharper still: ‘Back, sir! back, I say! further
back!’ and back he goes to the position of December, 1847, at which
the ‘gad’ is still, and the voice soothingly says: ‘So! stand still at
that!’”
A party of gentlemen, among whom was a doctor of divinity of much
dignity of manner, calling at the White House one day, was informed
by the porter that the President was at dinner, but that he would
present their cards. The doctor demurred to this, saying that he would
call again. “Edward” assured them that he thought it would make no
difference, and went in with the cards. In a few minutes the President
walked into the room, with a kindly salutation, and a request that the
friends would take seats. The doctor expressed his regret that their
visit was so ill-timed, and that his Excellency was disturbed while at
dinner. “Oh! no consequence at all,” said Mr. Lincoln, good-naturedly.
“Mrs. Lincoln is absent at present, and when she is away, I generally
‘_browse_’ around.”
“Upon entering the President’s office one afternoon,” says a Washington
correspondent, “I found Mr. Lincoln busily counting greenbacks. ‘This,
sir,’ said he, ‘is something out of my usual line; but a President
of the United States has a multiplicity of duties not specified in
the Constitution or acts of Congress. This is one of them. This money
belongs to a poor negro who is a porter in the Treasury Department,
at present very bad with the small-pox. He is now in hospital, and
could not draw his pay because he could not sign his name. I have
been at considerable trouble to overcome the difficulty and get it
for him, and have at length succeeded in cutting red tape, as you
newspaper men say. I am now dividing the money and putting by a
portion labelled, in an envelope, with my own hands, according to his
wish;’ and he proceeded to indorse the package very carefully.” No one
witnessing the transaction could fail to appreciate the goodness of
heart which prompted the President of the United States to turn aside
for a time from his weighty cares to succor one of the humblest of his
fellow-creatures in sickness and sorrow.
When General Phelps took possession of Ship Island, near New Orleans,
early in the war, it will be remembered that he issued a proclamation,
somewhat bombastic in tone, freeing the slaves. To the surprise of many
people, on both sides, the President took no official notice of this
movement. Some time had elapsed, when one day a friend took him to task
for his seeming indifference on so important a matter.
“Well,” said Mr. Lincoln, “I feel about that a good deal as a man whom
I will call ‘Jones,’ whom I once knew, did about his wife. He was one
of your meek men, and had the reputation of being badly henpecked. At
last, one day his wife was seen switching him out of the house. A day
or two afterward a friend met him in the street, and said: ‘Jones, I
have always stood up for you, as you know; but I am not going to do it
any longer. Any man who will stand quietly and take a switching from
his wife, deserves to be horsewhipped.’ ‘Jones’ looked up with a wink,
patting his friend on the back. ‘Now _don’t_,’ said he: ‘why, it didn’t
_hurt_ me any; and you’ve no idea what a _power_ of _good_ it did Sarah
Ann?’”
The Rev. Dr. Bellows, of New York, as President of the Sanitary
Commission, backed by powerful influences, had pressed with great
strenuousness upon the President the appointment of Dr. Hammond
as Surgeon-General. For some unexplained reason, there was an
unaccountable delay in making the appointment. One stormy evening--the
rain falling in torrents--Dr. Bellows, thinking few visitors likely
to trouble the President in such a storm, determined to make a final
appeal, and stepping into a carriage, he was driven to the White House.
Upon entering the Executive Chamber, he found Mr. Lincoln alone, seated
at the long table, busily engaged in signing a heap of congressional
documents, which lay before him. He barely nodded to Dr. Bellows as
he entered, having learned what to expect, and kept straight on with
his work. Standing opposite to him, Dr. B. employed his most powerful
arguments, for ten or fifteen minutes, to accomplish the end sought,
the President keeping steadily on signing the documents before him.
Pausing, at length, to take breath, the clergyman was greeted in the
most unconcerned manner, the pen still at work, with,--“Shouldn’t
wonder if Hammond was at this moment ‘Surgeon-General,’ and had been
for some time.”
“You don’t mean to say, Mr. President,” asked Dr. B. in surprise, “that
the appointment has been made?”
“I may say to you,” returned Mr. Lincoln, for the first time looking
up, “that it _has_; only you needn’t _tell_ of it just yet.”
In August, 1864, the prospects of the Union party, in reference to
the Presidential election, became very gloomy. A friend, the private
secretary of one of the cabinet ministers, who spent a few days in New
York at this juncture, returned to Washington with so discouraging
an account of the political situation, that after hearing it, the
Secretary told him to go over to the White House and repeat it to the
President. My friend said that he found Mr. Lincoln alone, looking more
than usually careworn and sad. Upon hearing the statement, he walked
two or three times across the floor in silence. Returning, he said with
grim earnestness of tone and manner: “Well, I cannot run the political
machine; I have enough on my hands without _that_. It is the _people’s_
business,--the election is in their hands. If they turn their backs to
the fire, and get _scorched_ in the rear, they’ll find they have got to
‘_sit_’ on the ‘blister’!”
Mr. Lincoln came to have an almost morbid dread of office-seekers,
from whose importunity the executive of a republican government
can necessarily never be free. Harassed with applications of every
description, he once said that it sometimes seemed as if every visitor
“darted at him, and with thumb and finger carried off a portion of his
vitality.”
As the day of his reinauguration approached, he said to Senator Clark,
of New Hampshire, “Can’t you and others start a public sentiment in
favor of making no changes in offices except for good and sufficient
cause? It seems as though the bare thought of going through again what
I did the first year here, would _crush_ me.” To another he said, “I
have made up my mind to make very few changes in the offices in my gift
for my second term. I think now that I will not remove a single man,
except for delinquency. To remove a man is very easy, but when I go
to fill his place, there are _twenty_ applicants, and of these I must
make _nineteen_ enemies.” “Under these circumstances,” says one of his
friends, “Mr. Lincoln’s natural charity for all was often turned into
an unwonted suspicion of the motives of men whose selfishness cost
him so much wear of mind. Once he said, ‘Sitting here, where all the
avenues to public patronage seem to come together in a knot, it does
seem to me that our people are fast approaching the point where it can
be said that seven eighths of them are trying to find how to live at
the expense of the other eighth.’”
A year or more before Mr. Lincoln’s death, a delegation of clergymen
waited upon him in reference to the appointment of the army chaplains.
The delegation consisted of a Presbyterian, a Baptist, and an Episcopal
clergyman. They stated that the character of many of the chaplains
was notoriously bad, and they had come to urge upon the President the
necessity of more discretion in these appointments. “But, gentlemen,”
said the President, “that is a matter which the Government has nothing
to do with; the chaplains are chosen by the regiments.” Not satisfied
with this, the clergymen pressed, in turn, a change in the system. Mr.
Lincoln heard them through without remark, and then said, “Without
any disrespect, gentlemen, I will tell you a ‘little story.’ Once,
in Springfield, I was going off on a short journey, and reached the
depot a little ahead of time. Leaning against the fence just outside
the depot was a little darkey boy, whom I knew, named ‘Dick,’ busily
digging with his toe in a mud-puddle. As I came up, I said, ‘“Dick,”
what are you about?’ ‘Making a “_church_,”’ said he. ‘A church?’ said
I; ‘what do you mean?’ ‘Why, yes,’ said ‘Dick,’ pointing with his toe,
‘don’t you see? there is the shape of it; there’s the “steps” and
“front-door”--here the “pews,” where the folks set--and there’s the
“pulpit.”’ ‘Yes, I see,’ said I, ‘but why don’t you make a “minister?”’
‘Laws,’ answered ‘Dick,’ with a grin, ‘I hain’t got _mud_ enough!’”
Mr. Lincoln had a dread of people who could not appreciate humor. He
once instanced a member of his own cabinet, of whom he quoted the
saying of Sydney Smith, that “it required a surgical operation to get
a joke into his head.” The light trifles of conversation diverted his
mind, or, as he said of his theatre-going, gave him “a refuge from
himself and his weariness.”
One of the last stories I heard from Mr. Lincoln was concerning John
Tyler, for whom it was to be expected, as an old Henry Clay Whig,
he would entertain no great respect. “A year or two after Tyler’s
accession to the Presidency,” said he, “contemplating an excursion in
some direction, his son went to order a special train of cars. It so
happened that the railroad superintendent was a very strong Whig. On
‘Bob’s’ making known his errand, that official bluntly informed him
that his road did not run any special trains for the President. ‘What!’
said ‘Bob,’ ‘did you not furnish a special train for the funeral
of General Harrison?’ ‘Yes,’ said the superintendent, stroking his
whiskers; ‘and if you will only bring your father here in _that_ shape,
you shall have the best train on the road.’”
“Once--on what was called a ‘public day,’ when Mr. Lincoln received all
applicants in their turn--the writer[18] was struck by observing, as he
passed through the corridor, the heterogeneous crowd of men and women,
representing all ranks and classes, who were gathered in the large
waiting-room outside the Presidential suite of offices.
“Being ushered into the President’s chamber by Major Hay, the first
thing he saw was Mr. Lincoln bowing an elderly lady out of the
door,--the President’s remarks to her being, as she still lingered and
appeared reluctant to go: ‘I am really very sorry, madam; very sorry.
But your own good sense must tell you that I am not here to collect
small debts. You must appeal to the courts in regular order.’
“When she was gone, Mr. Lincoln sat down, crossed his legs, locked his
hands over his knees, and commenced to laugh,--this being his favorite
attitude when much amused.
“‘What odd kinds of people come to see me,’ he said; ‘and what odd
ideas they must have about my office! Would you believe it, Major,
that old lady who has just left, came in here to get from me an order
for stopping the pay of a treasury clerk, who owes her a board-bill of
about seventy dollars?’ And the President rocked himself backward and
forward, and appeared intensely amused.
“‘She may have come in here a loyal woman,’ continued Mr. Lincoln; ‘but
I’ll be bound she has gone away believing that the worst pictures of me
in the Richmond press only lack truth in not being half black and bad
enough.’
“This led to a somewhat general conversation, in which I expressed
surprise that he did not adopt the plan in force at all military
head-quarters, under which every applicant to see the general
commanding had to be filtered through a sieve of officers,--assistant
adjutant-generals, and so forth,--who allowed none in to take up
the general’s time save such as they were satisfied had business of
sufficient importance, and which could be transacted in no other manner
than by a personal interview.
“‘Of every hundred people who come to see the general-in-chief
daily,’ I explained, ‘not ten have any sufficient business with him,
nor are they admitted. On being asked to explain for what purpose
they desire to see him, and stating it, it is found, in nine cases
out of ten, that the business properly belongs to some one or other
of the subordinate bureaus. They are then referred, as the case may
be, to the quartermaster, commissary, medical, adjutant-general,
or other departments, with an assurance that even if they saw the
general-in-chief he could do nothing more for them than give the same
direction. With these points courteously explained,’ I added, ‘they go
away quite content, although refused admittance.’
“‘Ah, yes!’ said Mr. Lincoln, gravely,--and his words on this matter
are important as illustrating a rule of his action, and to some extent,
perhaps, the essentially representative character of his mind and
of his administration,--‘ah, yes, such things do very well for you
military people, with your arbitrary rule, and in your camps. But
the office of President is essentially a civil one, and the affair
is very different. For myself, I feel--though the tax on my time is
heavy--that no hours of my day are better employed than those which
thus bring me again within the direct contact and atmosphere of the
average of our whole people. Men moving only in an official circle
are apt to become merely official--not to say arbitrary--in their
ideas, and are apter and apter, with each passing day, to forget that
they only hold power in a representative capacity. Now this is all
wrong. I go into these promiscuous receptions of all who claim to have
business with me twice each week, and every applicant for audience
has to take his turn, as if waiting to be shaved in a barber’s shop.
Many of the matters brought to my notice are utterly frivolous, but
others are of more or less importance, and all serve to renew in me a
clearer and more vivid image of that great popular assemblage out of
which I sprung, and to which at the end of two years I must return. I
tell you, Major,’ he said,--appearing at this point to recollect I was
in the room, for the former part of these remarks had been made with
half-shut eyes, as if in soliloquy,--‘I tell you that I call these
receptions my “_public-opinion baths_;” for I have but little time to
read the papers and gather public opinion that way; and though they
may not be pleasant in all their particulars, the effect, as a whole,
is renovating and invigorating to my perceptions of responsibility and
duty.’”
No nobler reply ever fell from the lips of ruler, than that uttered by
President Lincoln in response to the clergyman who ventured to say, in
his presence, that he _hoped_ “the LORD was on our side.”
“I am not at all concerned about that,” replied Mr. Lincoln, “for I
know that the LORD is _always_ on the side of the _right_. But it is my
constant anxiety and prayer that _I_ and _this nation_ should be on the
LORD’s _side_.”
In the midst of the despondency produced by the raid on Washington, in
the summer of 1864, and the successful return of the Rebel force to
Richmond, the President’s Proclamation of July 18th appeared, calling
for five hundred thousand more men.
In view of the impending presidential canvass, Mr. Lincoln’s strongest
friends looked upon this step, at this time, as calculated to utterly
defeat his chances of reëlection. Commissioner Dole ventured to say
as much upon the President’s announcement to him of his contemplated
purpose.
“It matters not what becomes of me,” replied Mr. Lincoln; “we must have
the men! If I go down, I intend to go like the _Cumberland_, with my
colors flying!”
Upon Mr. Lincoln’s return to Washington, after the capture of
Richmond, a member of the Cabinet asked him if it would be proper to
permit Jacob Thompson to slip through Maine in disguise, and embark
from Portland. The President, as usual, was disposed to be merciful,
and to permit the arch-rebel to pass unmolested, but the Secretary
urged that he should be arrested as a traitor. “By permitting him to
escape the penalties of treason,” persistently remarked the Secretary,
“you sanction it.” “Well,” replied Mr. Lincoln, “let me tell you
a story. There was an Irish soldier here last summer, who wanted
something to drink stronger than water, and stopped at a drug-shop,
where he espied a soda-fountain. ‘Mr. Doctor,’ said he, ‘give me,
plase, a glass of soda-wather, an’ if yees can put in a few drops of
whiskey unbeknown to any one, I’ll be obleeged.’ Now,” continued Mr.
Lincoln, “if Jake Thompson is permitted to go through Maine unbeknown
to any one, what’s the harm? So don’t have him arrested.”
I asked the President, during the progress of the battles of the
Wilderness, how General Grant personally impressed him as compared
with other officers of the army, and especially those who had been in
command.
