Part 16

Some one was discussing, in the presence of Mr. Lincoln, the character of a time-serving Washington clergyman. Said Mr. Lincoln to his visitor:--

“I think you are rather hard upon Mr. ----. He reminds me of a man in Illinois, who was tried for passing a counterfeit bill. It was in evidence that before passing it he had taken it to the cashier of a bank and asked his opinion of the bill, and he received a very prompt reply that it was a counterfeit. His lawyer, who had heard of the evidence to be brought against his client, asked him, just before going into court, ‘Did you take the bill to the cashier of the bank and ask him if it was good?’ ‘I did,’ was the reply. ‘Well, what was the reply of the cashier?’ The rascal was in a corner, but he got out of it in this fashion: ‘He said it was a pretty tolerable, respectable sort of a bill.’”

Mr. Lincoln thought the clergyman was “a pretty tolerable, respectable sort of a clergyman.”

A visitor, congratulating Mr. Lincoln on the prospects of his reëlection, was answered with an anecdote of an Illinois farmer who undertook to blast his own rocks. His first effort at producing an explosion proved a failure. He explained the cause by exclaiming, “Pshaw, this powder has been shot before!”

An amusing, yet touching instance of the President’s preoccupation of mind, occurred at one of his levees, when he was shaking hands with a host of visitors passing him in a continuous stream. An intimate acquaintance received the usual conventional hand-shake and salutation, but perceiving that he was not recognized, kept his ground instead of moving on, and spoke again; when the President, roused to a dim consciousness that something unusual had happened, perceived who stood before him, and seizing his friend’s hand, shook it again heartily, saying, “How do you do? How do you do? Excuse me for not noticing you. I was thinking of a man down South.” He afterward privately acknowledged that the “man down South” was Sherman, then on his march to the sea.

Mr. Lincoln may not have expected death from the hand of an assassin, but he had an impression, amounting to a “presentiment,” that his life would end with the war. This was expressed not only to Mr. Lovejoy, as stated on a previous page, but to Mrs. Stowe and others.

“He told me, in July, 1864,” says a correspondent of the Boston “Journal,” “that he was certain he should not outlast the rebellion.

“It was a time of dissension among the Republican leaders. Many of his best friends had deserted him, and were talking of an opposition convention to nominate another candidate; and universal gloom was among the people.

“The North was tired of the war, and supposed an honorable peace attainable. Mr. Lincoln knew it was not,--that any peace at that time would be only disunion. Speaking of it, he said: ‘I have faith in the people. They will not consent to disunion. The danger is, in their being misled. Let them know the truth, and the country is safe.’ He looked haggard and careworn; and further on in the interview I remarked on his appearance, ‘You are wearing yourself out with work.’ ‘I can’t work less,’ he answered; ‘but it isn’t that,--work never troubled me. Things look badly, and I can’t avoid anxiety. Personally, I care nothing about a reëlection; but if our divisions defeat us, I fear for the country.’ When I suggested that right must eventually triumph, that I had never despaired of the result, he said:--

“‘Neither have I, but I may never live to see it. I feel a presentiment that I shall not outlast the Rebellion. When it is over, my work will be done.’”

“The Freedmen,” once said the President to the Secretary of War, “are the ‘wards’ of the nation.”

“Yes,” replied Stanton, “wards in chancery.”

A few days before the President’s death, Secretary Stanton tendered his resignation of the War Department. He accompanied the act with a heart-felt tribute to Mr. Lincoln’s constant friendship and faithful devotion to the country; saying, also, that he as Secretary had accepted the position to hold it only until the war should end, and that now he felt his work was done, and his duty was to resign.

Mr. Lincoln was greatly moved by the Secretary’s words, and tearing in pieces the paper containing the resignation, and throwing his arms about the Secretary, he said: “Stanton, you have been a good friend and a faithful public servant, and it is not for you to say when you will no longer be needed here.” Several friends of both parties were present on the occasion, and there was not a dry eye that witnessed the scene.

