William Eleroy Curtis

There was very little social life in the White House during the Lincoln administration. The President gave a few State dinners each year, such as were required of his official position, held a few public receptions to gratify the curiosity of the Washington people and strangers in the city, and gave one ball which excited much criticism from the religious press and from unfriendly sources. It was represented as a heartless exhibition of frivolity in the midst of dying soldiers and a grief-stricken country, and some people even went so far as to declare the death of Willie Lincoln, about two weeks later, to be a judgment of God upon the President and Mrs. Lincoln for indulging in worldly amusements. These thoughtless writers did not know that during the reception, which was in honor of the diplomatic corps, the President and Mrs. Lincoln both slipped away from their guests to spend a moment at the bedside of their child, who was so ill that the postponement of the entertainment was proposed, but vetoed by the President. The death of this lad was the greatest sorrow that ever fell upon the President's heart.

There was little opportunity for home life at the White House because of the confusion and distraction caused by the war. The President's labors were unceasing. He seldom took exercise or indulged in amusements. Occasionally he attended the theatre when distinguished performers happened to be in Washington, and usually invited them to his box to express his thanks for the pleasure they had afforded him and to ask questions about the play. He was particularly fond of Shakespeare, and attended the presentation of his plays as frequently as his official cares would permit; he found great diversion in their study, and could repeat many passages that he learned from the first copy he had ever seen while yet a clerk in Denton Offutt's store at New Salem. He had his own theories regarding Shakespeare, and when a prominent actor or Shakespearian scholar came his way, invariably discussed with him the Shakespearian mysteries and the original construction of the plays, with which he was very familiar.

He found diversion in comedies, and used to enjoy clever farces as much as any child. He often took his children to performances at the theatre, and their presence doubled his own enjoyment. This was practically his only recreation, except reading Burns, Petroleum V. Nasby, Artemas Ward, Josh Billings, and other comic writers who appealed to his keen sense of the ridiculous and diverted his attention from the cares of state when they were wearing upon him. He was not fond of games, although he sometimes played backgammon with his boys. For a time he practised basket-ball for exercise, but did not enjoy it. He had little out-door life; it was limited to a daily drive to and from the Soldiers' Home or to some military camp. He enjoyed the saddle and was a good rider, although in the long-tailed coat and tall silk hat which he always wore he made a grotesque figure on horseback. He had no taste for hunting or fishing, never smoked, and was very temperate in his habits. He yearned for rest, although his physical strength and endurance were beyond comparison with those of other public men. His labors and sleepless nights would have broken down any other constitution, and he was often weary. One day, during an especially trying period, he lifted his tired eyes from his desk and remarked to his secretary,—

"I wish George Washington or some other old patriot were here to take my place for a while, so that I could have a little rest." If Lincoln had accepted the advice of his secretaries and his associates he might have spared himself a great deal of labor and annoyance. But he never excused himself from callers in the busiest period of the war; even when hundreds of important duties were pressing upon him, he never denied an attentive ear and a cheerful word. He was a genuine democrat in his feelings and practices, and, regardless of public affairs, listened patiently and considerately to the humblest citizen who called at the White House. One day, when his anteroom was crowded with men and women seeking admission to his presence and he was unusually perplexed by official problems, a friend remarked,—

"Mr. President, you had better send that throng away. You are too tired to see any more people this afternoon. Have them sent away, for you will wear yourself out listening to them."

"They don't want much and they get very little," he replied. "Each one considers his business of great importance, and I must gratify them. I know how I would feel if I were in their place."

At the opening of the administration he was overwhelmed with persistent office-seekers, and so much of his time was occupied in listening to their demands and trying to gratify them that he felt that he was not attending to military affairs and matters of public policy as closely as he should. He compared himself to a man who was so busy letting rooms at one end of his house that he had no time to put out a fire that was destroying the other end. And when he was attacked with the varioloid in 1861 he said to his usher,—

"Tell all the office-seekers to come and see me, for now I have something that I can give them."

He had a remarkable capacity for work and for despatching business. Although deliberation was one of his strongest characteristics, he knew when to act and acted quickly. His brain was as tough and as healthy as his body. His appetite was always good and healthful. He ate sparingly of plain, wholesome food, but had no taste for rich dishes. He was temperate in every way except as concerned his labor, and in that he was tireless. He had the rare and valuable faculty of laying out work for others and being able to give instructions clearly and concisely. He loaded his Cabinet and his secretaries to the limit of their strength, but was always considerate and thoughtful of their comfort. Three of his secretaries lived with him in the White House and usually worked far into the night, and, even after their labors for the day had closed, Lincoln would often wander around barefooted and in his night-shirt, too wakeful to seek his own bed, and read poems from Burns, jokes from Artemas Ward, and the letters of Petroleum V. Nasby to the members of his household.

His sense of humor was his salvation. It was the safety-valve by which his heart was relieved. He was melancholy by nature and inclined to be morbid, and it was this keen enjoyment of the ridiculous that enabled him to endure with patience his official trials and anxiety.

One of the visitors in the early days of the administration says, "He walked into the corridor with us; and, as he bade us good-by and thanked —— for what he had told him, he again brightened up for a moment and asked him in an abrupt kind of way, laying his hand, as he spoke, with a queer but not uncivil familiarity on his shoulder,—

"'You haven't such a thing as a postmaster in your pocket, have you?'

"—— stared at him in astonishment, and I thought a little in alarm, as if he suspected a sudden attack of insanity. Then Mr. Lincoln went on,—

"'You see, it seems to me kind of unnatural that you shouldn't have at least a postmaster in your pocket. Everybody I've seen for days past has had foreign ministers and collectors and all kinds, and I thought you couldn't have got in here without having at least a postmaster get into your pocket.'"

