No sketch of Mr. Lincoln's character can be called complete which does not present him as he appeared at his own fireside, showing his love for his own children, his tenderness toward the little ones generally, and how in important emergencies he was influenced by them. A great writer has said that it were "better to be driven out from among men than to be disliked by children." So Mr. Lincoln firmly believed; and whenever it chanced that he gave offence to a child unwittingly he never rested until he had won back its favor and affection. He beheld in the face of a little child a record of innocence and love, of truth and trust; and in the society of children he was always happy.

Owing, perhaps, to his homely countenance and ungainly figure, strange children generally repelled his first advances; but I never saw him fail to win the affection of a child when its guileless friendship became a matter of interest to him. He could persuade any child from the arms of its mother, nurse, or play-fellow, there being a peculiar fascination in his voice and manner which the little one could not resist. As a student of child nature and a lover of its artless innocence, he had no patience with people who practise upon the credulity of children; and it was a rule of his life never to mislead a child, even in the most trifling matter, or if in his power to prevent it to be misled or deceived by others. On making the acquaintance of a child he at once became its friend, and never afterward forgot its face or the circumstances under which the acquaintance was formed; for his little friends always made some impression on his mind and feelings that was certain to be lasting.

A striking instance of this character deserves especial mention. Shortly after his first election to the Presidency he received a pleasant letter from a little girl living in a small town in the State of New York. The child told him that she had seen his picture, and it was her opinion, as she expressed it in her artless way, that he "would be a better looking man if he would let his beard grow." Mr. Lincoln passed that New York town on his way to Washington, and his first thought on reaching the place was about his little correspondent. In his brief speech to the people he made a pleasing reference to the child and her charming note. "This little lady," said he, "saw from the first that great improvement might be made in my personal appearance. You all see that I am not a very handsome man; and to be honest with you, neither I nor any of my friends ever boasted very much about my personal beauty." He then passed his hand over his face and continued: "But I intend to follow that little girl's advice, and if she is present I would like to speak to her." The child came forward timidly, and was warmly greeted by the President-elect. He took her in his arms and kissed her affectionately, expressing the hope that he might have the pleasure of seeing his little friend again sometime.

Shortly after this, Mr. Lincoln, for the first time in his life, allowed his beard to grow all over his face, with the exception of the upper lip; and this fashion he continued as long as he lived. In speaking of the incident which led him to wear a full beard, he afterward remarked, reflectively, "How small a thing will sometimes change the whole aspect of our lives!"

That Mr. Lincoln realized that an improvement was necessary in his personal appearance is evidenced by many amusing stories told by him. The one he especially enjoyed telling was, how once, when "riding the circuit," he was accosted in the cars by a stranger, who said, "Excuse me, sir, but I have an article in my possession which belongs to you." "How is that?" Mr. Lincoln asked, much astonished. The stranger took a knife from his pocket, saying, "This knife was placed in my hands some years ago with the injunction that I was to keep it until I found a man uglier than myself. I have carried it from that time to this. Allow me now to say, sir, that I think you are fairly entitled to the property."

Mr. Carpenter, the artist who painted the picture of "The Proclamation of Emancipation," tells in his book of an incident which occurred the day following the adjournment of the Baltimore Convention: "Various political organizations called to pay their respects to the President. While the Philadelphia delegation was being presented, the chairman of that body, in introducing one of the members, said: 'Mr. President, this is Mr. S. of the second district of our State,—a most active and earnest friend of yours and the cause. He has, among other things, been good enough to paint, and present to our league rooms, a most beautiful portrait of yourself.' Mr. Lincoln took the gentleman's hand in his, and shaking it cordially said, with a merry voice, 'I presume, sir, in painting your beautiful portrait, you took your idea of me from my principles and not from my person.'"

Before leaving the old town of Springfield, Mr. Lincoln was often seen, on sunny afternoons, striking out on foot to a neighboring wood, attended by his little sons. There he would romp with them as a companion, and enter with great delight into all their childish sports. This joyous companionship with his children suffered no abatement when he became a resident of the White House and took upon himself the perplexing cares of his great office. To find relief from those cares he would call his boys to some quiet part of the house, throw himself at full length upon the floor, and abandon himself to their fun and frolic as merrily as if he had been of their own age. The two children who were his play-fellows in these romping scenes the first year of his residence at the Executive Mansion were Willie and Thomas, the latter of whom he always called "Tad;" and these children were the youngest of his family.

