It was the custom of President Lincoln to open, twice a week, the doors
of his office in the Executive Mansion for the admission of all visitors
who might wish to speak with him. These brief interviews, quite devoid
of ceremony, seemed to reveal the man in his true character, and to set
forth the salient traits that fitted him for his great position, and
endeared him so greatly to the popular heart. They showed how easily
accessible he was to all classes of citizens, how readily he could adapt
himself to people of any station or degree, how deep and true were his
human sympathies, how quickly and keenly he could discriminate
character, and how heartily he detested meanness and all unworthy acts
and appliances to compass a selfish or sordid end. On these occasions,
as may well be imagined, many curious incidents occurred. Lincoln was
usually clad "in a black broadcloth suit, nothing in his dress
betokening disregard of conventionality, save perhaps his neat cloth
slippers, which were doubtless worn for comfort. He was seated beside a
plain cloth-covered table, in a commodious arm-chair." As each visitor
approached the President he was greeted with an encouraging nod and
smile, and a few moments were cordially given him in which to state the
object of the visit; the President listening with the most respectful
and patient attention, and deciding each case with tact, sympathy, and
good humor. "His _Yes_," says Mr. Riddle, "was most gracious and
satisfactory; his _No_, when reached, was often spoken by the
petitioner, and left only a soothed disappointment. He saw the point of
a case unerringly. He had a confidence in the homely views and speech of
the common people, with whom his heart and sympathies ever were."
At these informal meetings with people who usually wanted some favor
from him, no case was too trivial to receive his attention. Taking
advantage of the opportunity, there came one day, says Mr. C. Van
Santvoord, "a sturdy, honest-looking German soldier, minus a leg, who
hobbled up to the President on crutches. In consideration of his
disabled condition, he wanted some situation about Washington, the
duties of which he might be able to discharge; and he had come to the
President, hoping that he would provide the desired situation for him.
On being interrogated as to how he had lost his leg, he answered that it
was the effect of a wound received in battle, mentioning the time and
the place. 'Let me look at your papers,' said Mr. Lincoln. The man
replied that he had none, and that he supposed his word would be
sufficient. 'What!' exclaimed the President, 'no papers, no credentials,
nothing to show how you lost your leg! How am I to know that you did not
lose it by a trap after getting into somebody's orchard?' This was
spoken with a droll expression which amused the bystanders, all except
the applicant, who with a very solemn visage earnestly protested the
truth of his statement, muttering something about the reasons for not
being able to produce his papers. 'Well, well,' said the President, 'it
is a little risky for an army man to be wandering around without papers
to show where he belongs and what he is, but I will see what can be
done for you.' And taking a blank card from a little pile of similar
blanks on the table, he wrote some lines upon it, addressed it, and
handing it to the man bade him deliver it to a certain quartermaster,
who would attend to his case."
The President could, however, be emphatic and even severe when necessary
on such occasions. One day, we are told, "he was approached by a man
apparently sixty years of age, with dress and manner which showed that
he was acquainted with the usages of good society, whose whole exterior,
indeed, would have favorably impressed people who form opinions from
appearances. The object of his visit was to solicit aid in some
commission project, for the success of which Mr. Lincoln's favor was
regarded as essential. The President heard him patiently, but demurred
against being connected with or countenancing the affair, suggesting
mildly that the applicant would better set up an office of the kind
described, and run it in his own way and at his own risk. The man
pleaded his advanced years and obscurity as a reason for not attempting
this, but said if the President would only let him use his name to
advertise and recommend the enterprise, he would then, he thought, need
nothing more. At this the eyes of the President flashed with sudden
indignation, and his whole aspect and manner underwent a portentous
change. 'No!' he broke forth, with startling vehemence, springing from
his seat under the impulse of his emotion. 'No! I'll have nothing to do
with this business, nor with any man who comes to me with such degrading
propositions. What! Do you take the President of the United States to be
a commission broker? You have come to the wrong place; and for you and
every one who comes for such purposes, there is the door!' The man's
face blanched as he cowered and slunk away confounded, without uttering
a word. The President's wrath subsided as speedily as it had risen."
Another example of Lincoln's power to dispose summarily of people who
tried his patience too far is given by Secretary Welles, who records
that a Mrs. White--a sister or half-sister of Mrs. Lincoln--made herself
so obnoxious as a Southern sympathizer in Washington in 1864, that the
President sent her word that "if she did not leave forthwith she might
expect to find herself within twenty-four hours in the Old Capitol
Prison."
With all his kindness and desire to do what was asked of him, Lincoln
could not be persuaded to consent to anything which he felt to be
distinctly wrong, regardless of any unfavorable consequences which his
refusal might bring upon himself. When the members of Congress from
Minnesota, late in 1862, called on him in a body to urge him to order
the execution of three hundred Indian prisoners, captured in their State
and charged with great atrocities, he positively refused, although
realizing that it might cost him the support of those members of the
House, which he greatly needed at that time.