His stories were usually suggested by the conversation or by the situation in which he was placed; but often, in the company of congenial friends, he used to sit back in his chair and indulge in what he called "a good old time;" spinning yarns of his early experiences, describing the characteristics of odd people he had known, and relating amusing incidents that occurred daily, even under the shadows and among the sorrows of war. This habit was the result of his early associations, when the corner store was the club of the frontiersman and the forum for intellectual combats as well as the stage for entertainments. There Lincoln shone as the most brilliant planet that ever illuminated the communities in which he lived, and there he developed the gift which was to afford him so much pleasure and so great relief from oppressing care. He was a poet by nature. He had a deep sentiment and a high appreciation of the beautiful in literature as well as in life. His soul overflowed with sympathy, and his great nature was so comprehensive that it could touch every phase of human interest and meet every class and clan; but he was a restless listener, and when in the mood for talking it was difficult to interrupt him.

Chauncey M. Depew, relating his recollections of Lincoln says that once, while he was at the White House, "the President threw himself on a lounge and rattled off story after story. It was his method of relief, without which he might have gone out of his mind, and certainly would not have been able to have accomplished anything like the amount of work which he did. It is the popular supposition that most of Mr. Lincoln's stories were original, but he said, 'I have originated but two stories in my life, but I tell tolerably well other people's stories.' Riding the circuit for many years, and stopping at country taverns where were gathered the lawyers, jurymen, witnesses, and clients, they would sit up all night narrating to each other their life adventures; and the things which happened to an original people, in a new country, surrounded by novel conditions, and told with the descriptive power and exaggeration which characterized such men, supplied him with an exhaustless fund of anecdote which could be made applicable for enforcing or refuting an argument better than all the invented stories of the world."

The humorous aspect of an appeal or an argument never failed to strike him, and he enjoyed turning the point as much as telling a story. Once, in the darkest days of the war, a delegation of prohibitionists came to him and insisted that the reason the North did not win was because the soldiers drank whiskey and thus brought down the curse of the Lord upon them. There was a mischievous twinkle in Lincoln's eye when he replied that he considered that very unfair on the part of the Lord, because the Southerners drank a great deal worse whiskey and a great deal more of it than the soldiers of the North.

After the internal revenue laws were enacted the United States marshals were often sued for false arrest, and Congress appropriated one hundred thousand dollars to pay the expenses of defending them. Previously the officials brought into court on such charges appealed to the Attorney-General to instruct the United States district attorneys to defend them; but when this appropriation was made, with one accord, they said that they would hire their own lawyers and applied for the cash; which reminded the President of a man in Illinois whose cabin was burned down, and, according to the kindly custom of early days in the West, his neighbors all contributed something to start him again. In this case they were so liberal that he soon found himself better off than he had been before the fire, and got proud. One day a neighbor brought him a bag of oats, but the fellow refused it with scorn. "No," said he, "I'm not taking oats now. I take nothing but money."

One day, just after Lincoln's second inauguration, a Massachusetts merchant, visiting Washington, noticed the great crowd of office-seekers waiting for an audience with the President, and decided that he, too, would like to see him. Writing his name on a card, he added the line, "Holds no office and wants none." The card was taken to President Lincoln, who, instantly jumping up, said to the attendant, "Show him up; he is a curiosity." Passing the long line of office-seekers, the merchant went up to the President, who said he was refreshed to meet a man who did not want an office, and urged his stay. A long and pleasant conversation followed.

Mrs. McCulloch went to the White House one Saturday afternoon to attend Mrs. Lincoln's reception, accompanied by Mrs. William P. Dole, whose husband was Commissioner of Indian Affairs. "There were crowds in and out of the White House," said Mrs. McCulloch, "and during the reception Mr. Lincoln slipped quietly into the room and stood back alone, looking on as the people passed through. I suggested to Mrs. Dole that we should go over and speak to him, which we did. Mr. Lincoln said, laughingly,—

"'I am always glad to see you, ladies, for I know you don't want anything.'

"I replied, 'But, Mr. President, I do want something; I want you to do something very much.'

"'Well, what is it?' he asked, adding, 'I hope it isn't anything I can't do.'

"'I want you to suppress the Chicago Times, because it does nothing but abuse the administration,' I replied.

"'Oh, tut, tut! We must not abridge the liberties of the press or the people. But never mind the Chicago Times. The administration can stand it if the Times can.'" 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?"

However, Lincoln had great respect for the press. He was one day complaining of the injustice of Mr. Greeley's criticisms and the false light in which they put him before the country, when a friend, with great earnestness, suggested,—

"Why don't you publish the facts in every newspaper in the United States? The people will then understand your position and your vindication will be complete."

"Yes, all the newspapers will publish my letter, and so will Greeley," Lincoln replied. "The next day he will comment upon it, and keep it up, in that way, until at the end of three weeks I will be convicted out of my own mouth of all the things he charges against me. No man, whether he be private citizen or President of the United States, can successfully carry on a controversy with a great newspaper and escape destruction, unless he owns a newspaper equally great with a circulation in the same neighborhood."

PRESIDENT LINCOLN AND HIS SON "TAD"

From a photograph by Brady, now in the War Department Collection, Washington, D. C.

Colonel John Hay, who resided in the White House during the entire administration of Lincoln, has given us this graphic picture of the President's home life and habits:

"The President rose early, as his sleep was light and capricious. In the summer, when he lived at the Soldiers' Home, he would take his frugal breakfast and ride into town in time to be at his desk at eight o'clock. He began to receive visits nominally at ten o'clock, but long before that hour struck the doors were besieged by anxious crowds, through whom the people of importance, Senators and members of Congress, elbowed their way after the fashion which still survives. On days when the Cabinet met—Tuesdays and Fridays—the hour of noon closed the interviews of the morning. On other days it was the President's custom, at about that hour, to order the doors to be opened and all who were waiting to be admitted. The crowd would rush in, throng in the narrow room, and one by one would make their wants known. Some came merely to shake hands, to wish him Godspeed; their errand was soon done. Others came asking help or mercy; they usually pressed forward, careless in their pain as to what ears should overhear their prayer. But there were many who lingered in the rear and leaned against the wall, hoping each to be the last, that they might in tÊte-À-tÊte unfold their schemes for their own advantage or their neighbor's hurt. These were often disconcerted by the President's loud and hearty, 'Well, friend, what can I do for you?' which compelled them to speak, or retire and wait for a more convenient season. The inventors were more a source of amusement than of annoyance. They were usually men of some originality of character, not infrequently carried to eccentricity. Lincoln had a quick comprehension of mechanical principles, and often detected a flaw in an invention which the contriver had overlooked. He would sometimes go out into the waste fields that then lay south of the Executive Mansion to test an experimental gun or torpedo. He used to quote with much merriment the solemn dictum of one rural inventor that 'a gun ought not to rekyle; if it rekyles at all, it ought to rekyle a little forrid.'