“On the night of the 3rd of March, the Secretary of War, with others of the Cabinet, were in the company of the President, at the Capitol, awaiting the passage of the final bills of Congress. In the intervals of reading and signing these documents, the military situation was considered,--the lively conversation tinged by the confident and glowing account of General Grant, of his mastery of the position, and of his belief that a few days more would see Richmond in our possession, and the army of Lee either dispersed utterly or captured bodily,--when the telegram from Grant was received, saying that Lee had asked an interview with reference to peace. Mr. Lincoln was elated, and the kindness of his heart was manifest in intimations of favorable terms to be granted to the conquered Rebels.

“Stanton listened in silence, restraining his emotion, but at length the tide burst forth. ‘Mr. President,’ said he, ‘to-morrow is inauguration day. If you are not to be the President of an obedient and united people, you had better not be inaugurated. Your work is already done, if any other authority than yours is for one moment to be recognized, or any terms made that do not signify you are the supreme head of the nation. If generals in the field are to negotiate peace, or any other chief magistrate is to be acknowledged on this continent, then you are not needed, and you had better not take the oath of office.’

“‘Stanton, you are right!’ said the President, his whole tone changing. ‘Let me have a pen.’

“Mr. Lincoln sat down at the table, and wrote as follows:--

“The President directs me to say to you that he wishes you to have no conference with General Lee, unless it be for the capitulation of Lee’s army, or on some minor or purely military matter. He instructs me to say that you are not to decide, discuss, or confer upon any political question. Such questions the President holds in his own hands, and will submit them to no military conferences or conventions. In the mean time you are to press to the utmost your military advantages.’

“The President read over what he had written, and then said:--

“‘Now Stanton, date and sign this paper, and send it to Grant. We’ll see about this peace business.’

“The duty was discharged only too gladly by the energetic and far-sighted Secretary; with what effect and renown the country knows full well.”[16]

Governor Yates, of Illinois, in a speech at Springfield, quoted one of Mr. Lincoln’s early friends--W. T. Greene--as having said that the first time he ever saw Mr. Lincoln, he was in the Sangamon River with his trousers rolled up five feet, more or less, trying to pilot a flatboat over a mill-dam. The boat was so full of water that it was hard to manage. Lincoln got the prow over, and then, instead of waiting to bail the water out, bored a hole through the projecting part and let it run out; affording a forcible illustration of the ready ingenuity of the future President in the quick invention of moral expedients.

“Some two years ago,” said Colonel Forney, in a speech at Weldon, Pennsylvania, before the “Soldiers’ Aid Society,” in 1865, “a deputation of colored people came from Louisiana, for the purpose of laying before the President a petition asking certain rights, not including the right of universal suffrage. The interview took place in the presence of a number of distinguished gentlemen. After reading their memorial, he turned to them and said: ‘I regret, gentlemen, that you are not able to secure all your rights, and that circumstances will not permit the government to confer them upon you. I wish you would amend your petition, so as to include several suggestions which I think will give more effect to your prayer, and after having done so please hand it to me.’ The leading colored man said: ‘If you will permit me, I will do so here.’ ‘Are you, then, the author of this eloquent production?’ asked Mr. Lincoln. ‘Whether eloquent or not,’ was the reply, ‘it is my work;’ and the Louisiana negro sat down at the President’s side and rapidly and intelligently carried out the suggestions that had been made to him. The Southern gentlemen who were present at this scene did not hesitate to admit that their prejudices had just received another shock.

“To show the magnanimity of Mr. Lincoln, I may mention that on one occasion, when an editorial article appeared in my newspaper, the Washington ‘Chronicle,’ speaking well of the bravery and the mistaken sincerity of Stonewall Jackson, the news of whose death had been just received, the President wrote me a letter thanking me warmly for speaking kindly of a fallen foe. These were his words:--

“‘I honor you for your generosity to one who, though contending against us in a guilty cause, was nevertheless a gallant man. Let us forget his sins over his fresh-made grave.’

“Again, I happened to be in the Executive Chamber when a number of Kentuckians insisted that troops should not be sent through that State for the purpose of putting down the rebel spirit in Tennessee. The President was hesitating what to do, and they were pressing immediate action.