"The President is always disposed to mitigate punishments and grant
favors," says a member of his Cabinet. "As a matter of duty and
friendship, I one day mentioned to him the case of Laura Jones, a young
lady residing in Richmond and there engaged to be married, who came up
three years ago to attend her sick mother and had been unable to pass
through the lines and return. A touching appeal was made by the poor
girl, who truly says her youth is passing. The President at once said he
would give her a pass. I told him her sympathies were with the
secessionists. But he said he would let her go; the war had depopulated
the country and prevented marriages enough, and if he could do a
kindness of this sort he would do it."
Another applicant for a pass through the lines was less fortunate than
the one just noted. One day, in the spring of 1862, a gentleman from
some Northern city entered Lincoln's private office, and earnestly
requested a pass to Richmond. "A pass to Richmond!" exclaimed the
President. "Why, my dear sir, if I should give you one it would do you
no good. You may think it very strange, but there's a lot of fellows
between here and Richmond who either can't read or are prejudiced
against every man who totes a pass from me. I have given McClellan and
more than two hundred thousand others passes to Richmond, _and not a
single one of 'em has got there yet!_"
Lincoln sometimes had a very effective way of dealing with men who asked
troublesome or improper 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 outnumbered 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 makes twelve. Don't you
see it?"
Among the many illustrations of the sturdy sense and firmness of
Lincoln's character, the following should be recorded: During the early
part of 1863 the Union men in Missouri were divided into two factions,
which waged a bitter controversy with each other. General Curtis,
commander of the military district comprising Missouri, Kansas, and
Arkansas, was at the head of one faction, while Governor Gamble led the
other. Their differences were a source of great embarrassment to the
Government at Washington, and of harm to the Union cause. The President
was in constant receipt of remonstrances and protests from the
contesting parties, to one of which he made the following curt reply:
Your despatch of to-day is just received. It is very painful to me
that you, in Missouri cannot, or will not, settle your factional
quarrel among yourselves. I have been tormented with it beyond
endurance, for months, by both sides. Neither side pays the least
respect to my appeals to reason. I am now compelled to take hold of
the case.
A. LINCOLN.
The President promptly followed up this warning by removing General
Curtis, and appointing in his place General Schofield, to whom he soon
after addressed the following letter:
EXECUTIVE MANSION, WASHINGTON,
May 27, 1863.
GENERAL J.M. SCHOFIELD.
DEAR SIR: Having removed General Curtis and assigned you to the
command of the Department of the Missouri, I think it may be of
some advantage to me to state to you why I did it. I did not remove
General Curtis because of my full conviction that he had done wrong
by commission or omission. I did it because of a conviction in my
mind that the Union men of Missouri, constituting, when united, a
vast majority of the people, have entered into a pestilent,
factious quarrel among themselves; General Curtis, perhaps not of
choice, being the head of one faction, and Governor Gamble that of
the other. After months of labor to reconcile the difficulty, it
seemed to grow worse and worse, until I felt it my duty to break it
up somehow, and as I could not remove Governor Gamble, I had to
remove General Curtis. Now that you are in the position, I wish you
to undo nothing merely because General Curtis or Governor Gamble
did it, but to exercise your own judgment, and do right for the
public interest. Let your military measures be strong enough to
repel the invaders and keep the peace, and not so strong as to
unnecessarily harass and persecute the people. It is a difficult
_role_, and so much greater will be the honor if you perform it
well. If both factions, or neither, shall abuse you, you will
probably be about right. Beware of being assailed by one and
praised by the other.
Yours truly, A. LINCOLN.
Firm and unyielding as he was when necessity compelled him to be,
Lincoln was by nature a peace-maker, and was ever anxious that personal
differences be adjusted happily. In his efforts to this end he never
failed to show tact and shrewdness, and would if necessary sacrifice his
own preferences in the interests of peace and harmony. A characteristic
instance of the exercise of these traits occurred in connection with the
Missouri troubles just referred to. General Schofield's course in
command of his department proved satisfactory, and he had been nominated
for a Major-General's commission. He was, however, a somewhat
conservative man, and in spite of his efforts to carry out the
President's injunctions of impartiality, he had given offense to certain
Missouri radicals, who now opposed his promotion, and were able to exert
sufficient influence in the Senate to prevent the confirmation of his
appointment as a Major-General. The Missouri delegation appealed to the
more radical Senators, and the nomination was "hung up" for about six
weeks. Lincoln was very desirous that it should be confirmed, and the
Missouri Congressmen were equally bent on its defeat. In this dilemma,
Lincoln sent for Senator Zack Chandler of Michigan, and proposed a
compromise. "General Rosecrans," said he, "has a great many friends; he
fought the battle of Stone River and won a brilliant victory, and his
advocates begin to grumble about his treatment. Now, I will tell you
what I have been thinking about. If you will confirm Schofield in the
Senate, I will remove him from the command in Missouri and send him down
to Sherman. That will satisfy the radicals. Then I will send Rosecrans
to Missouri, and that will please the latter's friends. In this way the
whole thing can be harmonized." As soon as the Senate grasped the plan
of the President there was no longer any opposition to the confirmation
of Schofield. He was sent to join Sherman in the South, Rosecrans was
appointed to the command in Missouri, and everything worked harmoniously
and pleasantly as the President had predicted and desired.