"At luncheon time he had literally to run the gauntlet through the crowds that filled the corridors between his office and the rooms at the west end of the house occupied by the family. The afternoon wore away in much the same manner as the morning; late in the day he usually drove out for an hour's airing; at six o'clock he dined. He was one of the most abstemious of men; the pleasures of the table had few attractions for him. His breakfast was an egg and a cup of coffee; at luncheon he rarely took more than a biscuit and a glass of milk, a plate of fruit in its season; at dinner he ate sparingly of one or two courses. He drank little or no wine; not that he remained on principle a total abstainer, as he was during a part of his early life in the fervor of the 'Washingtonian' reform; but he never cared for wine or liquors of any sort and never used tobacco.

"There was little gayety in the Executive House during his time. It was an epoch, if not of gloom, at least of a seriousness too intense to leave room for much mirth. There were the usual formal entertainments, the traditional state dinners and receptions, conducted very much as they have been ever since. The great public receptions, with their vast, rushing multitudes pouring past him to shake hands, he rather enjoyed; they were not a disagreeable task to him, and he seemed surprised when people commiserated him upon them. He would shake hands with thousands of people, seemingly unconscious of what he was doing, murmuring some monotonous salutation as they went by, his eye dim, his thoughts far withdrawn; then suddenly he would see some familiar face,—his memory for faces was very good,—and his eye would brighten and his whole form grow attentive; he would greet the visitor with a hearty grasp and a ringing word and dismiss him with a cheery laugh that filled the Blue Room with infectious good-nature. Many people armed themselves with an appropriate speech to be delivered on these occasions, but unless it was compressed into the smallest possible space, it never was uttered; the crowd would jostle the peroration out of shape. If it were brief enough, and hit the President's fancy, it generally received a swift answer. One night an elderly gentleman from Buffalo said, 'Up our way we believe in God and Abraham Lincoln,' to which the President replied, shoving him along the line, 'My friend, you are more than half right.'

"During the first year of the administration the house was made lively by the games and pranks of Mr. Lincoln's two younger children, William and Thomas: Robert, the eldest, was away at Harvard, only coming home for short vacations. The two little boys, aged eight and ten, with their Western independence and enterprise, kept the house in an uproar. They drove their tutor wild with their good-natured disobedience; they organized a minstrel show in the attic; they made acquaintance with the office-seekers and became the hot champions of the distressed. William was, with all his boyish frolic, a child of great promise, capable of close application and study. He had a fancy for drawing up railway time-tables, and would conduct an imaginary train from Chicago to New York with perfect precision. He wrote childish verses, which sometimes attained the unmerited honors of print. But this bright, gentle, and studious child sickened and died in February, 1862. His father was profoundly moved by his death, though he gave no outward sign of his trouble, but kept about his work the same as ever. His bereaved heart seemed afterwards to pour out its fulness on his youngest child. 'Tad' was a merry, warm-blooded, kindly little boy, perfectly lawless, and full of odd fancies and inventions, the 'chartered libertine' of the Executive Mansion. He ran continually in and out of his father's cabinet, interrupting his gravest labors and conversations with his bright, rapid, and very imperfect speech,—for he had an impediment which made his articulation almost unintelligible until he was nearly grown. He would perch upon his father's knee, and sometimes even on his shoulder, while the most weighty conferences were going on. Sometimes, escaping from the domestic authorities, he would take refuge in that sanctuary for the whole evening, dropping to sleep at last on the floor, when the President would pick him up and carry him tenderly to bed.

"Mr. Lincoln spent most of his evenings in his office, though occasionally he remained in the drawing-room after dinner, conversing with visitors or listening to music, for which he had an especial liking, though he was not versed in the science, and preferred simple ballads to more elaborate compositions. In his office he was not often suffered to be alone; he frequently passed the evening there with a few friends in frank and free conversation. If the company was all of one sort he was at his best; his wit and rich humor had full play; he was once more the Lincoln of the Eighth Circuit, the cheeriest of talkers, the riskiest of story-tellers; but if a stranger came in he put on in an instant his whole armor of dignity and reserve. He had a singular discernment of men; he would talk of the most important political and military concerns with a freedom which often amazed his intimates, but we do not recall an instance in which this confidence was misplaced.

"Where only one or two were present he was fond of reading aloud. He passed many of the summer evenings in this way when occupying his cottage at the Soldiers' Home.

"He read Shakespeare more than all other writers together. He made no attempt to keep pace with the ordinary literature of the day. Sometimes he read a scientific work with keen appreciation, but he pursued no systematic course. He owed less to reading than most men. He delighted in Burns; of Thomas Hood he was also excessively fond. He often read aloud 'The Haunted House.' He would go to bed with a volume of Hood in his hands, and would sometimes rise at midnight and, traversing the long halls of the Executive Mansion in his night-clothes, would come to his secretary's room and read aloud something that especially pleased him. He wanted to share his enjoyment of the writer; it was dull pleasure for him to laugh alone. He read Bryant and Whittier with appreciation; there were many poems of Holmes that he read with intense relish. 'The Last Leaf' was one of his favorites; he knew it by heart, and used often to repeat it with deep feeling."

Ben: Perley Poore, in his reminiscences, says, "The White House, while Mr. Lincoln occupied it, was a fertile field for news, which he was always ready to give those correspondents in whom he had confidence, but the surveillance of the press—first by Secretary Seward and then by Secretary Stanton—was as annoying as it was inefficient. A censorship of all matter filed at the Washington office of the telegraph, for transmission to different Northern cities, was exercised by a succession of ignorant individuals, some of whom had to be hunted up at whiskey shops when their signature of approval was desired. A Congressional investigation showed how stupidly the censors performed their duty. Innocent sentences which were supposed to have a hidden meaning were stricken from paragraphs, which were thus rendered nonsensical, and information was rejected that was clipped in print from the Washington papers, which it was known regularly found their way into 'Dixie.'