“‘I am,’ he said, ‘a good deal like the farmer who, returning to his home one winter night, found his two sweet little boys asleep with a hideous serpent crawling over their bodies. He could not strike the serpent without wounding or killing the children, so he calmly waited until it had moved away. Now I do not want to act in a hurry about this matter; I don’t want to hurt anybody in Kentucky; but I will get the serpent out of Tennessee.’

“And he did march through Kentucky, to the aid of Andrew Johnson’s mountaineers.”

“The roll containing the Emancipation Proclamation was taken to Mr. Lincoln at noon on the first day of January, 1863, by Secretary Seward and his son Frederick. As it lay unrolled before him, Mr. Lincoln took a pen, dipped it in ink, moved his hand to the place for the signature, held it a moment, and then removed his hand and dropped the pen. After a little hesitation he again took up the pen and went through the same movement as before. Mr. Lincoln then turned to Mr. Seward, and said:--

“‘I have been shaking hands since nine o’clock this morning, and my right arm is almost paralyzed. If my name ever goes into history it will be for this act, and my whole soul is in it. If my hand trembles when I sign the Proclamation, all who examine the document hereafter will say, “He hesitated.”’

“He then turned to the table, took up the pen again, and slowly, firmly wrote that ‘Abraham Lincoln’ with which the whole world is now familiar. He looked up, smiled, and said: ‘That will do.’”[17]

What Mr. Lincoln’s policy on the subject of “reconstruction” would have been, had he lived, is clearly foreshadowed in the following extract from a letter to General Wadsworth, who was killed in one of the battles of the Wilderness. Few sentences from Mr. Lincoln’s lips or pen are more worthy the profound consideration and remembrance of his countrymen.

“You desire to know, in the event of our complete success in the field, the same being followed by a loyal and cheerful submission on the part of the South, if universal amnesty should not be accompanied with universal suffrage.

“Now, since you know my private inclinations as to what terms should be granted to the South in the contingency mentioned, I will here add, that if our success should thus be realized, followed by such desired results, I cannot see, if universal amnesty is granted, how, under the circumstances, I can avoid exacting in return universal suffrage, or at least suffrage on the basis of intelligence and military service.

“How to better the condition of the colored race has long been a study which has attracted my serious and careful attention; hence I think I am clear and decided as to what course I shall pursue in the premises, regarding it a religious duty, as the nation’s guardian of these people who have so heroically vindicated their manhood on the battle-field, where, in assisting to save the life of the Republic, they have demonstrated in blood their right to the ballot, which is but the humane protection of the flag they have so fearlessly defended.”

When Mr. Lincoln was in Congress, General Cass was nominated by the Democratic party for President. In a speech on the floor of the House shortly afterward, Mr. Lincoln subjected the political course of the candidate to scathing criticism. Quoting extracts from the speeches of General Cass, to show his vacillation in reference to the Wilmot Proviso, he added: “These extracts show that in 1846 General Cass was for the Proviso at once; that in March, 1847, he was still for it, but not just then; and that in December, he was against it altogether. This is a true index of the whole man. When the question was raised in 1846, he was in a blustering hurry to take ground for it, ... but soon he began to see glimpses of the great Democratic ox-gad waving in his face, and to hear indistinctly a voice saying: ‘Back! back, sir! back a little!’ He shakes his head, and bats his eyes, and blunders back to his position of March, 1847; but still the ‘gad’ waves, and the voice grows more distinct and sharper still: ‘Back, sir! back, I say! further back!’ and back he goes to the position of December, 1847, at which the ‘gad’ is still, and the voice soothingly says: ‘So! stand still at that!’”

A party of gentlemen, among whom was a doctor of divinity of much dignity of manner, calling at the White House one day, was informed by the porter that the President was at dinner, but that he would present their cards. The doctor demurred to this, saying that he would call again. “Edward” assured them that he thought it would make no difference, and went in with the cards. In a few minutes the President walked into the room, with a kindly salutation, and a request that the friends would take seats. The doctor expressed his regret that their visit was so ill-timed, and that his Excellency was disturbed while at dinner. “Oh! no consequence at all,” said Mr. Lincoln, good-naturedly. “Mrs. Lincoln is absent at present, and when she is away, I generally ‘_browse_’ around.”