Secretary Welles remarks that "the President was a much more shrewd and
accurate observer of the characteristics of men--better and more
correctly formed an estimate of their power and capabilities--than the
Secretary of State or most others. Those in the public service he
closely scanned, but was deliberate in forming a conclusion adverse to
any one he had appointed. In giving or withdrawing confidence he was
discriminating and just in his final decision, careful never to wound
unnecessarily the sensibilities of any of their infirmities, always
ready to praise, but nevertheless firm and resolute in discharging the
to him always painful duty of censure, reproof, or dismissal." As an
instance of this sure judgment of the abilities and characters of men,
Mr. Welles gives an anecdote relating to the naval movement under
Admiral Du Pont, against Charleston, S.C. "One day," says Mr. Welles,
"the President said to me that he had but slight expectation that we
should have any great success from Du Pont. 'He, as well as McClellan,'
said Mr. Lincoln, 'hesitates--has _the slows_. McClellan always wanted
more regiments; Du Pont is everlastingly asking for more
gun-boats--more iron-clads. He will do nothing with any. He has
intelligence and system and will maintain a good blockade. You did well
in selecting him for that command, but he will never take Sumter or get
to Charleston. He is no Farragut, though unquestionably a good routine
officer, who obeys orders and in a general way carries out his
instructions.'" The outcome of events proved the soundness of Lincoln's
judgment.
Loyalty to his friends was always a strong trait of Lincoln's character.
It was put to the proof daily during his life in Washington. Mr. Gurdon
S. Hubbard, in a brief but interesting memorial, relates one or two
interviews held with the President, in which the simplicity of his
character and his fidelity to old friendships appear very conspicuously.
Mr. Hubbard's acquaintance with Lincoln was of long standing. "I called
on him in Washington the year of his inauguration," says Mr. Hubbard,
"and was alone with him for an hour or more. I found him greatly
changed, his countenance bearing an expression of great mental anxiety.
The whole topic of our conversation was the war, which affected him
deeply.... Two years after, I again visited Washington, and went to the
White House to pay my respects, in company with my friend Thomas L.
Forrest. It was Saturday; and, as usual, about six o'clock the band from
the navy-yard appeared and began to play. The President, with
Adjutant-General Thomas, was seated on the balcony. The crowd was great,
marching compactly past the President, the men raising their hats in
salutation. As my friend and myself passed he said to me, 'The President
seems to notice you--turn toward him.' 'No,' I said, 'I don't care to be
recognized.' At that instant Mr. Lincoln started from his seat,
advancing quickly to the iron railing, and leaning over, beckoning with
his long arm, called: 'Hubbard! Hubbard! come here!' I left the ranks
and ascended the stone steps to the gate of the balcony, which was
locked, General Thomas saying, 'Wait a moment, I will get the key.'
'Never mind, General,' said Mr. Lincoln, 'Hubbard is used to jumping--he
can scale that fence.' I climbed over, and for about an hour we
conversed and watched the large crowd, the rebel flag being in sight on
Arlington Heights. This was the last time I ever saw his face in life."
It was noted by those about Lincoln during his residence at the White
House that he usually avoided speaking of himself as President or making
any reference to the office which he held. He used some such roundabout
phrase as "since I came into this place," instead of saying "since I
became President." The war he usually spoke of as "this great trouble,"
and he almost never alluded to the enemy as "Confederates" or "the
Confederate Government." He had an unconquerable reluctance to appear to
lead public opinion, and often spoke of himself as the "attorney for the
people." Once, however, when a Senator was urging on him a certain
course which the President was not disposed to pursue, the Senator said,
"You say you are the people's attorney. Now, you will admit that this
course would be most popular." "But I am not going to let my client
manage the case against my judgment," Lincoln replied quickly. "As long
as I am attorney for the people I shall manage the case to the best of
my ability. They will have a chance to put me out by and by if my
management is not satisfactory."
The President was so tormented by visitors seeking interviews for every
sort of frivolous and impertinent matter, that he resorted sometimes, in
desperation, to curious and effective inventions to rid himself of the
intolerable nuisance. At one time, when he was importuned by some
influential people to interfere to prevent the punishment of certain
persons convicted of fraudulent dealings with the government--a class of
cases too common at that time--the President wrote Secretary Welles that
he desired to see the records of the case before it was disposed of.