“The great thing about Grant,” said he, “I take it, is his perfect
coolness and persistency of purpose. I judge he is not easily
excited,--which is a great element in an officer,--and he has the
_grit_ of a bull-dog! Once let him get his ‘teeth’ _in_, and nothing
can shake him off.”
One of the latest of Mr. Lincoln’s stories was told to a party of
gentlemen, who, amid the tumbling ruins of the ‘Confederacy,’ anxiously
asked “what he would do with ‘Jeff. Davis’?”
“There was a boy in Springfield,” rejoined Mr. Lincoln, “who saved
up his money and bought a ‘coon,’ which, after the novelty wore off,
became a great nuisance. He was one day leading him through the
streets, and had his hands full to keep clear of the little vixen, who
had torn his clothes half off of him. At length he sat down on the
curb-stone, completely fagged out. A man passing was stopped by the
lad’s disconsolate appearance, and asked the matter. ‘Oh,’ was the
reply, ‘this coon is such a _trouble_ to me!’ ‘Why don’t you get rid of
him, then?’ said the gentleman. ‘Hush!’ said the boy; ‘don’t you see he
is gnawing his rope off? I am going to let him do it, and then I will
go home and tell the folks _that he got away from me_?’”
LXIX.
The last story told by Mr. Lincoln was drawn out by a circumstance
which occurred just before the interview with Messrs. Colfax and
Ashmun, on the evening of his assassination.
Marshal Lamon of Washington had called upon him with an application for
the pardon of a soldier. After a brief hearing the President took the
application, and when about to write his name upon the back of it, he
looked up and said: “Lamon, have you ever heard how the Patagonians eat
oysters? They open them and throw the shells out of the window until
the pile gets higher than the house, and then they move;” adding: “I
feel to-day like commencing a new pile of pardons, and I may as well
begin it just here.”
At the subsequent interview with Messrs. Colfax and Ashmun, Mr. Lincoln
was in high spirits. The uneasiness felt by his friends during his
visit to Richmond was dwelt upon, when he sportively replied that he
“supposed he should have been uneasy also, had any other man been
President and gone there; but as it was, he felt no apprehension of
danger whatever.” Turning to Speaker Colfax, he said: “Sumner has the
‘gavel’ of the Confederate Congress, which he got at Richmond, and
intended to give to the Secretary of War, but I insisted he must give
it to you, and you tell him from me to hand it over.”
Mr. Ashmun, who was the presiding officer of the Chicago Convention
in 1860, alluded to the “gavel” used on that occasion, saying he had
preserved it as a valuable memento.
Mr. Ashmun then referred to a matter of business connected with a
cotton claim, preferred by a client of his, and said that he desired to
have a “commission” appointed to examine and decide upon the merits
of the case. Mr. Lincoln replied, with considerable warmth of manner,
“I have done with ‘commissions.’ I believe they are contrivances to
_cheat_ the Government out of every pound of cotton they can lay their
hands on.” Mr. Ashmun’s face flushed, and he replied that he hoped the
President meant no personal imputation.
Mr. Lincoln saw that he had wounded his friend, and he instantly
replied: “You did not understand me, Ashmun. I did not mean what you
inferred. I take it all back.” Subsequently he said: “I apologize to
you, Ashmun.”
He then engaged to see Mr. Ashmun early the next morning, and taking a
card, he wrote:
“Allow Mr. Ashmun and friend to come in at 9 A. M. to-morrow.
A. Lincoln.”
These were his last written words. Turning to Mr. Colfax he said: “You
will accompany Mrs. Lincoln and me to the theatre, I hope?” Mr. Colfax
pleaded other engagements,--expecting to start on his Pacific trip
the next morning. The party passed out on the portico together, the
President saying at the very last, “Colfax, don’t forget to tell the
people of the mining regions what I told you this morning about the
development when peace comes;” then shaking hands with both gentlemen,
he followed Mrs. Lincoln into the carriage, leaning forward, at the
last moment, to say as they were driven off, “I will telegraph you,
Colfax, at San Francisco,”--passing thus forth for the last time from
under that roof into the creeping shadows which were to settle before
another dawn into a funeral pall upon the orphaned heart of the nation.
* * * * *
LXX.
“On the Monday before the assassination,[19] when the President was
on his return from Richmond, he stopped at City Point. Calling upon
the head surgeon at that place, Mr. Lincoln told him that he wished to
visit all the hospitals under his charge, and shake hands with every
soldier. The surgeon asked if he knew what he was undertaking, there
being five or six thousand soldiers at that place, and it would be
quite a tax upon his strength to visit all the wards and shake hands
with every soldier. Mr. Lincoln answered with a smile, he ‘guessed he
was equal to the task; at any rate he would try, and go as far as he
could; he should never, probably, see the boys again, and he wanted
them to know that he appreciated what they had done for their country.’
“Finding it useless to try to dissuade him, the surgeon began his
rounds with the President, who walked from bed to bed, extending his
hand to all, saying a few words of sympathy to some, making kind
inquiries of others, and welcomed by all with the heartiest cordiality.
“As they passed along, they came to a ward in which lay a Rebel who
had been wounded and was a prisoner. As the tall figure of the kindly
visitor appeared in sight he was recognized by the Rebel soldier,
who, raising himself on his elbow in bed, watched Mr. Lincoln as he
approached, and extending his hand exclaimed, while tears ran down
his cheeks: ‘Mr. Lincoln, I have long wanted to see you, to ask your
forgiveness for ever raising my hand against the old flag.’ Mr. Lincoln
was moved to tears. He heartily shook the hand of the repentant Rebel,
and assured him of his good-will, and with a few words of kind advice
passed on.
“After some hours the tour of the various hospitals was made, and Mr.
Lincoln returned with the surgeon to his office. They had scarcely
entered, however, when a messenger came saying that one ward had been
omitted, and ‘the boys’ wanted to see the President. The surgeon, who
was thoroughly tired, and knew Mr. Lincoln must be, tried to dissuade
him from going; but the good man said he must go back; he would not
knowingly omit one, ‘the boys’ would be so disappointed. So he went
with the messenger, accompanied by the surgeon, and shook hands with
the gratified soldiers, and then returned again to the office.
“The surgeon expressed the fear that the President’s arm would be
lamed with so much hand-shaking, saying that it certainly must ache.
Mr. Lincoln smiled, and saying something about his ‘strong muscles,’
stepped out at the open door, took up a very large, heavy axe which
lay there by a log of wood, and chopped vigorously for a few moments,
sending the chips flying in all directions; and then, pausing, he
extended his right arm to its full length, holding the axe out
horizontally, without its even quivering as he held it. Strong men who
looked on--men accustomed to manual labor--could not hold the same axe
in that position for a moment. Returning to the office, he took a glass
of lemonade, for he would take no stronger beverage; and while he was
within, the chips he had chopped were gathered up and safely cared for
by a hospital steward, because they were ‘the chips that Father Abraham
chopped.’ In a few hours more the beloved President was at home in
Washington; in a few days more he had passed away and a bereaved nation
was in mourning.”
LXXI.
Mr. Lincoln returned from Richmond with a heart-full purpose to
issue immediately a proclamation for a day of National Thanksgiving.
“Babylon” had fallen, and with his own eyes, as from another Pisgah, he
had looked over into the promised land of Peace,--a land which, like
his great prototype, his feet were not to tread!
During his absence from Washington, Secretary Seward met with the
serious accident by which his arm and jaw were broken. Mr. Lincoln’s
first visit was to the house of the Secretary, who was confined to his
bed by his injuries. After a few words of sympathy and condolence,
with a countenance beaming with joy and satisfaction, he entered upon
an account of his visit to Richmond, and the glorious success of
Grant,--throwing himself, in his almost boyish exultation, at full
length across the bed, supporting his head upon one hand, and in this
manner reciting the story of the collapse of the Rebellion. Concluding,
he lifted himself up and said: “And now for a day of Thanksgiving!”
Mr. Seward entered fully into his feelings, but observed, with
characteristic caution, that the issue between Sherman and Johnston had
not yet been decided, and a premature celebration might have the effect
to nerve the remaining army of the Confederacy to greater desperation.
He advised, therefore, no official designation of a day “until the
result of Sherman’s combinations was known.” Admitting the force of
the Secretary’s view, Mr. Lincoln reluctantly gave up the purpose, and
three days later suffered in his own person the last, most atrocious,
but culminating act of the most wicked of all rebellions recorded on
the pages of history! It was the last interview on earth between the
President and his Secretary of State.
This incident, related by Mr. Seward to a friend[20] while slowly
recovering from the murderous attack upon himself, was followed by an
interesting account of his personal relations with Mr. Lincoln. “No
knife was ever sharp enough to divide us upon any question of public
policy,” said the Secretary; “though we frequently arrived at the same
conclusion through different processes of thought.” “Once only,” he
continued, musingly, “did we disagree in sentiment.” Mr. D. inquired
the subject of dissent. “His colonization’ scheme,” was the reply,
“which I opposed on the self-evident principle that all _natives_ of a
country have an _equal_ right in its soil.”
The knowledge of the terrible calamity which had befallen the nation
was rigidly withheld from Mr. Seward at the time, his physician
fearing that the shock would be too great for him to bear. The Sunday
following, he had his bed wheeled around so that he could see the tops
of the trees in the park opposite his residence,--just putting on their
spring foliage,--when his eyes caught sight of the Stars and Stripes
at half-mast on the War Department, on which he gazed awhile, then
turning to his attendant, said: “The President is dead!” The confused
attendant stammered as he tried to say nay; but the Secretary could not
be deceived. “If he had been alive, he would have been the first to
call on me,” he continued; “but he has not been here, nor has he sent
to know how I am; and there is the flag at half-mast.” The statesman’s
inductive reason had discerned the truth, and in silence the great
tears coursed down his gashed cheeks, as it sank into his heart.
LXXII.
At the Cabinet meeting held the morning of the day of the
assassination, it was afterward remembered, a remarkable circumstance
occurred. General Grant was present, and during a lull in the
discussion the President turned to him and asked if he had heard from
General Sherman. General Grant replied that he had not, but was in
hourly expectation of receiving despatches from him announcing the
surrender of Johnston.
“Well,” said the President, “you will hear very soon now, and the news
will be important.”
“Why do you think so?” said the General.
“Because,” said Mr. Lincoln, “I had a dream last night; and ever
since the war began, I have invariably had the same dream before
any important military event occurred.” He then instanced Bull Run,
Antietam, Gettysburg, etc., and said that before each of these events,
he had had the same dream; and turning to Secretary Welles, said: “It
is in your line, too, Mr. Welles. The dream is, that I saw a ship
sailing very rapidly; and I am sure that it portends some important
national event.”
Later in the day, dismissing all business, the carriage was ordered
for a drive. When asked by Mrs. Lincoln if he would like any one to
accompany them, he replied, “No; I prefer to ride by ourselves to-day.”
Mrs. Lincoln subsequently said that she never saw him seem so supremely
happy as on this occasion. In reply to a remark to this effect, the
President said: “And well I may feel so, Mary, for I consider this day
the war has come to a close.” And then added: “We must both be more
cheerful in the future; between the war and the loss of our darling
Willie, we have been very miserable.”
* * * * *
Little “Tad’s” frantic grief upon being told that his father had been
shot was alluded to in the Washington correspondence of the time.
For twenty-four hours the little fellow was perfectly inconsolable.
Sunday morning, however, the sun rose in unclouded splendor, and in his
simplicity he looked upon this as a token that his father was happy.
“Do you think my father has gone to heaven?” he asked of a gentleman
who had called upon Mrs. Lincoln. “I have not a doubt of it,” was the
reply. “Then,” he exclaimed, in his broken way, “I am glad he has gone
there, for he never was happy after he came here. This was not a good
place for him!”
LXXIII.
“President Lincoln,” says the Hon. W. D. Kelly,[21] “was a large and
many-sided man, and yet so simple that no one, not even a child, could
approach him without feeling that he had found in him a sympathizing
friend. I remember that I apprised him of the fact that a lad, the
son of one of my townsmen, had served a year on board the gunboat
_Ottawa_, and had been in two important engagements; in the first as a
powder-monkey, when he had conducted himself with such coolness that he
had been chosen as captain’s messenger in the second; and I suggested
to the President that it was in his power to send to the Naval School,
annually, three boys who had served at least a year in the navy.
“He at once wrote on the back of a letter from the commander of the
_Ottawa_, which I had handed him, to the Secretary of the Navy: ‘If
the appointments for this year have not been made, let this boy be
appointed.’ The appointment had not been made, and I brought it home
with me. It directed the lad to report for examination at the school in
July. Just as he was ready to start, his father, looking over the law,
discovered that he could not report until he was fourteen years of age,
which he would not be until September following. The poor child sat
down and wept. He feared that he was not to go to the Naval School.
He was, however, soon consoled by being told that ‘the President could
make it right.’ It was my fortune to meet him the next morning at the
door of the Executive Chamber with his father.
“Taking by the hand the little fellow,--short for his age, dressed
in the sailor’s blue pants and shirt,--I advanced with him to the
President, who sat in his usual seat, and said: ‘Mr. President, my
young friend, Willie Bladen, finds a difficulty about his appointment.
You have directed him to appear at the school in July; but he is not
yet fourteen years of age.’ But before I got half of this out, Mr.
Lincoln, laying down his spectacles, rose and said: ‘Bless me! is that
the boy who did so gallantly in those two great battles? Why, I feel
that I should bow to him, and not he to me.’
“The little fellow had made his graceful bow. The President took the
papers at once, and as soon as he learned that a postponement till
September would suffice, made the order that the lad should report in
that month. Then putting his hand on Willie’s head, he said: ‘Now, my
boy, go home and have good fun during the two months, for they are
about the last holiday you will get.’ The little fellow bowed himself
out, feeling that the President of the United States, though a very
great man, was one that he would nevertheless like to have a game of
romps with.”
There was not unfrequently a curious mingling of humor and pathos
exhibited in Mr. Lincoln’s exercise of the pardoning power.
Lieutenant-Governor Ford, of Ohio, had an appointment with him one
evening at six o’clock. As he entered the vestibule of the White
House his attention was attracted by a poorly clad young woman who
was violently sobbing. He asked her the cause of her distress. She
said that she had been ordered away by the servants, after vainly
waiting many hours to see the President about her only brother, who
had been condemned to death. Her story was this: She and her brother
were foreigners, and orphans. They had been in this country several
years. Her brother enlisted in the army, but, through bad influences,
was induced to desert. He was captured, tried, and sentenced to be
shot--the old story. The poor girl had obtained the signatures of some
persons who had formerly known him to a petition for a pardon, and,
alone, had come to Washington to lay the case before the President.