“Upon entering the President’s office one afternoon,” says a Washington correspondent, “I found Mr. Lincoln busily counting greenbacks. ‘This, sir,’ said he, ‘is something out of my usual line; but a President of the United States has a multiplicity of duties not specified in the Constitution or acts of Congress. This is one of them. This money belongs to a poor negro who is a porter in the Treasury Department, at present very bad with the small-pox. He is now in hospital, and could not draw his pay because he could not sign his name. I have been at considerable trouble to overcome the difficulty and get it for him, and have at length succeeded in cutting red tape, as you newspaper men say. I am now dividing the money and putting by a portion labelled, in an envelope, with my own hands, according to his wish;’ and he proceeded to indorse the package very carefully.” No one witnessing the transaction could fail to appreciate the goodness of heart which prompted the President of the United States to turn aside for a time from his weighty cares to succor one of the humblest of his fellow-creatures in sickness and sorrow.

When General Phelps took possession of Ship Island, near New Orleans, early in the war, it will be remembered that he issued a proclamation, somewhat bombastic in tone, freeing the slaves. To the surprise of many people, on both sides, the President took no official notice of this movement. Some time had elapsed, when one day a friend took him to task for his seeming indifference on so important a matter.

“Well,” said Mr. Lincoln, “I feel about that a good deal as a man whom I will call ‘Jones,’ whom I once knew, did about his wife. He was one of your meek men, and had the reputation of being badly henpecked. At last, one day his wife was seen switching him out of the house. A day or two afterward a friend met him in the street, and said: ‘Jones, I have always stood up for you, as you know; but I am not going to do it any longer. Any man who will stand quietly and take a switching from his wife, deserves to be horsewhipped.’ ‘Jones’ looked up with a wink, patting his friend on the back. ‘Now _don’t_,’ said he: ‘why, it didn’t _hurt_ me any; and you’ve no idea what a _power_ of _good_ it did Sarah Ann?’”

The Rev. Dr. Bellows, of New York, as President of the Sanitary Commission, backed by powerful influences, had pressed with great strenuousness upon the President the appointment of Dr. Hammond as Surgeon-General. For some unexplained reason, there was an unaccountable delay in making the appointment. One stormy evening--the rain falling in torrents--Dr. Bellows, thinking few visitors likely to trouble the President in such a storm, determined to make a final appeal, and stepping into a carriage, he was driven to the White House. Upon entering the Executive Chamber, he found Mr. Lincoln alone, seated at the long table, busily engaged in signing a heap of congressional documents, which lay before him. He barely nodded to Dr. Bellows as he entered, having learned what to expect, and kept straight on with his work. Standing opposite to him, Dr. B. employed his most powerful arguments, for ten or fifteen minutes, to accomplish the end sought, the President keeping steadily on signing the documents before him. Pausing, at length, to take breath, the clergyman was greeted in the most unconcerned manner, the pen still at work, with,--“Shouldn’t wonder if Hammond was at this moment ‘Surgeon-General,’ and had been for some time.”

“You don’t mean to say, Mr. President,” asked Dr. B. in surprise, “that the appointment has been made?”

“I may say to you,” returned Mr. Lincoln, for the first time looking up, “that it _has_; only you needn’t _tell_ of it just yet.”

In August, 1864, the prospects of the Union party, in reference to the Presidential election, became very gloomy. A friend, the private secretary of one of the cabinet ministers, who spent a few days in New York at this juncture, returned to Washington with so discouraging an account of the political situation, that after hearing it, the Secretary told him to go over to the White House and repeat it to the President. My friend said that he found Mr. Lincoln alone, looking more than usually careworn and sad. Upon hearing the statement, he walked two or three times across the floor in silence. Returning, he said with grim earnestness of tone and manner: “Well, I cannot run the political machine; I have enough on my hands without _that_. It is the _people’s_ business,--the election is in their hands. If they turn their backs to the fire, and get _scorched_ in the rear, they’ll find they have got to ‘_sit_’ on the ‘blister’!”