Upon Mr. Welles calling upon him with the desired information, the
President said, as if by way of apology, "There was no way to get rid of
the crowd that was upon me but by sending you a note." On another
occasion, when he had been quite ill, and therefore less inclined than
usual to listen to these bores, one of them had just seated himself for
a long visit, when the President's physician happened to enter the room,
and Lincoln said, holding out his hands, "Doctor, what are these
blotches?" "That's varioloid, or mild small-pox," said the doctor.
"They're all over me. It is contagious, I believe," said Lincoln. "Very
contagious, indeed!" replied the doctor. "Well, I can't stop, Mr.
Lincoln; I just called to see how you were," said the visitor. "Oh,
don't be in a hurry, sir!" placidly remarked the Executive. "Thank you,
sir; I'll call again," replied the visitor, executing a masterly retreat
from the White House. "Some people," said the President, looking after
him, "said they could not take very well to my proclamation; but now, I
am happy to say, I have _something that everybody can take_."
Among the innumerable nuisances and "cranks" who called on Lincoln at
the White House, were the many who sought to win his favor by claiming
to have been the first to suggest his nomination as President. One of
these claimants, who was the editor of a weekly paper published in a
little village in Missouri, called one day, and was admitted to
Lincoln's presence. He at once began explaining that he was the man who
first suggested Lincoln's name for the Presidency, and pulling from his
pocket an old, worn, defaced copy of his paper, exhibited to the
President an item on the subject. "Do you really think," said Lincoln,
"that announcement was the occasion of my nomination?" "Certainly," said
the editor, "the suggestion was so opportune that it was at once taken
up by other papers, and the result was your nomination and election."
"Ah, well," said Lincoln, with a sigh, and assuming a rather gloomy
countenance, "I am glad to see you and to know this; but you will have
to excuse me, I am just going to the War Department to see Mr. Stanton."
"Well," said the editor, "I will walk over with you." The President,
with that apt good nature so characteristic of him, took up his hat and
said, "Come along." When they reached the door of the Secretary's
office, Mr. Lincoln turned to his companion and said, "I shall have to
see Mr. Stanton alone, and you must excuse me," and taking him by the
hand he continued, "Good-bye. I hope you will feel perfectly easy about
having nominated me; don't be troubled about it; _I forgive you_."
A gentleman who, after the dreadful disaster at Fredericksburg, called
at the White House with news direct from the front, says that Lincoln
appeared so overwhelmed with grief that he was led to remark, "I
heartily wish I might be a welcome messenger of good news instead,--that
I could tell you how to conquer or get rid of these rebellious States."
Looking up quickly, with a marked change of expression, Lincoln said:
"That reminds me of two boys in Illinois who took a short cut across an
orchard, and did not become aware of the presence of a vicious dog until
it was too late to reach either fence. One was spry enough to escape the
attack by climbing a tree; but the other started around the tree, with
the dog in hot pursuit, until by making smaller circles than it was
possible for his pursuer to make, he gained sufficiently to grasp the
dog's tail, and held with desperate grip until nearly exhausted, when he
hailed his companion and called to him to come down. 'What for?' said
the boy. 'I want you to help me let this dog go.' If I could only let
them go!" said the President, in conclusion; "but that is the trouble. I
am compelled to hold on to them and make them stay."
In speaking of Lincoln's fortitude under his trials and sufferings, Mrs.
Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote: "Although we believe he has never made any
religious profession, we see evidence that in passing through this
dreadful national crisis he has been forced by the very anguish of the
struggle to look upward, where any rational creature must look for
support. No man has suffered more and deeper, albeit with a dry, weary,
patient pain, that seemed to some like insensibility. 'Whichever way it
ends,' he said to the writer, 'I have the impression that I sha'n't last
long after it's over.' After the dreadful repulse of Fredericksburg, his
heavy eyes and worn and weary air told how our reverses wore upon him;
and yet there was a never-failing fund of patience at bottom that
sometimes rose to the surface in some droll, quaint saying or story,
that forced a laugh even from himself."
The care and sorrow which Lincoln was called upon to endure in the
responsibilities of his high position graved their melancholy marks on
each feature of his face. He was a changed man. A pathetic picture of
his appearance at this time is given by his old friend, Noah Brooks,
whose description of him as he appeared in 1856, on the stump in Ogle
County, has already been given a place in these pages. "I did not see
Lincoln again," says Mr. Brooks, "until 1862, when I went to Washington
as a newspaper correspondent from California. When Lincoln was on the
stump in 1856, his face, though naturally sallow, had a rosy flush. His
eyes were full and bright, and he was in the fulness of health and
vigor. I shall never forget the shock which the sight of him gave me six
years later in 1862, I took it for granted that he had forgotten the
young man whom he had met five or six times during the Fremont and
Dayton Campaign. He was now President, and was, like Brutus, 'vexed with
many cares.' The change which a few years had made was simply appalling.
His whiskers had grown and had given additional cadaverousness to his
face as it appeared to me. The light seemed to have gone out of his
eyes, which were sunken far under his enormous brows. But there was over
his whole face an expression of sadness, and a far-away look in the
eyes, which were utterly unlike the Lincoln of other days. I was
intensely disappointed. I confess that I was so pained that I could
almost have shed tears."