Thronged as the waiting-rooms always were, she had passed the long
hours of two days trying in vain to get an audience, and had at length
been ordered away.
Mr. Ford’s sympathies were at once enlisted. He said that he had come
to see the President, but did not know as _he_ should succeed. He told
her, however, to follow him up-stairs, and he would see what could be
done. Just before reaching the door, Mr. Lincoln came out, and meeting
his friend, said good-humoredly, “are you not ahead of time?” Mr.
Ford showed his watch, with the pointers upon the hour of six. “Well,”
replied Mr. Lincoln, “I have been so busy to-day that I have not had
time to get a lunch. Go in and sit down; I will be back directly.”
Mr. Ford made the young woman accompany him into the office, and when
they were seated, said to her: “Now, my good girl, I want you to muster
all the courage you have in the world. When the President comes back
he will sit down in that arm-chair. I shall get up to speak to him,
and as I do so you must force yourself between us, and insist upon
his examination of your papers, telling him it is a case of life and
death, and admits of no delay.” These instructions were carried out
to the letter. Mr. Lincoln was at first somewhat surprised at the
apparent forwardness of the young woman, but observing her distressed
appearance, he ceased conversation with his friend, and commenced an
examination of the document she had placed in his hands. Glancing from
it to the face of the petitioner, whose tears had broken forth afresh,
he studied its expression for a moment, and then his eye fell upon her
scanty but neat dress. Instantly his face lighted up. “My poor girl,”
said he, “you have come here with no governor, or senator, or member of
congress, to plead your cause. You seem honest and truthful; and”--with
much emphasis--“you don’t wear ‘_hoops_’; and I will be whipped but I
will pardon your brother!”
Among the applicants received on another occasion by the President,
was a woman who had also met with considerable difficulty and delay in
getting admission to him. She said that her husband had been arrested
some months before and sent to the “Old Capitol” prison; that he had
not been “tried,” and could not learn as he was likely to be; and she
appealed to the President as a husband and father to interfere and
order an immediate trial. Mr. Lincoln said he was sorry this could
not be done,--adding that such cases were much like the different
sacks of grain at a country grist-mill, all “waiting their turn to be
ground,” and that it would be unfair for the “_miller_” to show any
“partiality.” The woman left, but the next day appeared again before
him. Recognizing her, Mr. Lincoln asked if anything “new” had happened.
“No,” replied the woman; “but I have been thinking, sir, about what you
said concerning the ‘grists,’ and I am afraid _mine_ will get ‘mouldy’
and ‘spoil’ before its turn comes around, so I have come to ask, Mr.
President, that it may be taken to some other ‘mill’ to be ground.”
Mr. Lincoln was so much amused at the wit and shrewdness of the
request, that he instantly gave the woman an unconditional discharge
for her husband.
LXXIV.
“Good morning, Abe!” was the greeting addressed to the President, as
we sat together in his office one morning,--he absorbed at his desk,
and I with my pencil. I looked up in astonishment at the unaccustomed
familiarity.
“Why, Dennis,” returned Mr. Lincoln, “is this you?”
“Yes, Abe,” was the rejoinder; “I made up my mind I must come down and
see you once while you were President, anyhow. So here I am, all the
way from Sangamon.”
Sitting down, side by side, it would have been difficult for one
unfamiliar with democratic institutions to tell, by the appearance or
conversation, which was the President and which the back-countryman,
save that from time to time I overheard the man addressed as “Dennis”
refer to family trials and hardships, and intimate that one object
of his journey so far, was to see if his old friend “could not do
something for one of his boys?”
The response to this was: “Now, Dennis, sit down and write out what you
want, so that I can have it before me, and I will see what can be done.”
I have always supposed that this was “Dennis Hanks,” the early
companion and friend of Mr. Lincoln; but my attention at the time
being diverted, the matter passed out of my mind, and I neglected
subsequently to inquire.
About this period--it may have been the following evening--the house
was thrown into an uproar by a performance of little “Tad’s.” I was
sitting in Mr. Nicolay’s room, about ten o’clock when Robert Lincoln
came in with a flushed face. “Well,” said he, “I have just had a great
row with the President of the United States!”
“What?” said I.
“Yes,” he replied, “and very good cause there is for it, too. Do you
know,” he continued, “‘Tad’ went over to the War Department to-day, and
Stanton, for the fun of the thing,--putting him a peg above the ‘little
corporal’ of the French Government,--commissioned him ‘lieutenant.’
On the strength of this, what does ‘Tad’ do but go off and order a
quantity of muskets sent to the house! To-night he had the audacity
to discharge the guard, and he then mustered all the gardeners and
servants, gave them the guns, drilled them, and put them on duty in
their place. I found it out an hour ago,” continued Robert, “and
thinking it a great shame, as the men had been hard at work all day, I
went to father with it; but instead of punishing ‘Tad,’ as I think he
ought, he evidently looks upon it as a good joke, and won’t do anything
about it!”
“Tad,” however, presently went to bed, and then the men were quietly
discharged. And so it happened that the presidential mansion was
unguarded one night, at least, during the war!
The second week in July the whole country, and Washington in
particular, was thrown into a fever of anxiety by the rebel raid upon
that city under Early and Breckinridge. The night of Sunday, the 10th,
I have always believed the city might have been captured had the
enemy followed up his advantage. The defences were weak, and there
were comparatively but few troops in the city or vicinity. All day
Monday the excitement was at the highest pitch. At the White House the
cannonading at Fort Stevens was distinctly heard throughout the day.
During Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, the President visited the forts and
outworks, part of the time accompanied by Mrs. Lincoln. While at Fort
Stevens on Monday, both were imprudently exposed,--rifle-balls coming,
in several instances, alarmingly near!
The almost defenceless condition of the city was the occasion of
much censure. Some blamed General Halleck; others General Augur, the
commander of the Department; others the Secretary of War; and still
others the President.
Subsequently the rebel force returned to Richmond almost unharmed. I
saw no one who appeared to take this more to heart than Mrs. Lincoln,
who was inclined to lay the responsibility at the door of the Secretary
of War.
Two or three weeks later, when tranquillity was perfectly restored,
it was said that Stanton called upon the President and Mrs. Lincoln
one evening at the “Soldiers’ Home.” In the course of conversation
the Secretary said, playfully, “Mrs. Lincoln, I intend to have a
full-length portrait of you painted, standing on the ramparts at Fort
Stevens overlooking the fight!”
“That is very well,” returned Mrs. Lincoln, very promptly; “and I can
assure you of one thing, Mr. Secretary, if I had had a few _ladies_
with me the Rebels would not have been permitted to get away as they
did!”
LXXV.
It was not generally known before the publication of Dr. Holland’s
biography of Mr. Lincoln, that he was once engaged in a “duel,”
although a version of the affair had been published previous to his
biographer’s account of it, which, however, the few who saw it were
disposed to regard as a fabrication.
One evening, at the rooms of the Hon. I. N. Arnold, of Illinois, I met
Dr. Henry, of Oregon, an early and intimate friend of Mr. Lincoln’s.
Mr. Arnold asked me in the course of conversation if I had ever heard
of the President’s “duel” with General Shields? I replied that I might
have seen a statement of the kind, but did not suppose it to be true.
“Well,” said Mr. Arnold, “we were all young folks together at the time
in Springfield. In some way a difficulty occurred between Shields and
Lincoln, resulting in a challenge from Shields, which was at length
accepted, Mr. Lincoln naming ‘_broadswords_’ for weapons, and the two
opposite banks of the Mississippi, where the river was about a _mile_
wide, for the ‘_ground_.’”
Dr. Henry, who had listened quietly to this, here broke in, “That will
do for a ‘story,’ Arnold,” said he, “but it will hardly pass with
me, for I happened to be Lincoln’s ‘_second_’ on the occasion. The
facts are these. You will bear me witness that there was never a more
spirited circle of young folks in one town than lived in Springfield
at that period. Shields, you remember, was a great ‘beau.’ For a bit
of amusement one of the young ladies wrote some verses, taking him
off sarcastically, which were abstracted from her writing-desk by a
mischievous friend, and published in the local newspaper. Shields,
greatly irritated, posted at once to the printing-office and demanded
the name of the author. Much frightened, the editor requested a day
or two to consider the matter, and upon getting rid of Shields went
directly to Mr. Lincoln with his trouble.
“‘Tell Shields,’ was the chivalric rejoinder, ‘that I hold myself
responsible for the verses.’ The next day Mr. Lincoln left for a
distant section to attend court. Shields, boiling over with wrath,
followed and ‘challenged’ him. Scarcely knowing what he did, Mr.
Lincoln accepted the challenge, seeing no alternative. The choice of
weapons being left to him, he named ‘broadswords,’ intending to act
only on the defensive, and thinking his long arms would enable him to
keep clear of his antagonist.
“I was then a young surgeon,” continued Dr. Henry, “and Mr. Lincoln
desired me accompany him to the point chosen for the contest,--‘Bloody
Island,’ in the Mississippi, near St. Louis,--as his ‘second.’ To this
I at length consented, hoping to prevent bloodshed. On our way to the
ground we met Colonel Hardin, a friend of both parties, and a cousin of
the lady who was the real offender. Suspecting something wrong, Hardin
subsequently followed us, coming in upon the party just as Lincoln was
clearing up the underbrush which covered the ground. Entering heartily
upon an attempt at pacification, he at length succeeded in mollifying
Shields, and the whole party returned harmoniously to Springfield, and
thus the matter ended.”
This version of the affair coming from an eye-witness is undoubtedly
in all respects correct. It subsequently came in my way to know that
Mr. Lincoln himself regarded the circumstance with much regret and
mortification, and hoped it might be forgotten. In February preceding
his death a distinguished officer of the army called at the White
House, and was entertained by the President and Mrs. Lincoln for an
hour in the parlor. During the conversation the gentleman said, turning
to Mrs. Lincoln, “Is it true, Mr. President, as I have heard, that you
once went out to fight a ‘duel’ for the sake of the lady by your side?”
“I do not deny it,” replied Mr. Lincoln, with a flushed face; “but if
you desire my friendship you will never mention the circumstance again!”
LXXVI.
In August following the rebel raid, Judge J. T. Mills, of Wisconsin,
in company with ex-Governor Randall, of that State, called upon the
President at the “Soldiers’ Home.”
Judge Mills subsequently published the following account of the
interview, in the “Grant County (Wisconsin) Herald”:--
* * * * *
“The Governor addressed him: ‘Mr. President, this is my friend and
your friend Mills, from Wisconsin.’
“‘I am glad to see my friends from Wisconsin; they are the hearty
friends of the Union.’
“‘I could not leave the city, Mr. President, without hearing words
of cheer from your own lips. Upon you, as the representative of
the loyal people, depend, as we believe, the existence of our
government and the future of America.’
“‘Mr. President,’ said Governor Randall, ‘why can’t you seek
seclusion, and play hermit for a fort-night? it would reinvigorate
you.’
“‘Aye,’ said the President, ‘two or three weeks would do me good,
but I cannot fly from my thoughts; my solicitude for this great
country follows me wherever I go. I don’t think it is personal
vanity or ambition, though I am not free from these infirmities,
but I cannot but feel that the weal or woe of this great nation
will be decided in November. There is no programme offered by any
wing of the Democratic party but that must result in the permanent
destruction of the Union.’
“‘But Mr. President, General McClellan is in favor of crushing out
the rebellion by force. He will be the Chicago candidate.’
“‘Sir,’ said the President, ‘the slightest knowledge of arithmetic
will prove to any man that the rebel armies cannot be destroyed by
democratic strategy. It would sacrifice all the white men of the
North to do it. There are now in the service of the United States
near two hundred thousand able-bodied colored men, most of them
under arms, defending and acquiring Union territory. The democratic
strategy demands that these forces should be disbanded, and that
the masters be conciliated by restoring them to slavery. The black
men who now assist Union prisoners to escape are to be converted
into our enemies, in the vain hope of gaining the good-will of
their masters. We shall have to fight two nations instead of one.
“‘You cannot conciliate the South if you guarantee to them ultimate
success; and the experience of the present war proves their success
is inevitable if you fling the compulsory labor of millions of
black men into their side of the scale. Will you give our enemies
such military advantages as insure success, and then depend on
coaxing, flattery, and concession, to get them back into the Union?
Abandon all the posts now garrisoned by black men; take two hundred
thousand men from our side and put them in the battle-field or
cornfield against us, and we would be compelled to abandon the war
in three weeks.
“‘We have to hold territory in inclement and sickly places; where
are the Democrats to do this? It was a free fight, and the field
was open to the War Democrats to put down this rebellion by
fighting against both master and slave long before the present
policy was inaugurated.
“‘There have been men base enough to propose to me to return to
slavery the black warriors of Port Hudson and Olustee, and thus win
the respect of the masters they fought. Should I do so, I should
deserve to be damned in time and eternity. Come what will, I will
keep my faith with friend and foe. My enemies pretend I am now
carrying on this war for the sole purpose of Abolition. So long
as I am President, it shall be carried on for the sole purpose of
restoring the Union. But no human power can subdue this rebellion
without the use of the emancipation policy, and every other policy
calculated to weaken the moral and physical forces of the rebellion.
“‘Freedom has given us two hundred thousand men raised on Southern
soil. It will give us more yet. Just so much it has subtracted
from the enemy, and instead of alienating the South, there are now
evidences of a fraternal feeling growing up between our men and
the rank and file of the rebel soldiers. Let my enemies prove to
the country that the destruction of slavery is not necessary to a
restoration of the Union. I will abide the issue.’
“I saw that the President was a man of deep convictions, of abiding
faith in justice, truth, and Providence. His voice was pleasant,
his manner earnest and emphatic. As he warmed with his theme,
his mind grew to the magnitude of his body. I felt I was in the
presence of the great guiding intellect of the age, and that those
‘huge Atlantean shoulders were fit to bear the weight of mightiest
monarchies.’ His transparent honesty, republican simplicity, his
gushing sympathy for those who offered their lives for their
country, his utter forgetfulness of self in his concern for its
welfare, could not but inspire me with confidence that he was
Heaven’s instrument to conduct his people through this sea of blood
to a Canaan of peace and freedom.”
LXXVII.