"When irate correspondents appealed to Mr. Lincoln, he would good-naturedly declare that he had no control over his secretaries, and would endeavor to mollify their wrath by telling them a story. One morning in the winter of 1862, when two angry journalists had undertaken to explain the annoyances of the censorship, Mr. Lincoln, who had listened in his dreamy way, finally said,— "'I don't know much about this censorship, but come downstairs and I will show you the origin of one of the pet phrases of you newspaper fellows.'

"Leading the way down into the basement, he opened the door of a larder and solemnly pointed to the hanging carcass of a gigantic sheep.

"'There,' said he; 'now you know what "Revenons À nos moutons" means. It was raised by Deacon Buffum at Manchester, up in New Hampshire. Who can say, after looking at it, that New Hampshire's only product is granite?'"

When William Lloyd Garrison came to Washington to thank the President for issuing the Emancipation Proclamation, he visited Baltimore expressly for the purpose of inspecting the old jail in which he was confined for several weeks for being an abolitionist, but, much to his disappointment, the police in charge would not admit him. During his interview with the President he complained of this, and Lincoln remarked,—

"You have had hard luck in Baltimore, haven't you, Garrison? The first time you couldn't get out of prison and the second time you couldn't get in."

A woman called at the White House one day to ask the release from prison of a relative whom she declared was suffering from great injustice. She was very handsome and attractive and endeavored to use her attractions upon the President. After listening to her a little while, he concluded, as he afterwards explained, that he was "too soft" to deal with her, and sent her over to the War Department with a sealed envelope containing a card upon which he had written,—

"This woman, dear Stanton, is smarter than she looks to be."

Another woman came to the White House one day on an unusual errand which the President suspected was a pretext, but he took her at her word and gave her the following note to Major Ramsey, of the Quartermaster's Department.

"My Dear Sir:—The lady—bearer of this—says she has two sons who want to work. Set them at it if possible. Wanting to work is so rare a merit that it should be encouraged.

A. Lincoln."

A member of Congress from Ohio, and a famous man, by the way, once entered the Executive Chamber in a state of intoxication,—just drunk enough to be solemn,—and, as he dropped into a chair, exclaimed in dramatic tones the first line of the President's favorite poem:

"'Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?'"

"I see no reason whatever," retorted the President, in disgust.

A delegation of clergymen once called to recommend one of their number for appointment as consul at the Hawaiian Islands, and, in addition to urging his fitness for the place, appealed to the President's sympathy on the ground that the candidate was in bad health, and a residence in that climate would be of great benefit to him. Lincoln questioned the man closely as to his symptoms, and then remarked,—

"I am sorry to disappoint you, but there are eight other men after this place, and every one of them is sicker than you are."

A party of friends from Springfield called upon him one day and, as a matter of gossip, told him of the death and burial of a certain prominent Illinois politician who was noted for his vanity and love of praise. After listening to the description of his funeral, the President remarked,—

"If Jim had known he was to have that kind of a funeral, he would have died long ago."

One of the telegraph operators at the War Department relates that the President came over there at night during the war and remarked that he had just been reading a little book which some one had given to his son Tad. It was a story of a motherly hen who was struggling to raise her brood and teach them to lead honest and useful lives, but in her efforts she was greatly annoyed by a mischievous fox who made sad havoc with her offspring. "I thought I would turn over to the finis and see how it came out," said the President. "This is what it said: 'And the fox became a good fox, and was appointed paymaster in the army.' I wonder who he is?"

To a deputation that waited upon him to criticise certain acts of his administration, he made the following response:

"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 and 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 is carrying an immense weight. Untold treasures are in our hands. We are doing the very best we can. Don't badger us. Keep quiet, and we will get you safe across."

A multitude of authentic anecdotes are told to show Lincoln's kindness of heart and his disposition to relieve the distress of those who came to him with stories of wrong or sorrow. His readiness to pardon soldiers who had been convicted by court-martial and sentenced to death caused great dissatisfaction at the War Department and among the army officers, who complained that his interference was destroying the discipline of the service; but whenever an appeal was made to him he always endeavored to find some reason, near or remote, for Executive clemency, and if that was impossible, he invariably gave an order for the postponement of the penalty until a further investigation could be made. A very flagrant case was brought to him of a soldier who had demoralized his regiment by throwing down his gun and running away in battle, and by trying to shield his own cowardice by inducing others to imitate him. When tried by court-martial there was no defence. It was shown that he was an habitual thief, had robbed his comrades, and that he had no parents or wife or child to excite sympathy. When Judge-Advocate-General Holt laid the case before Lincoln, he expected him to approve the death-sentence without hesitation. There was not the slightest excuse for clemency; the record of the case did not contain a single item of evidence in the man's favor. The President looked through the documents carefully, but in vain, to find some reason why the coward should not die. Then, running his long fingers through his hair, as he often did when puzzled, he looked up and said,—

"The only thing I can do with this, judge, is to put it with my leg cases."

"Leg cases!" exclaimed Judge Holt, with a frown at this supposed levity of the President in a case of life and death. "What do you mean by leg cases, sir?"

"Do you see those papers stuffed into those pigeonholes?" replied Lincoln. "They are the cases that you call 'cowardice-in-the-face-of-the-enemy,' but I call them 'leg cases' for short; and I will put it to you; I leave it for you to decide for yourself. If Almighty God gives a man a cowardly pair of legs, how can he help their running away with him?"

One day an old man came to him with a sad tale of sorrow. His son had been convicted of unpardonable crimes and sentenced to death, but he was an only son, and Lincoln said, kindly,—

"I am sorry I can do nothing for you. Listen to this telegram I received from General Butler yesterday:

"'President Lincoln, I pray you not to interfere with the courts-martial of the army. You will destroy all discipline among our soldiers.

B. F. Butler.'"

Lincoln watched the old man's grief for a minute, and then exclaimed, "By jingo! Butler or no Butler, here goes!" Writing a few words he handed the paper to the old man, reading,—

"Job Smith is not to be shot until further orders from me.