CHAPTER XXIII
Lincoln's Home-life in the White House--Comfort in the
Companionship of his Youngest Son--"Little Tad" the Bright Spot in
the White House--The President and his Little Boy Reviewing the
Army of the Potomac--Various Phases of Lincoln's Character--His
Literary Tastes--Fondness for Poetry and Music--His Remarkable
Memory--Not a Latin Scholar--Never Read a Novel--Solace in
Theatrical Representation--Anecdotes of Booth and
McCullough--Methods of Literary Work--Lincoln as an Orator--Caution
in Impromptu Speeches--His Literary Style--Management of his
Private Correspondence--Knowledge of Woodcraft--Trees and Human
Character--Exchanging Views with Professor Agassiz--Magnanimity
toward Opponents--Righteous Indignation--Lincoln's Religious
Nature.
Of the two sons left to Lincoln after the death of Willie in 1862,
Robert, the older, was a student in Harvard College until appointed to
service on the staff of General Grant; and "Little Tad," or Thomas, the
youngest, was the only one remaining in the White House during the last
hard years. He was ten years old in 1863, a bright and lovable child,
with whom his father was associated in constant and affectionate
companionship. The boy was much with him in his walks and journeys about
Washington, and even in his visits to the army in the field. The father
would often gain a brief respite from his heavy cares by sharing in the
sports and frolics of the light-hearted boy, who was a general favorite
at the White House, where he was free to go and come at will. No matter
who was with the President, or how intently he might be absorbed, little
Tad was always welcome. "It was an impressive and affecting sight," says
Mr. Carpenter, an inmate of the White House for several months, "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." Hon. W.D. Kelley, a member of Congress at
that time, says: "I think no father ever 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, 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 a time when 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 heavy duties pressing upon him."
Tad lived to be eighteen years old, dying in Chicago in 1871. It was
well said of him that he "gave to the sad and solemn White House the
only comic relief it knew."
When President Lincoln visited General Hooker's headquarters with the
Army of the Potomac, just before the battle of Chancellorsville, little
Tad went with him, and rode with his father and General Hooker through
the grand reviews that were held. "Over hill and dale," says a member of
the Presidential party, "dashed the brilliant cavalcade of the
General-in-Chief, surrounded by a company of officers in gay attire and
sparkling with gold lace, the party being escorted by the Philadelphia
Lancers, a showy troop of soldiers. In the midst, or at the head, rose
and fell, as the horses galloped afar, the form of Lincoln, conspicuous
by his height and his tall black hat. And ever on the flanks of the
hurrying column flew, like a flag or banneret, Tad's little gray
riding-cloak. The soldiers soon learned of Tad's presence in the army,
and wherever he went on horseback he easily divided the honors with his
father. The men cheered and shouted and waved their hats when they saw
the dear face and tall figure of the good President, then the
best-beloved man in the world; but to these men of war, far away from
home and children, the sight of that fresh-faced and laughing boy seemed
an inspiration. They cheered like mad."
There were various phases of Lincoln's character, as manifested during
his life in the White House, that afford material for an interesting
study. It has been said of him that he lacked imagination. This was
certainly not one of the faculties of his mind which had been largely
cultivated. He relied more upon the exercise of reason and logic, in all
his intellectual processes, than upon fancy or imagination. Still, there
are often striking figures of speech to be met with in his writings, and
he had a great fondness for poetry and music. He had studied Shakespeare
diligently in his youth, and portions of the plays he repeated with
singular accuracy. He had a special liking for the minor poems of Thomas
Hood and of Oliver Wendell Holmes. Dr. Holmes, writing in July, 1885,
says that of all the tributes received by him, the one of which he was
most proud was from "good Abraham Lincoln," who had a great liking for
the poem of "The Last Leaf," and "repeated it from memory to Governor
Andrew, as the Governor himself told me." Mr. Arnold says: "He had a
great love for poetry and eloquence, and his taste and judgment were
excellent. Next to Shakespeare among the poets, his favorite was Burns.
There was a lecture of his upon Burns full of favorite quotations and
sound criticisms." His musical tastes, says Mr. Brooks, who knew him
well, "were simple and uncultivated, his choice being old airs, songs,
and ballads, among which the plaintive Scotch songs were best liked.
'Annie Laurie,' 'Mary of Argyle,' and especially 'Auld Robin Gray,'
never lost their charm for him; and all songs which had for their theme
the rapid flight of time, decay, the recollections of early days, were
sure to make a deep impression. The song which he liked best, above all
others, was one called 'Twenty Years Ago'--a simple air, the words to
which are supposed to be uttered by a man who revisits the playground of
his youth. I remember that one night at the White House, when a few
ladies were with the family, singing at the piano-forte, he asked for a
little song in which the writer describes his sensations when revisiting
the scenes of his boyhood, dwelling mournfully on the vanished joys and
the delightful associations of forty years ago. It is not likely that
there was much in Lincoln's lost youth that he would wish to recall; but
there was a certain melancholy and half-morbid strain in that song which
struck a responsive chord in his heart. The lines sank into his memory,
and I remember that he quoted them, as if to himself, long afterward."