No reminiscence of the late President has been given to the public more
thoroughly valuable and characteristic than a sketch which appeared in
the New York “Independent” of September 1st, 1864, from the pen of the
Rev. J. P. Gulliver, of Norwich, Connecticut:--
“It was just after his controversy with Douglas, and some months before
the meeting of the Chicago Convention of 1860, that Mr. Lincoln came
to Norwich to make a political speech. It was in substance the famous
speech delivered in New York, commencing with the noble words: ‘There
is but one political question before the people of this country, which
is this, _Is slavery right, or is it wrong?_’ and ending with the yet
nobler words: ‘Gentlemen, it has been said of the world’s history
hitherto that “might makes right;” it is for us and for our times to
reverse the maxim, and to show that _right makes might_!’
“The next morning I met him at the railroad station, where he was
conversing with our Mayor, every few minutes looking up the track and
inquiring, half impatiently and half quizzically, ‘Where’s that ‘wagon’
of yours? Why don’t the ‘wagon’ come along?’ On being introduced to
him, he fixed his eyes upon me, and said: ‘I have seen you before,
sir!’ ‘I think not,’ I replied; ‘you must mistake me for some other
person.’ ‘No, I don’t; I saw you at the Town Hall, last evening.’ ‘Is
it possible, Mr. Lincoln, that you could observe individuals so closely
in such a crowd?’ ‘Oh, yes!’ he replied, laughing; ‘that is my way. I
don’t forget faces. Were you not there?’ ‘I was, sir, and I was well
paid for going;’ adding, somewhat in the vein of pleasantry he had
started, ‘I consider it one of the most extraordinary speeches I ever
heard.’
“As we entered the cars, he beckoned me to take a seat with him, and
said, in a most agreeably frank way, ‘Were you sincere in what you said
about my speech just now?’ ‘I meant every word of it, Mr. Lincoln.
Why, an old dyed-in-the-wool Democrat, who sat near me, applauded you
repeatedly; and, when rallied upon his conversion to sound principles,
answered, “I don’t believe a word he says, but I can’t help clapping
him, he is so _pat_!” That I call the triumph of oratory,--
“When you convince a man against his will,
Though he is of the same opinion still.”
Indeed, sir, I learned more of the art of public speaking last evening
than I could from a whole course of lectures on Rhetoric.’
“‘Ah! that reminds me,’ said he, ‘of a most extraordinary circumstance
which occurred in New Haven the other day. They told me that the
Professor of Rhetoric in Yale College,--a very learned man, isn’t he?’
“‘Yes, sir, and a fine critic too.’
“‘Well, I suppose so; he ought to be, at any rate,--they told me that
he came to hear me, and took notes of my speech, and gave a lecture on
it to his class the next day; and, not satisfied with that, he followed
me up to Meriden the next evening, and heard me again for the same
purpose. Now, if this is so, it is to my mind very extraordinary. I
have been sufficiently astonished at my success in the West. It has
been most unexpected. But I had no thought of any marked success at the
East, and least of all that I should draw out such commendations from
literary and learned men. Now,’ he continued, ‘I should like very much
to know what it was in my speech you thought so remarkable, and what
you suppose interested my friend, the Professor, so much.’
“‘The clearness of your statements, Mr. Lincoln; the unanswerable
style of your reasoning, and especially your illustrations, which
were romance and pathos, and fun and logic all welded together. That
story about the snakes, for example, which set the hands and feet of
your Democratic hearers in such vigorous motion, was at once queer
and comical, and tragic and argumentative. It broke through all the
barriers of a man’s previous opinions and prejudices at a crash, and
blew up the very citadel of his false theories before he could know
what had hurt him.’
“‘Can you remember any other illustrations,’ said he, ‘of this
peculiarity of my style?’
“I gave him others of the same sort, occupying some half-hour in the
critique, when he said: ‘I am much obliged to you for this. I have been
wishing for a long time to find some one who would make this analysis
for me. It throws light on a subject which has been dark to me. I can
understand very readily how such a power as you have ascribed to me
will account for the effect which seems to be produced by my speeches.
I hope you have not been too flattering in your estimate. Certainly, I
have had a most wonderful success, for a man of my limited education.’
“‘That suggests, Mr. Lincoln, an inquiry which has several times been
upon my lips during this conversation. I want very much to know how you
got this unusual power of “putting things.” It must have been a matter
of education. No man has it by nature alone. What has your education
been?’
“‘Well, as to education, the newspapers are correct; I never went to
school more than six months in my life. But, as you say, this must be a
product of culture in some form. I have been putting the question you
ask me to myself, while you have been talking. I can say this, that
among my earliest recollections I remember how, when a mere child, I
used to get irritated when any body talked to me in a way I could not
understand. I don’t think I ever got angry at anything else in my life.
But that always disturbed my temper, and has ever since. I can remember
going to my little bedroom, after hearing the neighbors talk of an
evening with my father, and spending no small part of the night walking
up and down, and trying to make out what was the exact meaning of some
of their, to me, dark sayings. I could not sleep, though I often tried
to, when I got on such a hunt after an idea, until I had caught it; and
when I thought I had got it, I was not satisfied until I had repeated
it over and over, until I had put it in language plain enough, as I
thought, for any boy I knew to comprehend. This was a kind of passion
with me, and it has stuck by me; for I am never easy now, when I am
handling a thought, till I have bounded it North, and bounded it South,
and bounded it East, and bounded it West. Perhaps that accounts for the
characteristic you observe in my speeches, though I never put the two
things together before.’
“‘Mr. Lincoln, I thank you for this. It is the most splendid
educational fact I ever happened upon. This is _genius_, with all
its impulsive, inspiring, dominating power over the mind of its
possessor, developed by education into _talent_, with its uniformity,
its permanence, and its disciplined strength,--always ready, always
available, never capricious,--the highest possession of the human
intellect. But, let me ask, did you prepare for your profession?’
“‘Oh, yes! I “read law,” as the phrase is, that is, I became a lawyer’s
clerk in Springfield, and copied tedious documents, and picked up
what I could of law in the intervals of other work. But your question
reminds me of a bit of education I had, which I am bound in honesty to
mention. In the course of my law-reading, I constantly came upon the
word _demonstrate_. I thought at first that I understood its meaning,
but soon became satisfied that I did not. I said to myself, “What do
I mean when I _demonstrate_ more than when I _reason_ or _prove_?
How does _demonstration_ differ from any other proof?” I consulted
Webster’s Dictionary. That told of “certain proof,” “proof beyond the
possibility of doubt;” but I could form no idea what sort of proof that
was. I thought a great many things were proved beyond a possibility of
doubt, without recourse to any such extraordinary process of reasoning
as I understood “demonstration” to be. I consulted all the dictionaries
and books of reference I could find, but with no better results. You
might as well have defined _blue_ to a blind man. At last I said,
“Lincoln, you can never make a lawyer if you do not understand what
_demonstrate_ means;” and I left my situation in Springfield, went
home to my father’s house, and stayed there till I could give any
proposition in the six books of Euclid at sight. I then found out what
“demonstrate” means, and went back to my law-studies.’
“I could not refrain from saying, in my admiration at such a
development of character and genius combined: ‘Mr. Lincoln, your
success is no longer a marvel. It is the legitimate result of adequate
causes. You deserve it all, and a great deal more. If you will permit
me, I would like to use this fact publicly. It will be most valuable
in inciting our young men to that patient classical and mathematical
culture which most minds absolutely require. No man can talk well
unless he is able first of all to define to himself what he is
talking about. Euclid, well studied, would free the world of half its
calamities, by banishing half the nonsense which now deludes and curses
it. I have often thought that Euclid would be one of the best books
to put on the catalogue of the Tract Society, if they could only get
people to read it. It would be a means of grace.’
“‘I think so,’ said he, laughing; ‘I vote for Euclid.’
“Just then a gentleman entered the car who was well known as a very
ardent friend of Douglas. Being a little curious to see how Mr. Lincoln
would meet him, I introduced him after this fashion:--‘Mr. Lincoln,
allow me to introduce Mr. L----, a very particular friend of your
particular friend, Mr. Douglas.’ He at once took his hand in a most
cordial manner, saying: ‘I have no doubt you think you are right,
sir.’ This hearty tribute to the honesty of a political opponent,
with the manner of doing it, struck me as a beautiful exhibition of a
large-hearted charity, of which we see far too little in this debating,
fermenting world.
“As we neared the end of our journey, Mr. Lincoln turned to me very
pleasantly, and said: ‘I want to thank you for this conversation. I
have enjoyed it very much.’ I replied, referring to some stalwart
denunciations he had just been uttering of the demoralizing influences
of Washington upon Northern politicians in respect to the slavery
question, ‘Mr. Lincoln, may I say one thing to you before we separate?’
“‘Certainly, anything you please.’
“‘You have just spoken of the tendency of political life in Washington
to debase the moral convictions of our representatives there by the
admixture of considerations of mere political expediency. You have
become, by the controversy with Mr. Douglas, one of our leaders in this
great struggle with slavery, which is undoubtedly _the_ struggle of the
nation and the age. What I would like to say is this, and I say it with
a full heart, _Be true to your principles and we will be true to you,
and God will be true to us all!_’ His homely face lighted up instantly
with a beaming expression, and taking my hand warmly in both of his, he
said: ‘I say _Amen_ to that--AMEN to that!’
“There is a deep excavation in the rock shown to visitors, among
the White Mountains, into which one of the purest of the mountain
streams pours itself, known as ‘The Pool.’ As you stand by its side
at an ordinary time you look down upon a mass of impenetrable green,
lying like a rich emerald in a setting of granite upon the bosom of
the mountain. But occasionally the noon-day sun darts through it a
vertical ray which penetrates to its very bottom, and shows every
configuration of the varied interior. I felt at that moment that a ray
had darted down to the bottom of Abraham Lincoln’s heart, and that I
could see the whole. It seemed to me as beautiful as that emerald pool,
and as pure. I have never forgotten that glimpse. When the strange
revocation came of the most rational and reasonable proclamation of
Fremont,--‘The slaves of Rebels shall be set free,’--I remembered that
hearty ‘_Amen_,’ and stifled my rising apprehensions. I remembered it
in those dark days when McClellan, Nero-like, was fiddling on James
River, and Pope was being routed before Washington, and the report came
that a prominent Cabinet Minister had boasted that he had succeeded in
preventing the issue of the Emancipation Proclamation; I said: ‘Abraham
Lincoln will prove true yet.’ _And he has!_ God bless him! _he has_.
Slow, if you please, but _true_. Unimpassioned, if you please, but
_true_. Jocose, trifling, if you please, but _true_. Reluctant to part
with unworthy official advisers, but _true_ himself--_true as steel_!
I could wish him less a man of facts, and more a man of ideas. I could
wish him more stern and more vigorous: but every man has his faults,
and still I say: _Amen to Abraham Lincoln!_”[22]
LXXVIII.
The Hon. Orlando Kellogg, of New York, was sitting in his room at his
boarding-house one evening, when one of his constituents appeared,--a
white-headed old man,--who had come to Washington in great trouble,
to seek the aid of his representative in behalf of his son. His story
was this: “The young man had formerly been very dissipated. During an
absence from home a year or two previous to the war, he enlisted in the
regular army, and, after serving six months, deserted. Returning to
his father, who knew nothing of this, he reformed his habits, and when
the war broke out, entered heart and soul into the object of raising a
regiment in his native county, and was subsequently elected one of its
officers. He had proved an efficient officer, distinguishing himself
particularly on one occasion, in a charge across a bridge, when he
was severely wounded,--his colonel being killed by his side. Shortly
after this, he came in contact with one of his old companions in the
‘regular’ service, who recognized him, and declared his purpose of
informing against him. Overwhelmed with mortification, the young man
procured a furlough and returned home, revealing the matter to his
father, and declaring his purpose never to submit to an arrest,--‘he
would die first.’” In broken tones the old man finished his statement,
saying: “Can you do anything for us, Judge?--it is a hard, hard
case!” “I will see about that,” replied the representative, putting
on his hat; “wait here until I return.” He went immediately to the
White House, and fortunately finding Mr. Lincoln alone, they sat down
together, and he repeated the old man’s story. The President made
no demonstration of particular interest until the Judge reached the
description of the charge across the bridge, and the wound received.
“Do you say,” he interrupted, “that the young man was wounded?” “Yes,”
replied the congressman, “badly.” “Then he has shed his blood for his
country,” responded Mr. Lincoln, musingly. “Kellogg,” he continued,
brightening up, “isn’t there something in Scripture about the ‘shedding
of blood’ being ‘the remission of sins?’” “Guess you are about right
there,” replied the Judge. “It is a good ‘point,’ and there is no going
behind it,” rejoined the President; and taking up his pen, another
“pardon”--this time without “oath,” condition, or reserve--was added to
the records of the War Office.
“Among a large number of persons waiting in the room to speak with
Mr. Lincoln, on a certain day in November, ’64, was a small, pale,
delicate-looking boy about thirteen years old. The President saw him
standing, looking feeble and faint, and said: ‘Come here, my boy, and
tell me what you want.’ The boy advanced, placed his hand on the arm
of the President’s chair, and with bowed head and timid accents said:
‘Mr. President, I have been a drummer in a regiment for two years,
and my colonel got angry with me and turned me off. I was taken sick,
and have been a long time in hospital. This is the first time I have
been out, and I came to see if you could not do something for me.’ The
President looked at him kindly and tenderly, and asked him where he
lived. ‘I have no home,’ answered the boy. ‘Where is your father?’ ‘He
died in the army,’ was the reply. ‘Where is your mother?’ continued the
President. ‘My mother is dead also. I have no mother, no father, no
brothers, no sisters, and,’ bursting into tears, ‘no friends--nobody
cares for me.’ Mr. Lincoln’s eyes filled with tears, and he said to
him, ‘Can’t you sell newspapers?’ ‘No,’ said the boy, ‘I am too weak;
and the surgeon of the hospital told me I must leave, and I have no
money, and no place to go to.’ The scene was wonderfully affecting. The
President drew forth a card, and addressing on it certain officials to
whom his request was law, gave special directions ‘to care for this
poor boy.’ The wan face of the little drummer lit up with a happy smile
as he received the paper, and he went away convinced that he had one
good and true friend, at least, in the person of the President.”[23]
No incident of this character related of the late President, is more
profoundly touching in its tenderness and simplicity than that given
to me the last evening I passed at the White House, in the office of
the private secretary, by a resident of Washington,[24] who witnessed
the scene.
“I was waiting my turn to speak to the President one day, some three or
four weeks since,” said Mr. M----, “when my attention was attracted by
the sad patient face of a woman advanced in life, who in a faded hood
and shawl was among the applicants for an interview.
“Presently Mr. Lincoln turned to her, saying in his accustomed manner,
‘Well, my good woman, what can I do for you this morning?’ ‘Mr.