In February, 1862, this fond father was visited by a sorrowful bereavement. The Executive Mansion was turned into a house of mourning. Death had chosen a shining mark, and the beloved Willie, the apple of his father's eye, the brightest and most promising of his children, was taken away. The dreadful stroke wellnigh broke the President's heart, and certainly an affliction more crushing never fell to the lot of man. In the lonely grave of the little one lay buried Mr. Lincoln's fondest hopes, and, strong as he was in the matter of self-control, he gave way to an overmastering grief, which became at length a serious menace to his health. Never was there witnessed in an American household a scene of distress more touching than that in which the President and Mrs. Lincoln mingled their tears over the coffin that inclosed the lifeless form of their beloved child. A deep and settled despondency took possession of Mr. Lincoln; and when it is remembered that this calamity—for such it surely was—befell him at a critical period of the war, just when the resources of his mighty intellect were most in demand, it will be understood how his affliction became a matter of the gravest concern to the whole country, and especially to those who stood in close personal and official relations with him.

The measures taken by his friends to break the force of his great grief, and to restore him to something like his old-time cheerfulness, seemed for a while unavailing. The nearest approach to success in this humane endeavor was made, I believe, by the Rev. Dr. Vinton, of Trinity Church, New York, who visited the White House not long after the death of Willie. The doctor's effort led to a very remarkable scene, one that shows how terrible is a great man's grief. Mr. Lincoln had a high respect for Dr. Vinton. He knew him to be an able man, and believed him to be conscientious and sincere. The good doctor, profoundly impressed with the importance of his mission, determined that in administering consolation to the stricken President it would be necessary to use great freedom of speech. Mr. Lincoln was over-burdened with the weight of his public cares, weak in body, and sick in mind; and his thoughts seemed to linger constantly about the grave of his lost darling. Ill health and depression made him apparently listless, and this the worthy doctor mistook for a sign of rebellion against the just decree of Providence. He began by exhorting the President to remember his duty to the common Father who "giveth and taketh away," and to whom we owe cheerful obedience and thanks for worldly afflictions as well as for temporal benefits. He chided Mr. Lincoln for giving way to excessive grief, declaring without reserve that the indulgence of such grief, though natural, was sinful; that greater fortitude was demanded; that his duties to the living were imperative; and that, as the chosen leader of the people in a national crisis, he was unfitting himself for the discharge of duties and responsibilities which could not be evaded. Mr. Lincoln listened patiently and respectfully for a time to this strong and pointed exhortation. He was evidently much affected by it, but as the doctor proceeded he became lost in his own reflections. From this revery he was aroused by words which had a magical effect.

"To mourn excessively for the departed as lost," continued Dr. Vinton, "is foreign to our religion. It belongs not to Christianity, but to heathenism. Your son is alive in Paradise."

When these last words were uttered, Mr. Lincoln, as if suddenly awakened from a dream, exclaimed, "Alive! alive! Surely you mock me!" These magic words had startled him, and his countenance showed that he was profoundly distressed.

Without heeding the President's emotion, the doctor continued, in a tone of deep solemnity, "Seek not your son among the dead, for he is not there. God is not the God of the dead, but of the living. Did not the ancient patriarch mourn for his son as dead? 'Joseph is not, and Simeon is not, and ye will take Benjamin also.' The fact that Benjamin was taken away made him the instrument, eventually, in saving the whole family." Applying this Scriptural test, the doctor told Mr. Lincoln that his little son had been called by the All-Wise and Merciful Father to His upper kingdom; that, like Joseph, the departed boy might be the means of saving the President's household; and that it must be considered as a part of the Lord's plan for the ultimate happiness of the family.

Mr. Lincoln was deeply moved by this consolatory exhortation. The respected divine had touched a responsive chord. His strong words, spoken with such evident sincerity and in a manner so earnest and impressive, brought strength as well as comfort to the illustrious mourner; and there is no doubt that this remarkable interview had a good effect in helping to recall to Mr. Lincoln a more healthful state of feeling, and in restoring his accustomed self-control. Willie had inherited the amiable disposition and a large share of the talent of his father. He was a child of great promise, and his death was sincerely mourned by all who knew him.

Mr. Lincoln's fondness for his children knew no bounds. It wellnigh broke his heart to use his paternal authority in correcting their occasional displays of temper or insubordination; but when occasion required the sacrifice, he showed great firmness in teaching them the strictest obedience. I remember a very amusing instance of this sort of contest between his indulgent fondness and his sense of what was due to his guiding authority as a father.

