Part 2

“It is a somewhat remarkable fact,” he subsequently remarked, “that there were just one hundred days between the dates of the two proclamations issued upon the 22d of September and the 1st of January. I had not made the calculation at the time.”

Having concluded this interesting statement, the President then proceeded to show me the various positions occupied by himself and the different members of the Cabinet, on the occasion of the first meeting. “As nearly as I remember,” said he, “I sat near the head of the table; the Secretary of the Treasury and the Secretary of War were here, at my right hand; the others were grouped at the left.”

At this point, I exhibited to him a pencil sketch of the composition as I had conceived it, with no knowledge of the facts or details. The leading idea of this I found, as I have stated on a previous page, to be entirely consistent with the account I had just heard. I saw, however, that I should have to reverse the picture, placing the President at the other end of the table, to make it accord with his description. I had resolved to discard all appliances and tricks of picture-making, and endeavor, as faithfully as possible, to represent the scene as it actually transpired; room, furniture, accessories, all were to be painted from the actualities. It was a scene second only in historical importance and interest to that of the Declaration of Independence; and I felt assured, that, if honestly and earnestly painted, it need borrow no interest from imaginary curtain or column, gorgeous furniture or allegorical statue. Assenting heartily to what is called the “realistic” school of art, when applied to the illustration of historic events, I felt in this case, that I had no more right to depart from the facts, than has the historian in his record.

When friends said to me, as they frequently did, “Your picture will be bald and barren,” my reply was, “If I cannot make the portraiture of the scene itself sufficiently attractive without the false glitter of tapestry hangings, velvet table-cloths, and marble columns, then I shall at least have the satisfaction of having failed in the cause of truth.” I reasoned in this way: The most important document submitted to a cabinet during our existence as a nation is under discussion. A spectator permitted to look in upon that scene would give little thought and small heed to the mere accessories and adjuncts of the occasion. His mind would centre upon the immortal document,--its anxious author, conscious of his solemn responsibility, announcing his matured and inflexible purpose to his assembled councillors. He would listen with unparalleled eagerness to the momentous sentences uttered for the first time in the ears of men, and to the discussion upon them, impatient of mere formalities and technicalities. Should a thought be sprung of important bearing, or an overlooked contingency be brought forward, how intently would its effect be watched. What varying emotions, consequent upon peculiarities of temperament and character, would be expressed in the countenances of the different individuals composing the group. How each in turn would be scanned. Above all, the issues involved:--the salvation of the Republic--the freedom of a Race. “Surely,” I said, “such a scene may be painted, and abiding if not absorbing interest secured, without the aid of conventional trappings. The republican simplicity of the room and furniture, with its thronging associations, will more than counterbalance the lack of splendor, and the artistic mania for effect. I will depend solely for my success upon the interest of the subject, and its truthfulness of representation.” And this purpose I carried with me to the end.

VIII.

The first sketch of the composition, as it was afterward placed upon the canvas, was matured, I believe, the same afternoon, or the following Monday after the interview recorded above, upon the back of a visiting card; my pockets affording evidence of the employment of all loose material at hand in leisure moments, in the study of the work. The final arrangement of the figures was the result of much thought and many combinations, though the original conception as to the moment of time and incident of action was preserved throughout. The general arrangement of the group, as described by the President, was fortunately entirely consistent with my purpose, which was to give that prominence to the different individuals which belonged to them respectively in the Administration. There was a curious mingling of fact and allegory in my mind, as I assigned to each his place on the canvas. There were two elements in the Cabinet, the radical and the conservative. Mr. Lincoln was placed at the head of the official table, between two groups, nearest that representing the radical, but the uniting point of both. The chief powers of a government are War and Finance: the ministers of these were at his right,--the Secretary of War, symbolizing the great struggle, in the immediate foreground; the Secretary of the Treasury, actively supporting the new policy, standing by the President’s side. The Army being the right hand, the Navy may very properly be styled the left hand of the government. The place for the Secretary of the Navy seemed, therefore, very naturally to be on Mr. Lincoln’s left, at the rear of the table. To the Secretary of State, as the great expounder of the principles of the Republican party, the profound and sagacious statesman, would the attention of all at such a time be given. Entitled to precedence in discussion by his position in the Cabinet, he would necessarily form one of the central figures of the group. The four chief officers of the government were thus brought, in accordance with their relations to the Administration, nearest the person of the President, who, with the manuscript proclamation in hand, which he had just read, was represented leaning forward, listening to, and intently considering the views presented by the Secretary of State. The Attorney-General, absorbed in the constitutional questions involved, with folded arms, was placed at the foot of the table opposite the President. The Secretary of the Interior and the Postmaster-General, occupying the less conspicuous positions of the Cabinet, seemed to take their proper places in the background of the picture.

When, at length, the conception as thus described was sketched upon the large canvas, and Mr. Lincoln came in to see it, his gratifying remark, often subsequently repeated, was, “It is as good as it can be made.”

IX.

I have thus revealed, step by step, the mental process by which the picture of which I write came into being. Whether the story bears any analogy to that by which the works of others have been produced, or the composition conforms to established rules and precedents in art or not, is to me a matter of indifference. I was true to my intuitions, and endeavored to adhere as faithfully as practicable to the facts.

It is not my purpose to follow in detail the progress, thenceforward, of the work. As the thread upon which are strung my memories of the late President, allusions to it will be unavoidable throughout these pages; but hereafter I intend that they shall be subordinate and incidental to matters of more general interest. It is not too much to say that the enthusiasm in which the work was conceived, flagged not to the end. The days were too short for labor upon it. Lighting at nightfall the great chandelier of the state dining-room, which was finally assigned me for a studio instead of the library, where the windows were shaded by the portico, the morning light frequently broke in upon me still standing pencil or palette in hand, before the immense canvas, unable to break the spell which bound me to it.