President,’ said she, ‘my husband and three sons all went into the
army. My husband was killed in the fight at ----. I get along very
badly since then, living all alone, and I thought I would come and ask
you to release to me my oldest son.’ Mr. Lincoln looked into her face
a moment, and in his kindest accents responded, ‘Certainly! certainly!
If you have given us _all_, and your prop has been taken away, you
are justly entitled to one of your boys!’ He immediately made out an
order discharging the young man, which the woman took, and thanking him
gratefully, went away.
“I had forgotten the circumstance,” continued M----, “till last week,
when happening to be here again, who should come in but the same
woman. It appeared that she had gone herself to the front, with the
President’s order, and found the son she was in search of had been
mortally wounded in a recent engagement, and taken to a hospital. She
found the hospital, but the boy was dead, or died while she was there.
The surgeon in charge made a memorandum of the facts upon the back of
the President’s order, and almost broken-hearted, the poor woman had
found her way again into Mr. Lincoln’s presence. He was much affected
by her appearance and story, and said: ‘I know what you wish me to do
now, and I shall do it without your asking; I shall release to you
your second son.’ Upon this, he took up his pen and commenced writing
the order. While he was writing the poor woman stood by his side, the
tears running down her face, and passed her hand softly over his head,
stroking his rough hair, as I have seen a fond mother caress a son. By
the time he had finished writing, his own heart and eyes were full. He
handed her the paper: ‘Now,’ said he, ‘_you_ have one and _I_ one of
the other two left: that is no more than right.’ She took the paper,
and reverently placing her hand again upon his head, the tears still
upon her cheeks, said: ‘The Lord bless you, Mr. Lincoln. May you live a
thousand years, and may you always be the head of this great nation!’”
LXXIX.
The Hon. W. H. Herndon, of Springfield, Illinois, for more than twenty
years the law-partner of Mr. Lincoln, delivered an address in that
city, December 12th, 1865, upon the life and character of the lamented
President, which, for masterly analysis, has scarcely an equal in
the annals of biographical literature. Quaint and original in style
and construction, this description--an imperfect abstract of which I
subjoin--is in singular harmony with the character it depicts. To those
who knew Mr. Lincoln personally, so thorough a dissection of his nature
and traits will need no indorsement; while to the multitude who knew
him not, it may be commended as probably more complete and exhaustive
in its treatment of the subject, than anything which has been given to
the world.
“Abraham Lincoln was born in Hardin County, Kentucky, February 12th,
1809. He moved to Indiana in 1816; came to Illinois in March, 1830; to
old Sangamon County in 1831, settling in New Salem, and from this last
place to this city in April, 1837: coming as a rude, uncultivated boy,
without polish or education, and having no friends. He was about six
feet four inches high, and when he left this city was fifty-one years
old, having good health and no gray hairs, or but few on his head. He
was thin, wiry, sinewy, raw-boned; thin through the breast to the back,
and narrow across the shoulders; standing, he leaned forward--was
what may be called stoop-shouldered, inclining to the consumptive
by build. His usual weight was one hundred and sixty pounds. His
organization--rather his structure and functions--worked slowly. His
blood had to run a long distance from his heart to the extremities of
his frame, and his nerve-force had to travel through dry ground a long
distance before his muscles were obedient to his will. His structure
was loose and leathery; his body was shrunk and shrivelled, having dark
skin, dark hair,--looking woe-struck. The whole man, body and mind,
worked slowly, creakingly, as if it needed oiling. Physically, he was
a very powerful man, lifting with ease four hundred or six hundred
pounds. His mind was like his body, and worked slowly but strongly.
When he walked, he moved cautiously but firmly, his long arms and
hands on them, hanging like giant’s hands, swung down by his side. He
walked with even tread, the inner sides of his feet being parallel.
He put the whole foot flat down on the ground at once, not landing on
the heel; he likewise lifted his foot all at once, not rising from the
toe, and hence he had no spring to his walk. He had economy of fall and
lift of foot, though he had no spring or apparent ease of motion in
his tread. He walked undulatory, up and down, catching and pocketing
tire, weariness, and pain, all up and down his person, preventing them
from locating. The first opinion of a stranger, or a man who did not
observe closely, was that his walk implied shrewdness, cunning,--a
tricky man; but his was the walk of caution and firmness. In sitting
down on a common chair he was no taller than ordinary men. His legs and
arms were, abnormally, unnaturally long, and in undue proportion to the
balance of his body. It was only when he stood up that he loomed above
other men.
“Mr. Lincoln’s head was long and tall from the base of the brain and
from the eyebrows. His head ran backwards, his forehead rising as it
ran back at a low angle, like Clay’s, and, unlike Webster’s, almost
perpendicular. The size of his hat, measured at the hatter’s block,
was 7⅛, his head being, from ear to ear, 6½ inches, and from the front
to the back of the brain 8 inches. Thus measured, it was not below
the medium size. His forehead was narrow but high; his hair was dark,
almost black, and lay floating where his fingers or the winds left it,
piled up at random. His cheek-bones were high, sharp, and prominent;
his eyebrows heavy and prominent; his jaws were long, upcurved, and
heavy; his nose was large, long, and blunt, a little awry towards the
right eye; his chin was long, sharp, and upcurved; his eyebrows cropped
out like a huge rock on the brow of a hill; his face was long, sallow,
and cadaverous, shrunk, shrivelled, wrinkled, and dry, having here and
there a hair on the surface; his cheeks were leathery; his ears were
large, and ran out almost at right angles from his head, caused partly
by heavy hats and partly by nature; his lower lip was thick, hanging,
and undercurved, while his chin reached for the lip upcurved; his neck
was neat and trim, his head being well balanced on it; there was the
lone mole on the right cheek, and Adam’s apple on his throat.
“Thus stood, walked, acted, and looked Abraham Lincoln. He was not a
pretty man by any means, nor was he an ugly one; he was a homely man,
careless of his looks, plain-looking and plain-acting. He had no pomp,
display, or dignity, so-called. He appeared simple in his carriage and
bearing. He was a sad-looking man; his melancholy dripped from him
as he walked. His apparent gloom impressed his friends, and created
a sympathy for him,--one means of his great success. He was gloomy,
abstracted, and joyous,--rather humorous,--by turns. I do not think he
knew what real joy was for many years.
“Mr. Lincoln sometimes walked our streets cheerily,--good-humoredly,
perhaps joyously,--and then it was, on meeting a friend, he cried ‘How
d’ y?’ clasping one of his friend’s hands in both of his, giving a good
hearty soul-welcome. Of a winter’s morning, he might be seen stalking
and stilting it towards the market-house, basket on arm, his old gray
shawl wrapped around his neck, his little Willie or Tad running along
at his heels, asking a thousand little quick questions, which his
father heard not, not even then knowing that little Willie or Tad
was there, so abstracted was he. When he thus met a friend, he said
that something put him in mind of a story which he heard in Indiana or
elsewhere, and tell it he would, and there was no alternative but to
listen.
“Thus, I say, stood and walked and looked this singular man. He was
odd, but when that gray eye and face and every feature were lit
up by the inward soul in fires of emotion, _then_ it was that all
these apparently ugly features sprang into organs of beauty, or sunk
themselves into a sea of inspiration that sometimes flooded his face.
Sometimes it appeared to me that Lincoln’s soul was just fresh from the
presence of its Creator.
* * * * *
“I have asked the friends and foes of Mr. Lincoln alike, what they
thought of his perceptions. One gentleman of undoubted ability and free
from all partiality or prejudice, said, ‘Mr. Lincoln’s perceptions are
slow, a little perverted, if not somewhat distorted and diseased.’ If
the meaning of this is that Mr. Lincoln saw things from a peculiar
angle of his being, and from this was susceptible to Nature’s impulses,
and that he so expressed himself, then I have no objection to what is
said. Otherwise, I dissent. Mr. Lincoln’s perceptions were slow, cold,
precise, and exact. Everything came to him in its precise shape and
color. To some men the world of matter and of man comes ornamented with
beauty, life, and action, and hence more or less false and inexact.
No lurking illusion or other error, false in itself, and clad for the
moment in robes of splendor, ever passed undetected or unchallenged
over the threshold of his mind,--that point that divides vision
from the realm and home of thought. Names to him were nothing, and
titles naught,--assumption always standing back abashed at his cold,
intellectual glare. Neither his perceptions nor intellectual vision
were perverted, distorted, or diseased. He saw all things through a
perfect mental lens. There was no diffraction or refraction there. He
was not impulsive, fanciful, or imaginative, but cold, calm, precise,
and exact. He threw his whole mental light around the object, and in
time, substance, and quality stood apart; form and color took their
appropriate places, and all was clear and exact in his mind. His
fault, if any, was that he saw things less than they really were; less
beautiful and more frigid. In his mental view he crushed the unreal,
the inexact, the hollow, and the sham. He saw things in rigidity rather
than in vital action. Here was his fault. He saw what no man could
dispute; but he failed to see what might have been seen. To some minds
the world is all life, a soul beneath the material; but to Mr. Lincoln
no life was individual or universal that did not manifest itself to
him. His mind was his standard. His perceptions were cool, persistent,
pitiless in pursuit of the truth. No error went undetected, and no
falsehood unexposed, if he once was aroused in search of truth. If his
perceptions were perverted, distorted, and diseased, would to Heaven
that more minds were so.
* * * * *
“The true peculiarity of Mr. Lincoln has not been seen by his various
biographers; or, if seen, they have failed wofully to give it that
prominence which it deserves. It is said that Newton saw an apple fall
to the ground from a tree, and beheld the law of the universe in that
fall; Shakspeare saw human nature in the laugh of a man; Professor
Owen saw the animal in its claw; and Spencer saw the evolution of the
universe in the growth of a seed. Nature was suggestive to all these
men. Mr. Lincoln no less saw philosophy in a story, and a schoolmaster
in a joke. No man, no men, saw nature, fact, thing, or man from his
stand-point. His was a new and original position, which was always
suggesting, hinting something to him. Nature, insinuations, hints, and
suggestions were new, fresh, original, and odd to him. The world, fact,
man, principle, all had their powers of suggestion to his susceptible
soul. They continually put him in mind of something. He was odd,
fresh, new, original, and peculiar for this reason, that he was a new,
odd, and original creation and fact. He had keen susceptibilities to
the hints and suggestions of nature, which always put him in mind of
something known or unknown. Hence his power and tenacity of what is
called association of ideas must have been great. His memory was
tenacious and strong. His susceptibility to all suggestions and hints
enabled him at will to call up readily the associated and classified
fact and idea.
“As an evidence of this, especially peculiar to Mr. Lincoln, let me
ask one question. Were Mr. Lincoln’s expression and language odd and
original, standing out peculiar from those of all other men? What does
this imply? Oddity and originality of _vision_ as well as expression;
and what is expression in words and human language, but a telling of
what we see, defining the idea arising from and created by vision
and view in us. Words and language are but the counterparts of the
idea,--the other half of the idea; they are but the stinging, hot,
heavy, leaden bullets that drop from the mould; and what are they in a
rifle with powder stuffed behind them and fire applied, but an embodied
force pursuing their object. So are words an embodied power feeling
for comprehension in other minds. Mr. Lincoln was often perplexed to
give expression to his ideas: first, because he was not master of the
English language; and, secondly, because there were no words in it
containing the coloring, shape, exactness, power, and gravity of his
ideas. He was frequently at a loss for a word, and hence was compelled
to resort to stories, maxims, and jokes to embody his idea, that it
might be comprehended. So true was this peculiar mental vision of his,
that though mankind has been gathering, arranging, and classifying
facts for thousands of years, Lincoln’s peculiar stand-point could give
him no advantage of other men’s labor. Hence he tore up to the deep
foundations all arrangements of facts, and coined and arranged new
plans to govern himself. He was compelled, from his peculiar mental
organization, to do this. His labor was great, continuous, patient, and
all-enduring.
“The truth about this whole matter is that Mr. Lincoln read _less_ and
thought _more_ than any man in his sphere in America. No man can put
his finger on any great book written in the last or present century
that he read. When young he read the Bible, and when of age he read
Shakspeare. This latter book was scarcely ever out of his mind. Mr.
Lincoln is acknowledged to have been a great man, but the question is
what made him great. I repeat, that he read less and thought more than
any man of his standing in America, if not in the world. He possessed
originality and power of thought in an eminent degree. He was cautious,
cool, concentrated, with continuity of reflection; was patient and
enduring. These are some of the grounds of his wonderful success.
“Not only was nature, man, fact, and principle suggestive to Mr.
Lincoln, not only had he accurate and exact perceptions, but he was
causative, _i. e._, his mind ran back behind all facts, things, and
principles to their origin, history, and first cause,--to that point
where forces act at once as effect and cause. He would stop and stand
in the street and analyze a machine. He would whittle things to a
point, and then count the numberless inclined planes, and their pitch,
making the point. Mastering and defining this, he would then cut that
point back, and get a broad transverse section of his pine stick, and
peel and define that. Clocks, omnibuses, and language, paddle-wheels,
and idioms, never escaped his observation and analysis. Before he
could form any idea of anything, before he would express his opinion
on any subject, he must know it in origin and history, in substance
and quality, in magnitude and gravity. He must know his subject inside
and outside, upside and downside. He searched his own mind and nature
thoroughly, as I have often heard him say. He must analyze a sensation,
an idea, and words, and run them back to their origin, history,
purpose, and destiny. He was most emphatically a remorseless analyzer
of facts, things, and principles. When all these processes had been
well and thoroughly gone through, he could form an opinion and express
it, but no sooner. He had no faith. ‘Say so’s’ he had no respect for,
coming though they might from tradition, power, or authority.
“All things, facts, and principles had to run through his crucible and
be tested by the fires of his analytic mind; and hence, when he did
speak his utterances rang out gold-like, quick, keen, and current upon
the counters of the understanding. He reasoned logically, through
analogy and comparison. All opponents dreaded him in his originality
of idea, condensation, definition, and force of expression, and woe be
to the man who hugged to his bosom a secret error if Mr. Lincoln got
on the chase of it. I say, woe to him! Time could hide the error in no
nook or corner of space in which he would not detect and expose it.
* * * * *
“Though Mr. Lincoln had accurate perceptions, though nature was
extremely suggestive to him, though he was a profound thinker as well
as analyzer, still his judgments and opinions formed upon minor matters
were often childish. I have sometimes asked prominent, talented, and
honest men in this and other States for their manly opinion of Mr.