Abraham Lincoln."

"Why," said the old man, sadly, "I thought it was a pardon. You may order him to be shot next week."

"My old friend," replied the President, "I see you are not very well acquainted with me. If your son never dies till orders come from me to shoot him, he will live to be a great deal older than Methuselah."

One of the most famous cases of pardon was that of William Scott, a young boy from a Vermont farm, who, after marching forty-eight hours without sleep, volunteered to stand guard duty for a sick comrade in addition to his own. Nature overcame him, he was found asleep at his post within gunshot of the enemy, tried, convicted, and sentenced to be shot. A day or two before the execution Lincoln happened to visit that division of the army, and, learning of the case, asked permission to see the boy. He entered the tent that was used for a prison, talked to him kindly, inquired about his home, his parents, his schoolmates, and particularly about his mother, and how she looked. The boy had her photograph in his pocket and showed it to him, and Lincoln was very much affected. As he was leaving the tent, he put his hands on the lad's shoulders and said, with a trembling voice,—

"My boy, you are not going to be shot to-morrow. I believe you when you tell me that you could not keep awake. I am going to trust you and send you back to the regiment. But I have been put to a great deal of trouble on your account. I have had to come here from Washington when I had a great deal to do. Now, what I want to know is, how are you going to pay my bill?"

In relating the story afterwards, Scott said, "I could scarcely speak. I had expected to die, you see, and had got kind of used to thinking that way. To have it all changed in a minute! But I got it crowded down and managed to say, 'I am grateful, Mr. Lincoln! I hope I am as grateful as ever a man can be to you for saving my life. But it comes upon me sudden and unexpected like. I didn't lay out for it at all; but there is something to pay you, and I will find it after a little. There is the bounty in the savings bank, and I guess we could borrow some money by a mortgage on the farm. Then my pay is something, and if you would wait until pay day I am sure the boys would help; so we could make it up if it isn't more than five or six hundred dollars.' 'But it is a great deal more than that,' he said. 'My bill is a very large one. Your friends cannot pay it, nor your bounty, nor the farm, nor all your comrades! There is only one man in all the world who can pay it, and his name is William Scott! If from this day William Scott does his duty, so that, when he comes to die, he can look me in the face as he does now, and say, I have kept my promise, and I have done my duty as a soldier, then my debt will be paid. Will you make that promise and try to keep it?'"

The promise was gratefully given. It is too long a story to tell of the effect of this sympathetic kindness on Private William Scott. After one of the battles of the Peninsula he was found shot to pieces. He said, "Boys, I have tried to do the right thing! If any of you have the chance, I wish you would tell President Lincoln that I have never forgotten the kind words he said to me at the Chain Bridge; that I have tried to be a good soldier and true to the flag; that I should have paid my whole debt to him if I had lived; and that now, when I know I am dying, I think of his kind face, and thank him again, because he gave me the chance to fall like a soldier in battle and not like a coward by the hands of my comrades."

When Francis Kernan was a member of Congress during the war, a woman came to him one day and said that her husband had been captured as a deserter. The next morning he called at the White House and gave the President the facts. The man had been absent a year from his family, and, without leave, had gone home to see them. On his way back to the army he was arrested as a deserter and sentenced to be shot. The sentence was to be carried out that very day.

The President listened attentively, becoming more and more interested in the story. Finally he said, "Why, Kernan, of course this man wanted to see his family, and they ought not to shoot him for that." So he called his secretary and sent a telegram suspending the sentence. He exclaimed, "Get off that just as soon as you can, or they will shoot the man in spite of me!" The result was the man got his pardon and took his place again in the army.

A Congressman who had failed to move Secretary Stanton to grant a pardon, went to the White House late at night, after the President had retired, forced the way to his bedroom, and earnestly besought his interference, exclaiming, earnestly,—

"This man must not be shot, Mr. Lincoln."

"Well," said the President, coolly, "I do not believe shooting will do him any good," and the pardon was granted.

The late Governor Rice, of Massachusetts, says, "It happened at one time that Senator Henry Wilson and myself called to see President Lincoln on a joint errand. As the door to Mr. Lincoln's room opened, a small boy, perhaps twelve years old, slipped in between the Senator and myself. The President appeared to be attracted to the lad, and asked, 'And who is the little boy?' an inquiry which neither the Senator nor myself could answer. The lad, however, immediately replied that he had come to Washington in the hope of obtaining a situation as page in the House of Representatives. The President began to say that he must go to Captain Goodnow, the head door-keeper of the House, as he had nothing to do with such an appointment; upon which the lad pulled from his pockets a recommendation from the supervisors of the town, the minister of the parish, and others, stating also that his mother was a widow, and pleading the necessities of the family. The President called the boy nearer to him, took his recommendation, and wrote upon the back as follows:

"'If Captain Goodnow can give this good little boy a place he will oblige

A. Lincoln.'"

Mr. Titian J. Coffey, who was Assistant Attorney-General, relates that "in the spring of 1863 a very handsome and attractive young lady from Philadelphia came to my office with a note from a friend, asking me to assist her in obtaining an interview with the President. Some time before she had been married to a young man who was a lieutenant in a Pennsylvania regiment. He had been compelled to leave her the day after the wedding to rejoin his command in the Army of the Potomac. After some time he obtained leave of absence, returned to Philadelphia, and started on a brief honeymoon journey with his bride. A movement of the army being imminent, the War Department issued a peremptory order requiring all absent officers to rejoin their regiments by a certain day, on penalty of dismissal in case of disobedience. The bride and groom, away on their hurried wedding-tour, failed to see the order, and on their return he was met by a notice of his dismissal from the service. The young fellow was completely prostrated by the disgrace, and his wife hurried to Washington to get him restored. I obtained for her an interview with the President. She told her story with simple and pathetic eloquence, and wound up by saying,—

"'Mr. Lincoln, won't you help us? I promise you, if you will restore him, he will be faithful to his duty.'