Lincoln's memory was extraordinarily retentive, and he seemed, without
conscious effort, to have stored in his mind almost every whimsical or
ludicrous narrative which he had read or heard. "On several occasions,"
says Mr. Brooks, "I have held in my hand a printed slip while he was
repeating its contents to somebody else, and the precision with which he
delivered every word was marvellous." He was fond of the writings of
"Orpheus C. Kerr" and "Petroleum V. Nasby," who were famous humorists at
the time of the Civil War; and he amused himself and others in the
darkest hours by quoting passages from these now forgotten authors.
Nasby's letter from "Wingert's Corners, Ohio," on the threatening
prospects of a migration of the negroes from the South, and the
President's "evident intenshun of colonizin' on 'em in the North," he
especially relished. After rehearsing a portion of this letter to his
guests at the Soldiers' Home one evening, a sedate New England gentleman
expressed surprise that he could find time for memorizing such things.
"Oh," said Lincoln, "I don't. If I like a thing, it _just sticks_ after
once reading it or hearing it." He once recited a long and doleful
ballad, something like "Vilikins and his Dinah," the production of a
rural Kentucky bard, and when he had finished he added with a laugh, "I
don't believe I have thought of that before for forty years." Mr. Arnold
testifies that "although his reading was not extensive, yet his memory
was so retentive and so ready that in history, poetry, and in general
literature, few if any marked any deficiency. As an illustration of the
powers of his memory, may be related the following: A gentleman called
at the White House one day, and introduced to him two officers serving
in the army, one a Swede and the other a Norwegian. Immediately he
repeated, to their delight, a poem of some eight or ten verses
descriptive of Scandinavian scenery, and an old Norse legend. He said he
had read the poem in a newspaper some years before, and liked it, but it
had passed out of his memory until their visit had recalled it. The two
books which he read most were the Bible and Shakespeare. With these he
was perfectly familiar. From the Bible, as has before been stated, he
quoted frequently, and he read it daily, while Shakespeare was his
constant companion. He took a copy with him almost always when
travelling, and read it at leisure moments."
Lincoln was never ashamed to confess the deficiencies in his early
education. A distinguished party, comprising George Thompson, the
English anti-slavery orator, Rev. John Pierpont, Oliver Johnson, and
Hon. Lewis Clephane, once called upon him, and during the conversation
Mr. Pierpont 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."
While Edwin Forrest was playing an engagement at Ford's Theatre, Mr.
Carpenter spoke to the President one day of the actor's fine
interpretation of the character of Richelieu, and advised him to witness
the performance. "Who wrote the play?" asked the President of Mr.
Carpenter. "Bulwer," was the reply. "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_. I once commenced 'Ivanhoe,' but never finished
it."
Among the few diversions which Lincoln allowed himself in Washington was
an occasional visit to the theater to witness a representation of some
good play by a favorite actor. He felt the necessity of some relaxation
from the terrible strain of anxiety and care; and while seated behind
the screen in a box at the theatre he was secure from the everlasting
importunities of politicians and office-seekers. He could forget himself
and his problems while watching the scenes on the mimic stage before
him. He enjoyed the renditions of Booth with great zest; yet after
witnessing "The Merchant of Venice" he remarked on the way home: "It was
a good performance, but I had a thousand times rather read it at home,
if it were not for Booth's playing. A farce or a comedy is best
_played_; a tragedy is best _read_ at home." He was much pleased one
night with Mr. McCullough's delineation of the character of "Edgar,"
which the actor played in support of Edwin Forrest's "Lear." He wished
to convey his approval to the young actor, and asked Mr. Brooks, his
companion at the moment, with characteristic simplicity, "Do you suppose
he would come to the box if we sent word?" Mr. McCullough was summoned,
and, standing at the door of the box in his stage attire, received the
thanks of the President, accompanied with words of discriminating praise
for the excellence of his delineation.
With his keen sense of humor, Lincoln appreciated to the utmost the
inimitable presentation of "Falstaff" by a well-known actor of the time.
His desire to accord praise wherever it was merited led him to express
his admiration in a note to the actor. An interchange of slight
civilities followed, ending at last in a singular situation. Entering
the President's office late one evening, Mr. Brooks noticed the actor
sitting in the waiting-room. Lincoln inquired anxiously if there were
anyone outside. On being told, he said, half sadly, almost desperately,
"Oh, I can't see him; I can't see him! I was in hopes he had gone away."