Lincoln’s judgments. I did this to confirm or overthrow my own opinions
on this point. Their answers were that his judgments were poor. But now
what do we understand by the word ‘judgments?’ It is not reason, it is
not will, nor is it understanding; but it is the judging faculty,--that
capacity or power that forms opinions and decides on the fitness,
beauty, harmony, and appropriateness of things under all circumstances
and surroundings, quickly, wisely, accurately. Had Mr. Lincoln this
quality of mind? I think not. His mind was like his body, and worked
slowly.
* * * * *
“One portion of mankind maintained that Mr. Lincoln was weak-minded,
and they look at him only from the stand-point of his judgments.
Another class maintain that he was a great, deep, profound man in his
judgments. Do these two classes understand themselves? Both views
cannot be correct. Mr. Lincoln’s mind was slow, angular, and ponderous,
rather than quick and finely discriminating, and _in time_ his great
powers of reason on cause and effect, on creation and relation, on
substance and on truth, would form a proposition, an opinion wisely and
well,--_that_ no human being can deny. When his mind could not grasp
premises from which to argue he was weaker than a child, because he had
none of the child’s intuitions,--the soul’s quick, bright flash over
scattered and unarranged facts.
“Mr. Lincoln was a peculiar man, having a peculiar mind; he was gifted
with a peculiarity, namely, a new lookout on nature. Everything had
to be newly created for him,--facts newly gathered, newly arranged,
and newly classed. He had no faith, as already expressed. In order to
believe he must see and feel, and thrust his hand into the place. He
must taste, smell, and handle before he had faith, _i. e._, belief.
Such a mind as this must act slowly,--must have its time. His forte and
power lay in his love of digging out for himself and hunting up for his
own mind its own food, to be assimilated unto itself; and then in time
he could and would form opinions and conclusions that no human power
could overthrow. They were as irresistible as iron thunder, as powerful
as logic embodied in mathematics.
“I have watched men closely in reference to their approaches to Mr.
Lincoln. Those who approached him on his judgment side treated him
tenderly--sometimes respectfully, but always as a weak-minded man. This
class of men take the judgment as the standard of the mind. I have
seen another class approach him on his reason-side, and they always
crouched low down and truckled, as much as to say, ‘great,’ ‘grand,’
‘omnipotent.’ Both these classes were correct. One took judgment as
the standard of the man, and the other took reason. Yet both classes
were wrong in this,--they sunk out of view one side of Mr. Lincoln. A
third class knew him well, and always treated him with human respect:
not that awe and reverence with which we regard the Supreme Being; not
that supercilious haughtiness which greatness shows to littleness. Each
will please to examine itself, and then judge of what I say. I have
approached Mr. Lincoln on all sides, and treated him according to the
angle approached.
* * * * *
“An additional question naturally suggests itself here, and it is this:
Had Mr. Lincoln great, good common sense? Different persons, of equal
capacity and honesty, hold different views on this question,--one class
answering in the affirmative, and the other in the negative.
“These various opinions necessarily spring out of the question just
discussed. If the true test is that a man shall quickly, wisely,
and well judge the rapid rush and whirl of human transactions, as
accurately as though indefinite time and proper conditions were at his
disposal, then I am compelled to follow the logic of things, and say
that Mr. Lincoln had no more than ordinary common sense. The world, men
and their actions, must be judged as they rush and pass along. They
will not wait on us; will not stay for our logic and analysis; they
must be seized as they run. We all our life act on the moment. Mr.
Lincoln knew himself, and never trusted his dollar or his fame on his
casual opinions; he never acted hastily on great matters.
* * * * *
“Mr. Lincoln very well knew that the great leading law of human nature
was _motive_. He reasoned all ideas of a disinterested action from my
mind. I used to hold that an action could be pure, disinterested, and
holy, free from all selfishness, but he divested me of that delusion.
His idea was that all human actions were caused by _motives_, and that
at the bottom of those motives was _self_. He defied me to act without
a motive and unselfishly; and when I did the act and told him of it,
he analyzed and sifted it, and demonstrated beyond the possibility of
controversy that it was altogether selfish. Though he was a profound
analyzer of the laws of human nature, still he had no idea of the
peculiar motives of the particular individual. He could not well
discriminate in human nature. He knew but little of the play of the
features as seen in ‘the human face divine.’ He could not distinguish
between the paleness of anger and the crimson tint of modesty. He could
not determine what each play of the features indicated.
* * * * *
“The great predominating elements of Mr. Lincoln’s peculiar character,
were: First, his great capacity and _power of reason_; secondly, his
excellent _understanding_; thirdly, an exalted idea of the sense of
_right and equity_; and, fourthly, his intense veneration of what was
_true and good_. His reason ruled despotically all other faculties and
qualities of his mind. His conscience and heart were ruled by it. His
conscience was ruled by one faculty--reason. His heart was ruled by
two faculties--reason and conscience. I know it is generally believed
that Mr. Lincoln’s heart, his love and kindness, his tenderness and
benevolence, were his ruling qualities; but this opinion is erroneous
in every particular. First, as to his _reason_. He dwelt in the mind,
not in the conscience, and not in the heart. He lived and breathed and
acted from his reason,--the throne of logic and the home of principle,
the realm of Deity in man. It is from this point that Mr. Lincoln must
be viewed. His views were correct and original. He was cautious not to
be deceived; he was patient and enduring. He had concentration and
great continuity of thought; he had a profound analytic power; his
visions were clear, and he was emphatically the master of statement.
His pursuit of the truth was indefatigable, terrible. He reasoned
from his well-chosen principles with such clearness, force, and
compactness, that the tallest intellects in the land bowed to him with
respect. He was the strongest man I ever saw, looking at him from the
stand-point of his reason,--the throne of his logic. He came down
from that height with an irresistible and crushing force. His printed
speeches will prove this; but his speeches before courts, especially
before the Supreme Courts of the State and Nation, would demonstrate
it: unfortunately none of them have been preserved. Here he demanded
time to think and prepare. The office of reason is to determine the
truth. Truth is the power of reason--the child of reason. He loved and
idolized truth for its own sake. It was reason’s food.
“Conscience, the second great quality and forte of Mr. Lincoln’s
character, is that faculty which loves the just: its office is justice;
right and equity are its correlatives. It decides upon all acts of all
people at all times. Mr. Lincoln had a deep, broad, living conscience.
His great reason told him what was true, good, and bad, right, wrong,
just or unjust, and his conscience echoed back its decision; and it was
from this point that he acted and spoke and wove his character and fame
among us. His conscience ruled his heart; he was always just before he
was gracious. This was his motto, his glory: and this is as it should
be. It cannot be truthfully said of any mortal man that he was always
just. Mr. Lincoln was not always just; but his great general life was.
It follows that if Mr. Lincoln had great reason and great conscience,
he was an honest man. His great and general life was honest, and he
was justly and rightfully entitled to the appellation, ‘Honest Abe.’
Honesty was his great polar star.
“Mr. Lincoln had also a good understanding; that is, the faculty that
understands and comprehends the exact state of things, their near
and remote relation. The understanding does not necessarily inquire
for the reason of things. I must here repeat that Mr. Lincoln was
an odd and original man; he lived by himself and out of himself.
He could not absorb. He was a very sensitive man, unobtrusive and
gentlemanly, and often hid himself in the common mass of men, in order
to prevent the discovery of his individuality. He had no insulting
egotism, and no pompous pride; no haughtiness, and no aristocracy.
He was not indifferent, however, to approbation and public opinion.
He was not an upstart, and had no insolence. He was a meek, quiet,
unobtrusive gentleman. These qualities of his nature merged somewhat
his identities. Read Mr. Lincoln’s speeches, letters, messages, and
proclamations, read his whole record in his actual life, and you
cannot fail to perceive that he had good understanding. He understood
and fully comprehended himself, and what he did and why he did it,
better than most living men.
* * * * *
“There are contradictory opinions in reference to Mr. Lincoln’s _heart
and humanity_. One opinion is that he was cold and obdurate, and the
other opinion is that he was warm and affectionate. I have shown you
that Mr. Lincoln first lived and breathed upon the world from his
head and conscience. I have attempted to show you that he lived and
breathed upon the world through the tender side of his heart, subject
at all times and places to the logic of his reason, and to his exalted
sense of right and equity, namely, his conscience. He always held his
conscience subject to his head; he held his heart always subject to
his head and conscience. His heart was the lowest organ, the weakest
of the three. Some men would reverse this order, and declare that his
heart was his ruling organ; that always manifested itself with love,
regardless of truth and justice, right and equity. The question still
is, was Mr. Lincoln a cold, heartless man, or a warm, affectionate man?
Can a man be a warm-hearted man who is all head and conscience, or
nearly so? What, in the first place, do we mean by a warm-hearted man?
Is it one who goes out of himself and reaches for others spontaneously,
because of a deep love of humanity, apart from equity and truth, and
does what it does for love’s sake? If so, Mr. Lincoln was a cold
man. Or, do we mean that when a human being, man or child, approached
him in behalf of a matter of right, and that the prayer of such an
one was granted, that this is an evidence of his love? The African
was enslaved, his rights were violated, and a principle was violated
in them. Rights imply obligations as well as duties. Mr. Lincoln was
President; he was in a position that made it his duty through his sense
of right, his love of principle, his constitutional obligations imposed
upon him by oath of office, to strike the blow against slavery. But did
he do it for love? He himself has answered the question: ‘I would not
free the slaves if I could preserve the Union without it.’ I use this
argument against his too enthusiastic friends. If you mean that this
is love for love’s sake, then Mr. Lincoln was a warm-hearted man--not
otherwise. To use a general expression, his general life was cold. He
had, however, a strong latent capacity to love; but the object must
first come as principle, second as right, and third as lovely. He loved
abstract humanity when it was oppressed. This was an abstract love, not
concrete in the individual, as said by some. He rarely used the term
love, yet was he tender and gentle. He gave the key-note to his own
character, when he said, ‘with malice toward none, and with charity for
all,’ he did what he did. He had no intense loves, and hence no hates
and no malice. He had a broad charity for imperfect man, and let us
imitate his great life in this.
“‘But was not Mr. Lincoln a man of great humanity?’ asks a friend at my
elbow, a little angrily; to which I reply, ‘Has not that question been
answered already?’ Let us suppose that it has not. We must understand
each other. What do you mean by humanity? Do you mean that he had
much of human nature in him? If so, I will grant that he was a man of
humanity. Do you mean, if the above definition is unsatisfactory, that
Mr. Lincoln was tender and kind? Then I agree with you. But if you mean
to say that he so loved a man that he would sacrifice truth and right
for him, for love’s sake, then he was not a man of humanity. Do you
mean to say that he so loved man, for love’s sake, that his heart led
him out of himself, and compelled him to go in search of the objects of
his love, for their sake? He never, to my knowledge, manifested this
side of his character. Such is the law of human nature, that it cannot
be all head, all conscience, and all heart at one and the same time in
one and the same person. Our Maker made it so, and where God through
reason blazed the path, walk therein boldly. Mr. Lincoln’s glory and
power lay in the just combination of head, conscience, and heart, and
it is here that his fame must rest, or not at all.
“Not only were Mr. Lincoln’s perceptions good; not only was nature
suggestive to him; not only was he original and strong; not only had
he great reason, good understanding; not only did he love the true
and good--the eternal _right_; not only was he tender and kind,--but,
in due proportion and in legitimate subordination, had he a glorious
combination of them all. Through his perceptions,--the suggestiveness
of nature, his originality and strength; through his magnificent
reason, his understanding, his conscience, his tenderness, and
kindness, his heart, rather than love,--he approximated as nearly as
most human beings in this imperfect state to an embodiment of the great
moral principle, ‘Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you.’
* * * * *
“There are two opinions--radically different opinions--expressed
about Mr. Lincoln’s will, by men of equal and much capacity. One
opinion is, that he had _no_ will; and the other is, that he was _all_
will--omnipotently so. These two opinions are loudly and honestly
affirmed. Mr. Lincoln’s mind loved the true, the right, and good, all
the great truths and principles in the mind of man. He loved the true,
first; the right, second; and the good, the least. His mind struggled
for truths and his soul for substances. Neither in his head nor in
his soul did he care for forms, methods, ways,--the _non_-substantial
facts or things. He could not, by his very structure and formation
in mind and body, care anything about them. He did not intensely or
much care for particular individual man,--the dollar, property, rank,
order, manners, or such like things. He had no avarice in his nature,
or other like vice. He despised, somewhat, all technical rules in law
and theology and other sciences,--mere forms everywhere,--because they
were, as a general rule, founded on arbitrary thoughts and ideas, and
not on reason, truth, right, and the good. These things were without
substance, and he disregarded them because they cramped his original
nature. What suited a little, narrow, critical mind did not suit Mr.
Lincoln’s, any more than a child’s clothes did his body. Generally, Mr.
Lincoln could not take any interest in little local elections--town
meetings. He attended no gatherings that pertained to local or other
such interests, saving general political ones. He did not care (because
he could not, in his nature) who succeeded to the presidency of this
or that Christian Association or Railroad Convention; who made the
most money; who was going to Philadelphia, when and for what, and what
were the costs of such a trip. He could not care who, among friends,
got this office or that--who got to be street inspector or alley
commissioner. No principle of goodness, of truth, or right was here.
How could he be moved by such things as these? He could not understand
why men struggled for such things. He made this remark to me one day,
I think at Washington, ‘If ever this free people--if this Government
itself is ever utterly demoralized, it will come from this human
wriggle and struggle for office--a way to live without work; from
which nature I am not free myself.’ It puzzled him a good deal, at
Washington, to know and to get at the root of this dread desire,--this
contagious disease of national robbery in the nation’s death-struggle.
“Because Mr. Lincoln could not feel any interest in such little
things as I have spoken of, nor feel any particular interest in the
success of those who were thus struggling and wriggling, he was called
indifferent--nay, ungrateful--to his friends. Especially is this the
case with men who have aided Mr. Lincoln all their life. Mr. Lincoln
always and everywhere wished his friends well; he loved his friends and
clung to them tenaciously, like iron to iron welded; yet he could not
be actively and energetically aroused to the true sense of his friends’
particularly strong feelings of anxiety for office. From this fact Mr.
Lincoln has been called ungrateful. He was not an ungrateful man by
any means. He may have been a cool man--a passive man in his general
life; yet he was not ungrateful. Ingratitude is too positive a word--it
does not convey the truth. Mr. Lincoln may not have measured his
friendly duties by the applicant’s hot desire; I admit this. He was not
a selfish man,--if by selfishness is meant that Mr. Lincoln would do
any act, even to promote himself to the Presidency, if by that act any
human being was wronged. If it is said that Abraham Lincoln preferred
Abraham Lincoln to any one else, in the pursuit of his ambitions,
and that, because of this, he was a selfish man, then I can see no
objections to such an idea, for this is universal human nature.