"The President had listened to her with evident sympathy and a half-amused smile at her earnestness, and as she closed her appeal he said, with parental kindness,—

"'And you say, my child, that Fred was compelled to leave you the day after the wedding? Poor fellow, I don't wonder at his anxiety to get back, and if he stayed a little longer than he ought to have done we'll have to overlook his fault this time. Take this card to the Secretary of War and he will restore your husband.'

"She went to the War Department, saw the Secretary, who rebuked her for troubling the President and dismissed her somewhat curtly. As it happened, on her way down the War Department stairs, her hopes chilled by the Secretary's abrupt manner, she met the President ascending. He recognized her, and, with a pleasant smile, said,—

"'Well, my dear, have you seen the Secretary?'

"'Yes, Mr. Lincoln,' she replied, 'and he seemed very angry with me for going to you. Won't you speak to him for me?'

"'Give yourself no trouble,' said he. 'I will see that the order is issued.'

"And in a few days her husband was remanded to his regiment. I am sorry to add that, not long after, he was killed at the battle of Gettysburg, thus sealing with his blood her pledge that he should be faithful to his duty."

Attorney-General Bates, a Virginian by birth, who had many relatives in that State, one day heard that the son of one of his old friends was a prisoner of war and not in good health. Knowing the boy's father to be a Union man, Mr. Bates conceived the idea of having the son paroled and sent home, of course under promise not to return to the army. He went to see the President and said,—

"I have a personal favor to ask. I want you to give me a prisoner." And he told him of the case. The President said, "Bates, I have an almost parallel case. The son of an old friend of mine in Illinois ran off and entered the rebel army. The young fool has been captured, is a prisoner of war, and his old broken-hearted father has asked me to send him home, promising, of course, to keep him there. I have not seen my way clear to do it, but if you and I unite our influence with this administration I believe we can manage it together and make two loyal fathers happy. Let us make them our prisoners."

Lincoln's reputation for kindness of heart extended even among the officials of the Confederacy. Mr. Usher, Secretary of the Interior, says that when he returned from the Peace Conference on the James, in 1864, where he met Messrs. Stephens, Campbell, and Hunter, he related some of his conversations with them. He said that at the conclusion of one of his discourses, detailing what he considered to be the position in which the insurgents were placed by the law, they replied,—

"Well, according to your view of the case, we are all guilty of treason and liable to be hanged."

Lincoln replied, "Yes, that is so." And Mr. Stephens retorted,—

"Well, we supposed that would necessarily be your view of our case, but we never had much fear of being hanged while you are President."

From his manner in repeating this scene he seemed to appreciate the compliment highly. There is no evidence that he ever contemplated executing any of the insurgents for their treason. There is no evidence that he desired any of them to leave the country, with the exception of Mr. Davis. His great, and apparently his only, object was to have a restored Union.

A short time before the capitulation of General Lee, General Grant had told him that the war must necessarily soon come to an end, and wanted to know whether he should try to capture Jeff Davis or let him escape from the country if he would. Mr. Lincoln said,—

"About that, I told him the story of an Irishman who had taken the pledge of Father Mathew. He became terribly thirsty, applied to a bar-tender for a lemonade, and while it was being prepared whispered to him, 'And couldn't ye put a little brandy in it all unbeknown to meself?' I told Grant if he could let Jeff Davis escape all unbeknown to himself, to let him go. I didn't want him."

Near the close of the war his old friend, Thomas Gillespie, asked him what was to be done with the rebels. He answered, after referring to the vehement demand prevalent in certain quarters for exemplary punishment, by quoting the words of David to his nephews, who were asking for vengeance on Shimei because "he cursed the Lord's anointed:" "What have I to do with you, ye sons of Zeruiah, that ye should this day be adversaries unto me? shall there any man be put to death this day in Israel?"

But the President could be very stern and determined when he considered it necessary, although, when compelled by his sense of duty to withhold a pardon, he usually gave reasons which could not be set aside and accompanied them by a lesson of value. An officer once complained to him, with great indignation, that General Sherman was a tyrant and a bully and unfit to command troops. Lincoln listened attentively until he had exhausted his wrath, and then inquired quietly if he had any personal grievance against General Sherman. The officer replied that General Sherman had accused him of some misconduct and threatened to shoot him if it occurred again.

"If I were in your place," remarked the President, in a confidential whisper, "I wouldn't repeat that offence, because Sherman is a man of his word."

One day Mr. Nicolay brought the President a telegram from Philadelphia, stating that a man had been arrested in that city for an attempt to obtain fifteen hundred dollars on Lincoln's draft.

"I have given no authority for such a draft; and if I had," he added, humorously, "it is surprising that any man could get the money."

After a moment's reflection, Mr. Nicolay thought he knew the accused party.

"Do you remember, Mr. President, a request from a stranger a few days since for your autograph? You gave it to him upon a half-sheet of note-paper. The scoundrel doubtless forged an order above your signature, and has attempted to swindle somebody."

"Oh, that's the trick, is it?" said the President.

"What shall be done with him?" inquired Mr. Nicolay. "Have you any orders?"

"Well," replied Mr. Lincoln, pausing between the words, "I don't see but that he will have to sit upon the blister bench."

In 1861 E. Delafield Smith was United States District Attorney for the Southern District of New York. One of the first and most important of his trials was that of William Gordon for slave-trading. Gordon was convicted—the first conviction under the slave law that was ever had in the United States either North or South—and sentenced to be hanged. An extraordinary effort was made to have Lincoln pardon him. Mr. Smith deemed it his duty to go to Washington and protest against clemency. Lincoln took from his desk a reprieve already prepared and laid it before him. He picked up a pen, and held it in his hand while he listened to the argument of Mr. Smith on the imperative necessity of making an example of Gordon, in order to terrorize those who were engaged in the slave-trade. Then he threw down the pen and remarked,—

"Mr. Smith, you do not know how hard it is to have a human being die when you feel that a stroke of your pen will save him."

Gordon was executed in New York.

A volunteer major who had been wounded at Petersburg found himself mustered out of his regiment on that account, nolens volens, and appealed to the President for an appointment on staff duty, so that he could still continue to perform service regardless of his physical incapacity.