Mr. Lincoln came to have an almost morbid dread of office-seekers, from whose importunity the executive of a republican government can necessarily never be free. Harassed with applications of every description, he once said that it sometimes seemed as if every visitor “darted at him, and with thumb and finger carried off a portion of his vitality.”

As the day of his reinauguration approached, he said to Senator Clark, of New Hampshire, “Can’t you and others start a public sentiment in favor of making no changes in offices except for good and sufficient cause? It seems as though the bare thought of going through again what I did the first year here, would _crush_ me.” To another he said, “I have made up my mind to make very few changes in the offices in my gift for my second term. I think now that I will not remove a single man, except for delinquency. To remove a man is very easy, but when I go to fill his place, there are _twenty_ applicants, and of these I must make _nineteen_ enemies.” “Under these circumstances,” says one of his friends, “Mr. Lincoln’s natural charity for all was often turned into an unwonted suspicion of the motives of men whose selfishness cost him so much wear of mind. Once he said, ‘Sitting here, where all the avenues to public patronage seem to come together in a knot, it does seem to me that our people are fast approaching the point where it can be said that seven eighths of them are trying to find how to live at the expense of the other eighth.’”

A year or more before Mr. Lincoln’s death, a delegation of clergymen waited upon him in reference to the appointment of the army chaplains. The delegation consisted of a Presbyterian, a Baptist, and an Episcopal clergyman. They stated that the character of many of the chaplains was notoriously bad, and they had come to urge upon the President the necessity of more discretion in these appointments. “But, gentlemen,” said the President, “that is a matter which the Government has nothing to do with; the chaplains are chosen by the regiments.” Not satisfied with this, the clergymen pressed, in turn, a change in the system. Mr. Lincoln heard them through without remark, and then said, “Without any disrespect, gentlemen, I will tell you a ‘little story.’ Once, in Springfield, I was going off on a short journey, and reached the depot a little ahead of time. Leaning against the fence just outside the depot was a little darkey boy, whom I knew, named ‘Dick,’ busily digging with his toe in a mud-puddle. As I came up, I said, ‘“Dick,” what are you about?’ ‘Making a “_church_,”’ said he. ‘A church?’ said I; ‘what do you mean?’ ‘Why, yes,’ said ‘Dick,’ pointing with his toe, ‘don’t you see? there is the shape of it; there’s the “steps” and “front-door”--here the “pews,” where the folks set--and there’s the “pulpit.”’ ‘Yes, I see,’ said I, ‘but why don’t you make a “minister?”’ ‘Laws,’ answered ‘Dick,’ with a grin, ‘I hain’t got _mud_ enough!’”

Mr. Lincoln had a dread of people who could not appreciate humor. He once instanced a member of his own cabinet, of whom he quoted the saying of Sydney Smith, that “it required a surgical operation to get a joke into his head.” The light trifles of conversation diverted his mind, or, as he said of his theatre-going, gave him “a refuge from himself and his weariness.”

One of the last stories I heard from Mr. Lincoln was concerning John Tyler, for whom it was to be expected, as an old Henry Clay Whig, he would entertain no great respect. “A year or two after Tyler’s accession to the Presidency,” said he, “contemplating an excursion in some direction, his son went to order a special train of cars. It so happened that the railroad superintendent was a very strong Whig. On ‘Bob’s’ making known his errand, that official bluntly informed him that his road did not run any special trains for the President. ‘What!’ said ‘Bob,’ ‘did you not furnish a special train for the funeral of General Harrison?’ ‘Yes,’ said the superintendent, stroking his whiskers; ‘and if you will only bring your father here in _that_ shape, you shall have the best train on the road.’”

“Once--on what was called a ‘public day,’ when Mr. Lincoln received all applicants in their turn--the writer[18] was struck by observing, as he passed through the corridor, the heterogeneous crowd of men and women, representing all ranks and classes, who were gathered in the large waiting-room outside the Presidential suite of offices.