“It must be remembered that Mr. Lincoln’s mind acted logically,
cautiously, and slowly. Now, having stated the above facts, the
question of his will and its power is easily solved. Be it remembered
that Mr. Lincoln cared nothing for simple facts, manners, modes,
ways, and such like things. Be it remembered that he _did_ care for
truth, right, for principle, for all that pertains to the good. In
relation to simple facts, unrelated to substance, forms, rules,
methods, ways, manners, he cared nothing; and if he could be aroused,
he would do anything for any body at any time, as well foe as friend.
As a politician he would courteously grant all facts and forms--all
non-essential things--to his opponent. He did so because he did not
care for them; they were rubbish, husks, trash. On the question of
substance, he hung and clung with all his might. On questions of
truth, justice, right, the good, on principle his will was as firm as
steel and as tenacious as iron. It was as firm, solid, real, vital,
and tenacious as an idea on which the world hinges or hangs. Ask Mr.
Lincoln to do a wrong thing, and he would scorn the request; ask him to
do an unjust thing, and he would cry, ‘Begone!’ ask him to sacrifice
his convictions of the truth, and his soul would indignantly exclaim,
‘The world perish first!’
“Such was Mr. Lincoln’s will. On manners and such like things, he was
pliable. On questions of right and substance, he was as firm as a rock.
One of these classes of men look at Mr. Lincoln from the stand-point of
things non-essential, and the other looks at him from the stand-point
of substance, rejecting forms. Hence the difference. Mr. Lincoln was
a man of firm, unyielding will, when, in human transactions, it was
necessary to be so, and _not_ otherwise. At one moment Mr. Lincoln was
as pliable and expansive as gentle air, and at the next moment he was
as biting, firm, tenacious, and unyielding as gravity itself.
“Thus I have traced Mr. Lincoln through his perceptions, his
suggestiveness, his judgments, and his four great predominant
qualities, namely,--his powers of reason, his great understanding, his
conscience, and his heart. I assert that Mr. Lincoln lived in the head.
He loved the truth; he loved the eternal right and the good,--never
yielding the fundamental conceptions of these to any man for any end.
“All the follies and wrong Mr. Lincoln ever fell into, or committed,
sprang or came out of his weak points, namely, his want of quick,
sagacious, intuitive judgment,--his want of quick, sagacious, intuitive
knowledge of the play and meaning of the features of men as written
on the face,--his tenderness and mercy, and, lastly, his utterly
unsuspecting nature. He was deeply and seriously honest himself, and
assumed that others were so organized. He never suspected men. These,
with other defects of his nature, caused all his follies and wrongs, if
he ever had any of either.
“All the wise and good things Mr. Lincoln ever did, sprang or came
out of his great reason, his conscience, his understanding, and his
heart, his love of truth, right, and the good. I am speaking now of
his particular and individual faculties and qualities, _not their
combination_, nor the result of wise or unwise combinations. Each man
and woman must form his or her own estimate of the man in the mind.
Run out these facts, qualities, and faculties, and see what they must
produce. For instance, a tender heart; a wise, strong reason; a good
understanding, an exalted conscience, a love of the good, must, in such
combination, practically applied, produce a man of great humanity.
“Take another illustration in the combination of his faculties
and qualities. Mr. Lincoln’s eloquence lay, 1st, in the strength
of his logical faculty, his supreme power of reasoning, his great
understanding, and his love of principle; 2d, in his clear, exact, and
very accurate vision; 3d, in his cool and masterly statement of his
principles, around which the issues gather; in the statement of those
issues, and the grouping of the facts that are to carry conviction,
aided by his logic, to the minds of men of every grade of intelligence.
He was so clear that he could not be misunderstood nor misrepresented.
He stood square and bolt upright to his convictions, and formed by
them his thoughts and utterances. Mr. Lincoln’s mind was not a wide,
deep, broad, generalizing, and comprehensive mind, nor versatile quick,
bounding here and there, as emergencies demanded it. His mind was deep,
enduring, and strong, running in deep iron grooves, with flanges on its
wheels. His mind was not keen, sharp, and subtile; it was deep, exact,
and strong.
“Whatever of life, vigor, force, and power of eloquence the whole of
the above qualities, or a wise combination will give; whatever there
is in a fair, manly, honest, and impartial administration of justice,
under law, to all men at all times,--through these qualities and
capabilities given, never deviating; whatever there is in a strong
will in the right, governed by tenderness and mercy; whatever there
is in toil and a sublime patience; whatever there is in particular
faculties, or a wise combination of them,--not forgetting his weak
points,--working wisely, sagaciously, and honestly, openly and
fairly;--I say, whatever there is in these, or a combination of them,
that Mr. Lincoln is justly entitled to in all the walks of life. These
limit, bound, and define him as statesman, orator, as an executive of
the nation, as a man of humanity, a good man, and a gentleman. These
limit, bound, and define him every way, in all the ways and walks of
life. He is under his law and his nature, and he never can get out of
it.
“This man, this long, bony, wiry, sad man, floated into our county in
1831, in a frail canoe, down the north fork of the Sangamon River,
friendless, pennyless, powerless, and alone,--begging for work in this
city,--ragged, struggling for the common necessaries of life. This man,
this peculiar man, left us in 1861, the President of the United States,
backed by friends and power, by fame, and all human force; and it is
well to inquire _how_.
“To sum up, let us say, here is a sensitive, diffident, unobtrusive,
natural-made gentleman. His mind was strong and deep, sincere and
honest, patient and enduring; having no vices, and having only
negative defects, with many positive virtues. His is a strong, honest,
sagacious, manly, noble life. He stands in the foremost rank of men
in all ages,--their equal,--one of the best types of this Christian
civilization.”
LXXX.
At the end of six months’ incessant labor, my task at the White House
drew near completion. On the 22d of July, the President and Cabinet,
at the close of the regular session, adjourned in a body to the State
Dining-room, to view the work, at last in a condition to receive
criticism. Sitting in the midst of the group, the President expressed
his “unschooled” opinion, as he called it, of the result, in terms
which could not but have afforded the deepest gratification to any
artist.
The curiosity of the public to see the picture was so great that during
the last two days of my stay in Washington, by the kind permission of
the President, it was placed in the East Room, and thrown open to the
public. During this time the house was thronged with visitors, the
porters estimating their number each day at several thousands.
Towards the close of the second day’s exhibition, intending to have the
canvas taken down and rolled up during the night for transportation
to New York, I watched for an opportunity to say a last word to Mr.
Lincoln previous to his leaving for the Soldiers’ Home, where the
family were then staying. At four o’clock the carriage drove up to
the door, accompanied by the “Black-Horse Cavalry” escort. Knowing
the President would soon appear, I stepped out under the portico to
wait for him. Presently I caught sight of his unmistakable figure
standing half-way between the portico and the gateway leading to the
War Department leaning against the iron fence,--one arm thrown over the
railing, and one foot on the stone coping which supports it, evidently
having been intercepted, on his way in from the War Department, by a
plain-looking man, who was giving him, very diffidently, an account
of a difficulty which he had been unable to have rectified. While
waiting, I walked out leisurely to the President’s side. He said very
little to the man, but was intently studying the expression of his face
while he was narrating his trouble. When he had finished, Mr. Lincoln
said to him, “Have you a blank card?” The man searched his pockets,
but finding none, a gentleman standing near, who had overheard the
question, came forward and said, “Here is one, Mr. President.” Several
persons had in the mean time gathered around. Taking the card and a
pencil, Mr. Lincoln sat down upon the low stone coping, presenting
almost the appearance of sitting upon the pavement itself, and wrote
an order upon the card to the proper official to “examine this man’s
case.” While writing this, I observed several persons passing down
the promenade smiling, at what I presume they thought the undignified
appearance of the head of the nation, who, however, seemed utterly
unconscious, either of any impropriety in the action, or of attracting
any attention. To me it was not only another picture of the native
goodness of the man, but of true nobility of character, exemplified not
so much by a disregard of conventionalities, as in unconsciousness that
there _could_ be any breach of etiquette or dignity in the manner of an
honest attempt to serve or secure justice to a citizen of the Republic,
however humble he might be. Rising to his feet he handed the man the
card, with a word of direction, and then turning to me said: “Well
C----, I must go in and take one more look at the picture before you
leave us.” So saying, he accompanied me to the East Room, and sitting
down in front of it, remained for some time in silence. I said that
I had at length worked out my idea, as he expressed it at our first
interview, and would now be glad to hear his final suggestions and
criticism.
“There is little to find fault with,” he replied; “the portraiture is
the main thing, and that seems to me absolutely perfect.”
I then called his attention afresh to the accessories of the picture,
stating that these had been selected from the objects in the Cabinet
chamber with reference solely to their bearing upon the subject. “Yes,”
said he, “there are the war-maps, the portfolios, the _slave_-map, and
all; but the book in the corner, leaning against the chair-leg,--you
have changed the title of that, I see.” “Yes,” I replied; “at the last
moment I learned that you frequently consulted, during the period you
were preparing the Proclamation, Solicitor Whiting’s work on the ‘War
Powers of the President,’ and as Emancipation was the result in fact
of a military necessity, the book seemed to me just the thing to go in
there; so I simply changed the title, leaving the old sheepskin cover
as it was.” “Now,” said he, “Whiting’s book is not a regular law-book.
It is all very well that it should be there; but I would suggest that
as you have changed the title, you change also the character of the
binding. It now looks like an old volume of United States Statutes.”
I thanked him for this criticism, and then said: “Is there anything
else that you would like changed or added?” “No,” he replied, and then
repeated very emphatically the expression he used when the design was
first sketched upon the canvas: “It is as good as it can be made.”
I then referred at some length, to the enthusiasm in which the picture
was conceived and had been executed, concluding with an expression of
my profound appreciation of the very unusual opportunities afforded
me in the prosecution of the work, and his unvarying kindness and
consideration through the many weeks of our intercourse.
He listened pensively,--almost passively, to me,--his eyes fastened
upon the picture. As I finished he turned, and in his simple-hearted,
earnest way, said: “C----, I believe I am about as glad over the
success of this work as you are.” And with these words in my ear, and a
cordial “good-bye” grasp of the hand, President and painter separated:
the one to gather into and around himself more and more the affections
of a mighty people, till in the culmination and attainment of all his
heart’s desires he should be called from “glory to glory;” the other,
in his humble sphere, to garner as a precious legacy to him and his
these fragments of leaves from the daily life of one whose name and
fame--inseparably bound up with devotion to freedom and reverence
for law, fragrant with the tender memories and sweet humanities of
life--are to grow brighter and stronger with God’s eternal years, as
men learn to appreciate and emulate a true Christian manhood.
FOOTNOTES
[1] To Mr. SAMUEL SINCLAIR, of the _New York Tribune_, for the
introduction to Mr. Lincoln, and to FREDERICK A. LANE, Esq., of New
York, for the generous aid thus extended, I shall ever be indebted for
the accomplishment of my work.
[2] The authorship of this poem has been made known since this
publication in the _Evening Post_. It was written by William Knox,
a young Scotchman, a contemporary of Sir Walter Scott. He died in
Edinburgh, in 1825, at the age of 36.
The two verses in brackets were not repeated by Mr. Lincoln, but belong
to the original poem.
[3] Hon. Henry J. Raymond.
[4] Colonel Le Grand B. Cannon, of General Wool’s staff
[5] Raymond’s _Life of Lincoln_.
[6] Hon. H. J. Raymond.
[7] Mr. Lincoln’s friend Brooks, of the _Sacramento Union_, has given
to the public a somewhat different version of this story, placing its
occurrence on the day of the election in 1860. The account, as I have
given it, was written before I had seen that by Mr. Brooks, and is very
nearly as Hay and myself heard it,--the incident making a powerful
impression upon my mind. I am quite confident that Mr. Lincoln said it
occurred the day he was first nominated; for he related it to us a few
hours after having received intelligence of his renomination, saying,
“I am reminded of it to-night.” It is possible, however, that I am
mistaken in the date. Mr. Brooks’s statement that “Mrs. Lincoln” was
“troubled” about it, regarding it as a “sign that Mr. Lincoln would be
reëlected, but would not live through his second term,” is undoubtedly
correct.
[8] Holland’s _Life of Abraham Lincoln_.
[9] My “six months” proper, at the White House, terminated, as will
be seen, the last week in July, 1864. February and a part of March
following I passed in Washington, and was privileged with a renewal of
my previous intercourse with Mr. Lincoln.
[10] _San Francisco Bulletin._
[11] Noah Brooks, _Harper’s Monthly_, July, 1865.
[12] _Boston Watchman and Reflector._
[13] Abbott’s _History of the Civil War_.
[14] “Accuse not a servant to his master, lest he curse thee, and thou
be found guilty.”
[15] Speech at Charleston, September 18th, 1858.
[16] _Boston Commonwealth._
[17] _Rochester_ (New York) _Express_.
[18] Colonel Charles G. Halpine, _New York Citizen_.
[19] Correspondence of the _N. Y. Independent_.
[20] J. C Derby, Esq., of New York.
[21] Address in Philadelphia upon the death of Mr. Lincoln.
[22] This article was written and first published some months previous
to Mr. Lincoln’s reëlection, during the depression of the public mind
following the “raid” on Washington.
[23] Rev. Mr. Henderson, Louisville, Ky.
[24] Mr. Murtagh, of the _Washington Republican_.
INDEX.
A.
Adams, J. Q., 211.
Alley, Hon. J. B., 119.
All-noise Story, 212.
Amnesty Proclamation, 98.
Andersonville, 177.
Apparition, 164.
Arnold, Hon. I. N., 150, 237, 302.
Ashley, Hon. Mr., 151.
Ashmun, Hon. George, 284–286.
Assassination, 63.
B.
Baker, G. E., 127.
Baldwin, Judge, (Cal.,) 245.
Baltimore Convention, 162.
Barrett, Hon. J. H., 86, 254.
Bateman, Newton, 192.
Bates, Attorney-General, 55.
Battle, Fair Oaks, 139.
Beecher, Henry Ward, 135, 230.
Bellows, Rev. Dr., 81, 274.
Bible Presentation, 199.
Bingham, Hon. John A., 234.
Blair, Hon. M., 21, 46, 88.
Booth, Edwin, 49.
Bowen, H. C., 221.
Brady, M. B., 46.