The President took down a large volume of the laws of Congress, opened to the page and section of the act, put his finger on the line, and read aloud the words which authorized him to make staff appointments only on the request of a general commanding a brigade, division, or corps. The major admitted that he had not brought such an application, for he had not thought it necessary. "It cannot be done," said the President, "without such a request. I have no more power to appoint you, in the absence of such a request, than I would have to marry a woman to any man she might want for her husband without his consent. Bring me such an application and I will make it at once, for I see you deserve it."

The late Governor Rice, of Massachusetts, said, "A mercantile firm in Boston had an office boy whose duty, among other things, was to take the mail to and from the post-office. This boy was fresh from the country, and, seeing his opportunity to get money from the letters intrusted to him, yielded to the temptation, was detected, convicted, and imprisoned; but the employers and the jury joined with the boy's father to obtain his pardon. The father appeared in Washington with a petition numerously signed. I introduced him to the President, to whom I also handed the petition. Mr. Lincoln put on his spectacles, threw himself back in his chair and stretched his long legs and read the document. When finished, he turned to me and asked if I met a man on the stairs. 'Well,' said Mr. Lincoln, 'his errand was to get a man pardoned, and now you come to get a boy out of jail. But I am a little encouraged by your visit. They are after me on the men, but appear to be roping you in on the boys. The trouble appears to come from the courts. It seems as if the courts ought to be abolished, anyway; for they appear to pick out the very best men in the community and send them to the penitentiary, and now they are after the same kind of boys.'"

Once he received a message from a zealous Irish soldier with more courage than brains (or he would not have telegraphed direct to the President), who had been left behind in the retreat of the army across the Potomac before the advancing columns of Lee's army, with one gun of his battery on the bank of the river below Edwards Ferry. It read about thus: "I have the whole rebel army in my front. Send me another gun and I assure your honor they shall not come over." This pleased the President greatly, and he sent him an encouraging reply, suggesting that he report his situation to his superior officer.

A rebel raid on Falls Church, a little hamlet a dozen miles from Washington, had resulted in the surprise and capture of a brigadier-general and twelve army mules. When Lincoln heard of it he exclaimed,—

"How unfortunate! I can fill that general's place in five minutes, but those mules cost us two hundred dollars apiece."

Captain Knight, who was in charge of the guard at the War Department, said, "Mr. Lincoln's favorite time for visiting the War Department was between eleven and twelve o'clock at night. His tall, ungainly form wrapped in an old gray shawl, wearing usually a shockingly bad hat, and carrying a worse umbrella, came up the steps into the building. Secretary Stanton, who knew Mr. Lincoln's midnight habits, gave a standing order that, although Mr. Lincoln might come from the White House alone (and he seldom came in any other way), he should never be permitted to return alone, but should be escorted by a file of four soldiers and a non-commissioned officer.

"On the way to the White House, Mr. Lincoln would converse with us on various topics. I remember one night, when it was raining very hard, as he saw us at the door, ready to escort him, he addressed us in these words: 'Don't come out in this storm with me to-night, boys; I have my umbrella, and can get home safely without you.'

"'But,' I replied, 'Mr. President, we have positive orders from Mr. Stanton not to allow you to return alone, and you know we dare not disobey his orders.'

"'No,' replied Mr. Lincoln, 'I suppose not; for if Mr. Stanton should learn that you had let me return alone, he would have you court-martialed and shot inside of twenty-four hours.'

"I was detailed upon one occasion to escort the President to the Soldiers' Home," continued Captain Knight. "As we approached the front gate, I noticed what seemed to be a young man groping his way, as if he were blind, across the road. Hearing the carriage and horses approaching, he became frightened, and walked in the direction of the approaching danger. Mr. Lincoln quickly observed this, and shouted to the coachman to rein in his horses, which he did as they were about to run over the unfortunate youth. He had been shot through the left side of the upper part of the face, and the ball, passing from one side to the other, had put out both his eyes. He could not have been over sixteen or seventeen years of age, and, aside from his blindness, he had a very beautiful face. Mr. Lincoln extended his hand to him, and while he held it he asked him, with a voice trembling with emotion, his name, his regiment, and where he lived. The young man answered these questions and stated that he lived in Michigan; and then Mr. Lincoln made himself known to the blind soldier, and with a look that was a benediction in itself, spoke to him a few words of sympathy and bade him good-by. The following day after his interview with the President he received a commission as a first lieutenant in the regular army of the United States, accompanied by an order of retirement upon full pay; and, if he is living to-day, he is doubtless drawing the salary of a first lieutenant in the United States army on the retired list."

The most important battle of the war was fought at the polls in the Northern States in November, 1864, and from the hour that the result was announced the Southern Confederacy was doomed. It lost the confidence and respect of the people within its own jurisdiction and of the nations of Europe. Several attempts were made by the Southern leaders to open negotiations for peace, but President Lincoln gave them plainly to understand that he could not recognize the Confederacy as anything but a rebellion against the government. Then General Lee undertook "to meet General Grant with the hope that ... it may be found practicable to submit the subjects of controversy ... to a convention," etc. Grant immediately wired Lee's letter to Mr. Stanton, who received it at the Capitol on the last night of the session of Congress, where the President, attended by his Cabinet, had gone, as usual, to sign bills. Having read the telegram, Mr. Stanton handed it to the President without comment. By this time Lincoln felt himself completely master of the situation. He knew the people were behind him and would approve whatever he thought best for the welfare of the country. He had full confidence in the commanders of his armies and knew that they were crowding the Confederates into the last ditch. Therefore, for the first time since the beginning of the war, he could act promptly upon his individual judgment. Without consulting any one, he wrote the following despatch, which, without a word, he passed over the table for Stanton to sign and send:

"The President directs me to say that he wishes you to have no conference with General Lee, unless it be for capitulation of General 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 questions. Such questions the President holds in his own hand and will submit them to no military conferences or conventions. Meanwhile you are to press to the utmost your military advantages."