At the time to which I refer, Tad seemed to his fond father the most lovable object on earth. That fondness had been intensified by the death of Willie just mentioned. In one of the vacant rooms of the White House Tad had fitted up, with the aid of the servants, a miniature theatre. The little fellow had rare skill and good taste in such matters, and after long and patient effort the work was completed. There were the stage, the orchestra, the parquet, the curtains, and all the paraphernalia pertaining to what he called "a real theatre," and Tad was in a delirium of childish joy. About this time, just after the review of Burnside's division of the army of the Potomac, a certain photographer came to the Executive Mansion to make some stereoscopic studies of the President's office for Mr. Carpenter, who had been much about the house. Mr. Carpenter and the photographer appeared at the same time. The artists told Mr. Lincoln that they must have a dark closet in which to develop their pictures. There was such a closet attached to the room which Tad had appropriated for his theatre, and it could not be reached without passing through the room.

With Mr. Lincoln's permission the artists took possession of the "theatre," and they had taken several pictures before Tad discovered the trespass upon his premises. When he took in the situation there was an uproar. Their occupancy of his "theatre," without his consent, was an offence that stirred his wrath into an instant blaze. The little fellow declared indignantly that he would not submit to any such impudence. He locked the door and carried off the key. The artists hunted him up, and coaxed, remonstrated, and begged, but all in vain. The young theatre manager, in a flame of passion, blamed Carpenter with the whole outrage. He declared that they should neither use his room nor go into it to get their instruments and chemicals. "No one," said he, "has any business in my room, unless invited by me, and I never invited you." Here was a pretty state of things. Tad was master of the situation.

Finally, Mr. Lincoln was appealed to. Tad was called, and Mr. Lincoln said to him, "Go, now, and unlock the door." The offended boy went off to his mother's room, muttering a positive refusal to obey his father's command. On hearing of the child's disobedience, Mr. Lincoln soon had the key, and "the theatre" was again invaded by the artists. Soon after this, Mr. Lincoln said to Carpenter, half apologetically: "Tad is a peculiar child. He was violently excited when I went to him for the key. I said to him, 'Tad, do you know that you are making your father very unhappy? You are causing a deal of trouble.' He burst into tears, and gave up the key. I had not the heart to say much to him in the way of reproof, for the little man certainly thought his rights had been shamefully disregarded." The distress which this unlucky affair brought upon his little pet caused Mr. Lincoln more concern than anything else connected with it.

During the first year of the war, owing to the great press of business, it was at times difficult to get at the President. Some four or five distinguished gentlemen from Kentucky, who had come to visit him as commissioners or agents from that State, had been endeavoring, for a number of days, without success, to see him. Mr. Lincoln having learned the object of their intended visit to him through some source or other, wanted to avoid the interview if possible, and had given them no opportunity for presenting themselves. One day after waiting in the lobby for several hours, they were about to give up the effort in despair, and in no amiable terms expressed their disappointment as they turned to the head of the stairs, saying something about "seeing old Abe." Tad caught at these words, and asked them if they wanted to see "old Abe," laughing at the same time. "Yes," they replied. "Wait a minute," said Tad, and he rushed into his father's office and said, "Papa, may I introduce some friends to you?" His father, always indulgent and ready to make him happy, kindly said, "Yes, my son, I will see your friends." Tad went to the Kentuckians again, and asked a very dignified looking gentleman of the party what his name was. He was told his name. He then said, "Come, gentlemen," and they followed him. Leading them up to Mr. Lincoln, Tad, with much dignity, said, "Papa, let me introduce to you Judge ——, of Kentucky;" and quickly added, "Now, Judge, you introduce the other gentlemen." The introductions were gone through with, and they turned out to be the gentlemen Mr. Lincoln had been avoiding for a week. Mr. Lincoln reached for the boy, took him on his lap, kissed him, and told him it was all right, and that he had introduced his friend like a little gentleman as he was. Tad was eleven years old at this time.

Mr. Lincoln was pleased with Tad's diplomacy, and often laughed at the incident as he told others of it. One day while caressing the boy, he asked him why he called those gentlemen "his friends." "Well," said Tad, "I had seen them so often, and they looked so good and sorry, and said they were from Kentucky, that I thought they must be our friends." "That is right, my son," said Mr. Lincoln; "I would have the whole human race your friends and mine, if it were possible."