Braine, Lieutenant, 94.
Brooks, Noah, 63, 165, 188, 235.
“Bulletin,” (San Francisco,) 223.
Burnside, 81.
C.
Cabinet Meeting, 55.
Cameron, Secretary, 136–133, 253.
Cannon, Colonel L. B., 115.
Cass, General, 271.
Chase, 21, 84, 85, 86, 88–90, 130, 218, 223;
letter to Stanton, 180.
Cheever, Rev. Dr., 147.
Chicago Convention, 119.
Christian Commission, 161.
Clark, Senator, 276.
Clay, Henry, 71.
Colfax, Hon. Schuyler, 14, 85, 87, 172, 177, 195, 285.
Concert, Marine Band, 143, 168.
Creech, 68.
Creeds, 190.
Crittenden, General, 46.
Cropsey, 168.
Curtin, 82–84.
Cushing, Lieutenant, 232.
D.
Dall, Mrs. C. H., 165.
Defrees, 126.
Deming, Hon. H. C., 190, 219.
“Demonstrate,” 314.
Derby, J. C., (N. Y.,) 290.
Description of Picture, 27.
Dole, Commissioner, 282.
Douglas, Hon. Stephen A., 194, 237, 249, 315.
Douglass, Frederick, 204.
E.
Elliott, (Artist,) 69.
Emancipation, 21, 73, 74, 77, 78, 86, 196, 197, 269, 307.
Equestrian Statues, 71.
Ewing, Hon. Thomas, 37.
F.
Fessenden, Hon. W. P., 182.
Field, Rev. H. M., 135.
Florida Expedition, 48.
Ford, Hon. Thomas, 296.
Forney, Colonel, 267.
Forrest, Edwin, 114.
Frank, Hon. A., 218.
Freedmen, 196.
Fremont, 47, 220, 221.
G.
Gamble, Governor, 242.
Garfield, General, 240.
Garrison, 167.
Gilbert, Wall Street Assessor, 255.
Goldsborough, Admiral, 240.
Grant, General, 56, 57, 265, 283, 292.
Greeley, 152.
Greene, W. T., 267.
Gulliver, Rev. J. B., Reminiscences, 309.
H.
Halpine, Colonel, 63, 278.
Hammond, Surgeon-General, 274, 275.
Hanks, Dennis, 299.
Harris, Hon. Ira, 175.
Hay, John, 45, 149.
Henderson, Rev. Mr., 320.
Henry, Dr., (Oregon,) 302.
Herndon, Hon. Wm. H.; analysis of Mr. Lincoln’s character, 323.
Higby, Hon. William, 148.
Holland, Dr., 79, 191.
Holmes, O. W., 58.
Holt, Judge, 32, 33.
Hooker, General, 233.
Hospitals, 107.
Hubbard, Hon. Mr., (Ct.,) 253.
I.
“Independent,” New York, 88, 230, 287.
“Ingenious Nonsense,” 158.
Inman, (Artist,) 69.
Interview, first, with Mr. Lincoln, 18.
J.
Jackson, “Stonewall,” 234, 268.
Johnson, Hon. Andrew, 102.
Johnson, Oliver, 77.
Jones, (Sculptor,) 34.
K.
Kelly, Hon. Wm., 92, 165, 294.
King, Starr, 228.
Knox, William, (Poet,) 60.
L.
Lincoln, Hon. G. B., of Brooklyn, 110, 113, 234.
Lincoln, Mrs., 165, 293, 301.
Lincoln, President, account of Emancipation Proclamation, 20, 76, 83,
85, 90, 269, 307;
his sadness, 30;
love of Shakspeare, 49;
memory, 52;
appreciation of poetry, 59;
“Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?” 60;
opinion concerning Assassination, 62;
“Latin” quotation, 78;
exceptionable stories, 80;
on Wall Street gold speculators, 84;
closing sentence, 89;
“promised his God,” &c., 90;
his matured judgment upon the act of Emancipation, 90;
simplicity and humility, 95;
his first dollar, 96;
Amnesty Proclamation, interview with Hon. Robert Dale Owen, 98;
account of capture of Norfolk, 104, 210;
exhausted patience illustrated, 106, 108;
wounded Marylander, 109;
as surveyor, 111;
“new clothes,” 113;
axes, 113, 289;
never read a novel, 114;
interview with Rev. Dr. Vinton, 117;
telegram to friends at Chicago Convention, 120;
reception of nomination, (1860,) 121;
temperance principles, 125;
“sugar-coated,” 126;
the signing of public documents, 128;
speech to foreign minister, 128;
on office-seekers, 129, 145, 276;
borrowing the army, 130;
Sunday-school celebration, 130;
regard for children, 132;
“the baby did it,” 133;
pardon cases, 40, 43, 133, 171, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 250, 296,
319;
Five Points’ Sunday-School, 133;
at Henry Ward Beecher’s church, 134;
relations with Cabinet, 135;
Secretary Cameron’s Report, 136;
General Patterson, 137;
Secretary Cameron’s retirement, 138;
interview with P. M. Wetmore, (N. Y.,) 140;
sensitiveness, 144, 145;
“thin skinned,” 145;
willingness to receive advice, 146;
“canvassed hams,” 148;
indifference to personal appearance, 148;
Nicolay and Hay, 149;
“Nasby Letters,” 151;
relief found in story-telling, 152;
Greeley, 152, 153;
newspaper reading, 154;
newspaper “gas,” 155;
newspaper “reliable,” 156;
Chicago “Times,” 156;
“ingenious nonsense,” 158;
“husked out,” 158;
letter to Lovejoy Monument Association, 160;
Massett, 160;
Christian Commission, 162;
renomination, 162;
apparition, 164;
Mrs. Lincoln, 164, 293, 301;
speech to committee from Baltimore Convention, and William Lloyd
Garrison, 167;
Mrs. Cropsey, 168;
and soldiers, 169;
reprieves, 171;
a handsome President, 174;
idiotic boy, 176;
Andersonville prisoners, 178;
retaliation, 178;
Fessenden, 182;
McCulloch, 184;
religious experience, 185–188;
rebel ladies, 189;
Col. Deming, 190;
creeds, 190;
Newton Bateman, 192;
slavery, 194;
prayer, 195;
epitaph suggested, 196;
Bible presentation, 197;
Caroline Johnson, once a slave, 199;
Sojourner Truth, 201–203;
Frederick Douglass, 204;
memorial from children, 204;
New Year’s Day, 1865, 205;
“walk de earf like de Lord,” 209;
Rebel Peace Commissioners, 212;
“slave map,” 215;
Kilpatrick, 216;
personal description, 217, 323;
opinion on the war, 219;
text applied to Fremont, 220;
reappointment of Fremont, 222;
California lady’s account of a visit at “Soldiers’ Home,” 223;
on “trees,” 224;
“school of events,” 225;
McClellan, 130, 143, 227, 255;
Peace Convention, 229;
Henry Ward Beecher, 230;
popularity with the soldiers and people, 231;
portraits, 46, 231;
Lieutenant Cushing, 232;
last inaugural, 234;
his election to the legislature in 1834, 234;
never invented a “story,” 235;
first political speech, 236;
contest with Douglas, 237;
affection for his step-mother, 238;
reply to anti-slavery delegation from New York, 239;
reply to a clergyman, 239;
concerning Gov. Gamble of Missouri, 242;
on Seward’s “poetry,” 242;
betrothal of Prince of Wales, 243;
honesty as a lawyer, 245;
“attorney of the people,” 245;
“little influence with this administration,” 246;
reply to Stanton’s detractor, 246;
the German lieutenant, 246;
General Grant’s “whiskey,” 247;
no personal vices, 247;
serenade speeches, 248;
his own war minister, 249;
illustration from “Euclid,” 249;
“pigeon-hearted,” 250;
“minneboohoo,” 251;
Hannibal’s wars, 253;
reports of committees, 253;
Brigadier-Generals, 254, 260;
twelve hundred thousand rebels in the field, 255;
Assessor Gilbert, 255;
on canes, 256;
hogshead illustration, 256;
on Missouri Compromise, 257;
“Statute of Limitations,” 257;
Blondin crossing Niagara, 257;
reply to attacks, 258;
Chicago “Democratic Platform,” 259;
death of John Morgan, 259;
case of Franklin W. Smith, 259;
“royal” blood, 261;
reading the Bible, 262;
thinking of a man down South, 263;
presentiment of death, 263;
the wards of the nation, 264;
Lincoln and Stanton, 265;
as a flat-boatman, 267;
Louisiana negro, 268;
Stonewall Jackson, 268;
reply to Kentuckians, 269;
letter to General Wadsworth, 270;
extract from speech in Congress, 271;
“browsing around,” 272;
the negro porter, 272;
Rev. Dr. Bellows and Surgeon-General Hammond, 274;
the election of President the people’s business, 275;
appointment of chaplains, 277;
appreciation of humor, 278;
“public opinion baths,” 281;
“on the Lord’s side,” 282;
going down with colors flying, 282;
opinion of General Grant, 283;
interview with Messrs. Colfax and Ashmun, evening of assassination,
284;
at City-Point hospital, 287;
Lincoln and the rebel soldier, 288;
last interview with Secretary Seward, 290;
his dream, 292;
last afternoon, 293;
Lincoln and Willie Bladen, 294;
“you don’t wear _hoops_,” &c., 297;
Grist illustration, 298;
his duel, 302;
interview with Judge Mills and ex-Gov. Randall, (Wis.,) 305;
Lincoln and Rev. J. P. Gulliver, 309;
shedding of blood, the remission of sins, 319;
Lincoln and the drummer-boy, 319;
consideration of the humble illustrated, 321;
“may you live a thousand years, and always be the head of this
great nation,” 322;
Herndon’s analysis of character, 323;
indifference to ceremony, 326;
final criticism of the painting, 353;
farewell words, 354.
Lincoln, Robert, 45, 300.
Lincoln, “Tad,” 44, 91, 92, 293, 300.
Lincoln, “Willie,” 44, 116.
Lovejoy, Hon. Owen, 14, 17, 18, 20, 47, 57, 157.
LINCOLN’S “STORIES.”
General Scott and Jones the sculptor, 34;
“great” men, 37;
Daniel Webster, 37, 131;
Thad. Stevens, 38;
“a little more light and a little less noise,” 49;
tax on “state” banks, 53;
Andy Johnson and Colonel Moody, 102;
“chin fly,” 129;
Secretary Cameron’s retirement, 138;
Wade and Davis’ “manifesto,” 145;
“second advent,” 147;
“nothing but a noise,” 155;
“swabbing windows,” 159;
“mistakes,” 233;
“picket” story, 233;
“plaster of psalm tunes,” 239;
“Fox River,” 240;
“nudum pactum,” 241;
harmonizing the “Democracy,” 244;
Mrs. Sallie Ward and her children, 247;
a Western judge, 250;
“lost my apple overboard,” 252;
rigid government and close construction, 254;
“breakers” ahead, 256;
counterfeit bill, 262;
blasting rocks, 262;
General Phelps’s emancipation proclamation, 273;
making “ministers,” 277;
John Tyler, 278;
the Irish soldier and Jacob Thompson, 283;
Jeff. Davis and the coon, 284;
last story,--“how Patagonians eat oysters,” told to Marshal Lamon
on evening of assassination, 285.
M.
Marine Band, 168.
“Massa Sam’s dead,” 207.
McClellan, 130, 143, 227, 255.
McCulloch, Hon. Hugh, 179, 185.
McKaye, Colonel, 208.
McVeagh, 242.
Memory, 52.
Miller, Hon. S. F., 5, 174.
Mills, Judge J. T., (Wis.,) 305.
Mix, Captain, 261.
Moody, Colonel, 102.
Morgan, John, 259.
Morgan, Senator, 74.
Murtagh, Mr., (Washington,) 321
N.
“Nasby Papers,” 151.
Newspapers, 154.
Nicolay, 149.
Norfolk, (capture,) 104, 240.
Novels, 115.
O.
Odell, Hon. M. F., 170, 178.
“Oh why should the spirit of mortal be proud?” (Poem,) 60.
Owen, Robert Dale, 98.
P.
Pardon applications, 40, 43, 132, 171, 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 250,
296, 297, 318.
Patterson, General, 137.
Peace Conference at Hampton Roads, 209.
Phelps, General, 273.
Pierpont, Rev. John, 78, 179.
R.
Randall, ex-Governor, (Wis.,) 305.
Raymond, 95, 129.
Red River disaster, 55.
Religious character, 185.
“Root,” General, 70.
“Root Hog” Story, 211.
S.
Scott, General, 34.
Seward, Secretary, 22, 69, 223, 242;
on Clay and Webster, 71;
on “Equestrian” Statues, 71;
on Emancipation, 72;
on Mr. Lincoln, 81;
Seward and Lincoln, 290;
the last interview, 290;
first knowledge of the President’s death, 291.
Seymour, General, 48.
Shakspeare, 49, 115, 150, 162.
Shannon, Hon. Thomas, 147, 148.
Sherman, General, 233.
Shields and Lincoln, 302.
“Simmons, Pollard,” 111.
Sinclair, 16, 48.
Sizer, Nelson, 134.
Slave Map, 215.
Smith, Franklin W., 259.
“Sojourner Truth,” 201–203.
“Soldiers’ Home,” 223.
“Spectator,” (London,) 31.
Stanton, Elizabeth Cady, 101.
Stanton, Secretary, 33, 54, 264, 300.
Stephens, Alexander, 211, 215.
Stephens, Mrs. Ann S., 131.
Stevens, Hon. Thaddeus, 38, 173.
Stone, Dr., 81.
Swayne, (Sculptor,) 59.
T.
Taylor, B. F., 154.
Thompson, George, 75.
Thompson, Rev. J. P., 143, 186. 259.
Tilton, 89, 167, 196.
V.
Van Alen, 173.
Vinton, Rev. Francis, 117.
W.
Wade and Davis, 145.
Wadsworth, General, 270.
Washington, raid on, 301.
Webster, 37, 71, 130.
Welles, Secretary, 232.
Wetmore, P. M., 140.
Wilderness battles, 30.
Wilkeson, 101.
Willets, Rev., 187.
Willis, N. P., 115.
Y.
Yates, Governor, 267.
THE END.
Transcriber’s Notes
Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they
were not changed.
Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation
marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left
unbalanced.
Footnotes, originally at the bottoms of the pages that referenced them,
have been collected, sequentially renumbered, and placed just before
the Index.
In the HTML version, the Transcriber added a Table of Contents.
The index was not checked for proper alphabetization or correct page
references.
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