This little despatch crushed the last hope of the Confederate authorities; but, before the end could come, Lee resolved to make one more desperate attempt to escape from the toils in which he was involved. His assault was made with great spirit on March 25, and from that day until April 7 there was fighting all along the line. In the mean time Lincoln went down to City Point, where Grant had his head-quarters, on the James River a few miles below Richmond, and there had a conference with the three great heroes of the war, Sherman having come from North Carolina and Sheridan from the other side of Richmond. It was a remarkable meeting,—the first and last time these four men were ever together.

After the conference, at which Lincoln expressed his sympathy with the desperate situation in which the Confederates were placed, Grant sent a note through the lines to Lee, saying, "The results of the last week must have convinced you of the hopelessness of further resistance," and added that he regarded it a duty "to shift from myself the responsibility of any further effusion of blood" by asking Lee's surrender. Lee replied that he reciprocated the desire to avoid further bloodshed, and asked for terms. Grant answered that there was only one condition, that the officers and men surrendered should be disqualified from taking up arms again. Lee replied the next day that he did not think the emergency had arisen for the surrender of his army, but offered to meet Grant at ten o'clock the next morning on the old stage line to Richmond between the pickets of the two armies. Grant answered that "the terms upon which peace can be had are well understood. By the South laying down their arms they will hasten that most desirable event, save thousands of human lives and hundreds of millions of property." Lee had hoped to arrest the movement of the Union troops by entering into negotiations, but found that Grant understood his purpose and was drawing more closely around him, so he accepted the inevitable and asked an interview for the surrender of his army.

The meeting at the McLean mansion at Appomattox has been too often described to require reference in these pages, except to call attention to the fact that General Grant's letter accepting the surrender of Lee's army was in direct violation of the amnesty proclamation of December 8, 1863, and President Lincoln's order sent from the Capital on the night of March 3. No one knows whether Lincoln ever called his attention to that fact. There is no record of a reprimand or even a comment from the President, and it is probable that his joy and gratitude were so overwhelming that he did not even question the terms. General Grant, however, in his "Memoirs," says that he was overcome by feelings of sympathy for his heroic antagonist, and that the closing sentence of his letter, which practically pardoned the entire army, was written without a thought of its far-reaching significance. President Lincoln was the same man in triumph that he had been in distress. Neither joy nor grief could disconcert him, but no one witnessed the enthusiasm of the public over the news from Appomattox with greater gratification. The story of his visit to Richmond is told in Chapter VI. Upon his return to Washington he took up at once the important work of restoring order in the South with as much zeal and energy as he had shown in the prosecution of the war.

On April 11, from one of the windows of the White House, in response to a serenade, he delivered his last speech, in which he departed from the habit of reticence he had practised throughout the war and expressed more of his views and purposes than he had ever previously done on a similar occasion.

April 14, the anniversary of the evacuation of Fort Sumter, was celebrated by restoring the identical flag to the staff from which it had been lowered four years before. General Robert Anderson performed that thankful duty; the Rev. Matthias Harris, the former chaplain of Fort Sumter, offered prayer; General E. D. Townsend read the original despatch announcing the evacuation; and Henry Ward Beecher delivered a brilliant oration, which concluded with these words:

"We offer to the President of these United States our solemn congratulations that God has sustained his life and health under the unparalleled burdens and sufferings of four bloody years, and permitted him to behold this auspicious confirmation of that national unity for which he has waited with so much patience and fortitude, and for which he has labored with such disinterested wisdom."

General Grant, who arrived in Washington on the morning of the 14th, expressed anxiety concerning the situation of General Sherman, because he had heard nothing from him for several days. The President assured him that he need have no concern, because the night before he had dreamed that he was on board a curious vessel sailing rapidly towards a dark and indefinite shore, and awoke before landing. He said he had had exactly the same dream before the battles of Antietam, Murfreesborough, Gettysburg, Vicksburg, and other great victories. Although the members of the Cabinet were accustomed to similar revelations of that mysticism which was one of Lincoln's characteristics, they were greatly impressed; but Grant dismissed it with the comment that there was no victory at Murfreesborough, and that the battle there had no important results. The President did not seem to notice this matter-of-fact remark, and continued to describe his dream and the sensations which followed it, insisting that Sherman would soon report an important victory, because he could think of no other possible event to which his dream might refer. Twelve days later, April 26, came the news of the surrender of Johnston's army to Sherman and the end of the war.

In the presence of General Grant, the Cabinet discussed the subject of reconstruction. As there was a difference of opinion and lack of information concerning the proposed regulations for governing trade between the States, the President appointed Mr. Stanton, Mr. Welles, and Mr. McCulloch a committee to submit recommendations.

At the previous Cabinet meeting Secretary Stanton had submitted a plan for the re-establishment of civil government, which was discussed at length. It was providential, the President said, that Congress would not sit again for at least seven months, which would allow him time to restore order and civil authority without interference. He expressed sympathy with the people of the South and a desire to avoid further bloodshed and exhibitions of resentment or vindictiveness. He believed that they needed charity more than censure. He said that he would not permit the severe punishment of the Southern leaders, notwithstanding the clamor from the North. No one need expect to take any part in hanging or killing these men, even the worst of them.

"Frighten them out of the country!" he exclaimed, throwing his arms around as if he were driving sheep; "let down the bars; scare them off! Enough lives have been sacrificed; we must extinguish our resentment if we expect harmony and union!"

Secretary Welles records in his diary this extraordinary scene at the last meeting of the Lincoln Cabinet, and adds that, as the President dismissed his advisers, he urged them to give the most earnest consideration to the problem that had been presented by the restoration of peace.

The President spent the rest of the day with his son Robert and other personal friends, violating his rule and refusing to admit any one on official business. During the afternoon he went with Mrs. Lincoln for a long drive, and seemed to be in an unusually happy and contented mood. She said that he talked of going back to Springfield to practise law. His heart was overflowing with gratitude to the Heavenly Father, he said, for all His goodness, and particularly for the close of the war and the triumph of the Union arms, for there would be no further bloodshed or distress. The members of his family and his secretaries agree that they never had known him to be in such a satisfied and contented state of mind. The clouds that had hung over him for four years had cleared away; the war was over, peace was restored, and the only duty left to him was extremely grateful to his nature,—the task of restoring happiness and prosperity.

JOHN WILKES BOOTH

From a photograph by Brady