Then he added, "Now, this illustrates the difficulty of having pleasant
friends in this place. You know I liked him as an actor, and that I
wrote to tell him so. He sent me a book, and there I thought the matter
would end. He is a master of his place in the profession, I suppose, and
well fixed in it. But just because we had a little friendly
correspondence, such as any two men might have, he wants something. What
do you suppose he wants?" I could not guess, and Lincoln added, "Well,
he wants to be consul at London. Oh, dear!"
Lincoln was not a ready writer, and when preparing documents or speeches
of special importance he altered and elaborated his sentences with
patient care. His public utterances were so widely reported and so
mercilessly discussed that he acquired caution in expressing himself
without due preparation. It is stated, on what seems sufficient
authority, that his Gettysburg speech, brief and simple as it is, was
rewritten many times before it finally met his approval. He began also
to be guarded in responding to demands for impromptu speeches, which
were constantly being called for. Mr. Brooks relates that "once, being
notified that he was to be serenaded, just after some notable military
or political event, he asked me to come to dinner, 'so as to be on hand
and see the fun afterward,' as he said. He excused himself as soon as we
had dined, and while the bands were playing, the crowds cheering and the
rockets bursting outside the house, he made his reappearance in the
parlor with a roll of manuscript in his hand. Perhaps noticing a look of
surprise on my face, he said, 'I know what you are thinking about. You
think it mighty queer that an old stump-speaker like myself should not
be able to address a crowd like this outside without a written speech.
But you must remember that in a certain way I am talking to the country,
and I have to be mighty careful. Now, the last time I made an off-hand
speech, in answer to a serenade, I used the phrase, as applied to the
rebels, "turned tail and ran." Some very nice Boston folks, I am grieved
to hear, were very much outraged by that phrase, which they thought
improper. So I resolved to make no more impromptu speeches if I could
help it.'"
In all Lincoln's writings, even his most important state papers, his
chief desire was to make himself clearly understood by the common
reader. He had a great aversion to what he called "machine writing," and
used the fewest words possible to express his meaning. He never
hesitated to employ a homely expression when it suited his purpose. In
his first message the phrase "sugar-coated" occurred; and when it was
printed, Mr. Defrees, the Public Printer, being on familiar terms with
the President, ventured an objection to the phrase--suggesting that
Lincoln was not now preparing a campaign document or delivering a stump
speech in Illinois, but constructing an important state paper that would
go down historically to all coming time; and that therefore he did not
consider the phrase "sugar-coated" as entirely a becoming and dignified
one. "Well, Defrees," replied Lincoln, good-naturedly, "if you think the
time will ever come when the people will not understand what
'sugar-coated' means, I'll alter it; otherwise, I think I'll let it go."
On the same subject, Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe says: "Our own
politicians were somewhat shocked with his state papers at first. 'Why
not let _us_ make them a little more conventional, and file them to a
classical pattern?' 'No,' was his reply, 'I shall write them myself.
_The people will understand them_.' 'But this or that form of expression
is not elegant, not classical.' '_The people will understand it_,' has
been his invariable reply. And whatever may be said of his state papers
as compared with the classic standards, it has been a fact that they
have always been wonderfully well understood by the people, and that
since the time of Washington the state papers of no President have more
controlled the popular mind. One reason for this is that they have been
informal and undiplomatic. They have more resembled a father's talk to
his children than a state paper. They have had that relish and smack of
the soil that appeal to the simple human heart and head, which is a
greater power in writing than the most artful devices of rhetoric.
Lincoln might well say with the apostle, 'But though I be rude in
speech, yet not in knowledge, but we have been thoroughly _made manifest
among you_ in all things.' His rejection of what is called 'fine
writing' was as deliberate as St. Paul's, and for the same
reason--because he felt that he was speaking on a subject which must be
made clear to the lowest intellect, though it should fail to captivate
the highest. But we say of Lincoln's writing, that for all true manly
purposes there are passages in his state papers that could not be better
put; they are absolutely perfect. They are brief, condensed, intense,
and with a power of insight and expression which make them worthy to be
inscribed in letters of gold."
Hon. William J. Bryan, certainly a competent judge of oratory, says of
Lincoln as an orator: "Brevity is the soul of wit, and a part of
Lincoln's reputation for wit lies in his ability to condense a great
deal into a few words. He was epigrammatic. His Gettysburg speech is the
world's model in eloquence, elegance, and condensation. He was apt in
illustration--no one more so. A simple story or simile drawn from
every-day life flashed before his hearers the argument that he wanted to
present. He made frequent use of Bible language, and of illustrations
drawn from Holy Writ. It is said that when he was preparing his
Springfield speech of 1858 he spent hours in trying to find language
that would express the central idea--that a republic could not
permanently endure part free and part slave. Finally a Bible passage
flashed through his mind, and he exclaimed, 'I have found it--_a house
divided against itself cannot stand_.' Probably no other Bible passage
ever exerted as much influence as this one in the settlement of a great
controversy."
Lincoln was a tireless worker, and delegated no duties to others which
he could perform himself. His health seemed to bear the strain of his
terrible burdens wonderfully well. There are but few references anywhere
to his being incapacitated by illness. One such reference occurs in
Welles's Diary, dated March 14, 1865: "The President was somewhat
indisposed, but not seriously ill. The members [of the Cabinet] met in
his bedroom." His correspondence was extensive and burdensome, and as a
rule he wrote his most important letters with his own hand, frequently
going to the trouble of taking copies, which were filed with careful
order in a cabinet, the interior of which was divided into pigeon-holes.
These pigeon-holes, as Mr. Brooks tells us, "were lettered in
alphabetical order, but a few were devoted to individuals. Horace
Greeley had a pigeon-hole by himself; so did each of several generals
who wrote often to him. One compartment, labelled 'W. & W.,' excited
much curiosity, but I never asked what it meant, and one night, being
sent to the cabinet for a letter which the President wanted, he said, 'I
see you looking at my "W. & W." Can you guess what that stands for?' Of
course it was useless to guess. 'Well,' said he, with a roguish twinkle
of the eye, 'that's Weed and Wood--Thurlow and Fernandy.' Then he added,
with an indescribable chuckle, 'That's a pair of 'em.' When asked why he
did not have a letter-book and copying-press, he said, 'A letter-book
might be easily stolen and carried off, but that stock of filed letters
would be a _back-load_.'"
A lady who once rode with Lincoln, in the Presidential carriage, to the
Soldiers' Home, gives some interesting details concerning his knowledge
of woodcraft. "Around the 'Home,'" says this lady, "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
woodsy smell belonging to fresh 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, by right 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 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 whim, 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_.'"
Among Lincoln's callers one Sunday evening, was the distinguished
scientist Louis Agassiz. The two men were somewhat alike in their
simple, shy, and unpretending nature, and at first felt their way with
each other like two bashful schoolboys. Lincoln began conversation by
saying to Agassiz, "I never knew how to pronounce your name properly;
won't you give me a little lesson at that, please?" Then he asked if the
name were of French or Swiss derivation, to which the Professor replied
that it was partly of each. That led to a discussion of different
languages, the President speaking several words in different languages
which had the same root as similar words in our own tongue; then he
illustrated that by one or two anecdotes. But he soon returned to his
gentle cross-examination of Agassiz, and found out how the Professor
studied, how he composed, and how he delivered his lectures; how he
found different tastes in his audiences in different portions of the
country. When afterwards asked why he put such questions to his learned
visitor, he said, "Why, what we got from him isn't printed in the books;
the other things are." But Lincoln did not do all the questioning. In
his turn, Agassiz asked Lincoln if he had ever engaged in lecturing.
Lincoln gave the outline of a lecture, which he had partly written years
before, to show the origin of inventions and prove that there is nothing
new under the sun. "I think I can show," said he, "at least, in a
fanciful way, that all the modern inventions were known centuries ago."
Agassiz begged that Lincoln would finish the lecture sometime. Lincoln
replied that he had the manuscript somewhere in his papers, "and," said
he, "when I get out of this place, I'll finish it up, perhaps."
So great was Lincoln's magnanimity, and so keen his sense of justice,
that he never allowed personal considerations to influence his official
acts. It is probably true that it was easy for him to forgive an injury;
but he was incapable of using his position as President to gratify his
private resentments. It was once represented to him that a recent
appointee to an important office had been bitterly opposed to him
politically. "I suppose," said he, "the Judge did behave pretty ugly;
but that wouldn't make him any less fit for this place, and I have a
Scriptural authority for appointing him. You recollect that while the
Lord on Mount Sinai was getting out a commission for Aaron, that same
Aaron was at the foot of the mountain making a false god, a golden calf,
for the people to worship; yet Aaron got his commission, you know." At
another time, when remonstrated with upon the appointment to place of
one of his former opponents, he said: "Nobody will deny that he is a
first-rate man for the place, and I am bound to see that his opposition
to me personally shall not interfere with my giving the people a good
officer." And on another similar occasion, when remonstrated with by
members of his Cabinet, he said: "Oh, I can't afford to punish every
person who has seen fit to oppose my election. We want a competent man
in this office, and I know of no one who could perform the duties better
than the one proposed."
With all his self-abnegation, Lincoln could be stern when the occasion
warranted it. As an illustration the following incident is related: An
officer who had been cashiered from the service, forced himself several
times into Lincoln's presence, to plead for a reversal of his sentence.
Each time he read a long argument attempting to prove that he had
received unjust treatment. The President listened to him patiently; but
the facts, on their most favorable showing, did not seem to him to
sanction his interference. In the last interview, the man became angry,
and turning abruptly said: "Well, Mr. President, I see you are
determined not to do me justice!" This was too much, even for the
long-suffering Lincoln. Manifesting, however, no more feeling than that
indicated by a slight compression of the lips, he quietly arose, laid
down a package of papers he held in his hands, and then, suddenly
seizing the disgraced 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 wish never to see your face again!" |
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