X.

“We will turn you in loose here,” proved an “open sesame” to me during the subsequent months of my occupation at the White House. My access to the official chamber was made nearly as free as that of the private secretaries, unless special business was being transacted. Sometimes a stranger, approaching the President with a low tone, would turn an inquiring eye toward the place where I sat, absorbed frequently in a pencil sketch of some object in the room. This would be met by the hearty tones of Mr. Lincoln,--I can hear them yet ringing in my ears,--“Oh, you need not mind him; he is but a painter.” There was a satisfaction to me, differing from that of any other experience, in simply sitting with him. Absorbed in his papers, he would become unconscious of my presence, while I intently studied every line and shade of expression in that furrowed face. In repose, it was the saddest face I ever knew. There were days when I could scarcely look into it without crying. During the first week of the battles of the Wilderness he scarcely slept at all. Passing through the main hall of the domestic apartment on one of these days, I met him, clad in a long morning wrapper, pacing back and forth a narrow passage leading to one of the windows, his hands behind him, great black rings under his eyes, his head bent forward upon his breast,--altogether such a picture of the effects of sorrow, care, and anxiety as would have melted the hearts of the worst of his adversaries, who so mistakenly applied to him the epithets of tyrant and usurper. With a sorrow almost divine, he, too, could have said of the rebellious States, “How often would I have gathered you together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, _and ye would not_!” Like another Jeremiah, he wept over the desolations of the nation; “he mourned the slain of the daughter of his people.”

Surely, ruler never manifested so much sympathy, and tenderness, and charity. How like the last words of the Divine one himself, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do,” will the closing sentences of his last inaugural address resound in solemn cadence through the coming centuries. Truly and well says the London “Spectator” of that address: “We cannot read it without a renewed conviction that it is the noblest political document known to history, and should have for the nation and the statesmen he left behind him something of a sacred and almost prophetic character. Surely, none was ever written under a stronger sense of the reality of God’s government. And certainly none written in a period of passionate conflict ever so completely excluded the partiality of victorious faction, and breathed so pure a strain of mingled justice and mercy.”

XI.

The following Tuesday I spent with Mr. Lincoln in his study. The morning was devoted to the Judge-Advocate-General, who had a large number of court-martial cases to submit to the President. Never had I realized what it was to have power, as on this occasion. As case after case was presented to Mr. Lincoln, one stroke of his pen confirmed or commuted the sentence of death. In several instances Judge Holt referred to extenuating circumstances,--extreme youth, previous good conduct, or recommendations to mercy. Every excuse of this kind, having a foundation in fact, was instantly seized upon by the President, who, taking the document containing the sentence, would write upon the back of it the lightest penalty consistent with any degree of justice. As he added the date to one of these papers, he remarked casually, varying the subject of conversation, “Does your mind, Judge Holt, associate events with dates? Every time this morning that I have had occasion to write the day of the month, the thought has come up, ‘This was General Harrison’s birthday.’” One of the cases brought forward at this time I recollect distinctly. The man’s name was Burroughs; he had been a notorious spy; convicted and sentenced to death, a strong effort had been made in his behalf by powerful friends. It was an aggravated case, but an impression had evidently been made upon the President by the strength and pertinacity of the appeal. As Judge Holt opened the record, he stated that a short time previous Burroughs had attempted to escape from confinement, and was shot dead in the act by the sentinel on guard. With an expression of relief, Mr. Lincoln rejoined, “I ought to be obliged to him for taking his fate into his own hands; he has saved _me_ a deal of trouble.”

During a brief absence of the President, Judge Holt told me that the atrocities of some of the criminals condemned, surpassed belief. “A guerilla leader in Missouri,” said he, “by the name of Nichols, was in the habit of filling the ears of wounded Unionists who fell into his hands with gunpowder, setting fire to it, and blowing their heads to pieces. When captured, a number of human ears were found upon his person.” Referring to Mr. Lincoln’s disposition to pardon or commute the majority of the death sentences, he remarked, “The President is without exception the most tender-hearted man I ever knew.”

Judge Holt, it will be remembered, was called into Mr. Buchanan’s cabinet towards the close of his administration. Glancing around the room,--incidentally referring to my errand there,--he said, “This room was the theatre of some very exciting scenes during the last months of Mr. Buchanan’s term.” He spoke warmly of the courage and fearlessness of Stanton, on those occasions, who did not hesitate to call _traitors_ and _treason_ their right names.

When the clock struck twelve, Mr. Lincoln drew back from the table, and with a stretch of his long arms, remarked, “I guess we will go no farther with these cases to-day; I am a little tired and the Cabinet will be coming in soon.” “I believe, by the by,” he added, “that I have not yet had my breakfast,--this business has been so absorbing that it has crowded everything else out of my mind.”

And so ended the work of one morning; simple in its detail, but pregnant with hope and joy, darkness and death, to many human beings.

XII.

As the different members of the Cabinet came in, the President introduced me, adding in several instances,--“He has an idea of painting a picture of us all together.” This, of course, started conversation on the topic of art. Presently a reference was made by some one to Jones, the sculptor, whose bust of Mr. Lincoln was in the crimson parlor below. The President, I think, was writing at this instant. Looking up, he said, “Jones tells a good story of General Scott, of whom he once made a bust. Having a fine subject to start with, he succeeded in giving great satisfaction. At the closing sitting he attempted to define and elaborate the lines and markings of the face. The General sat patiently; but when he came to see the result, his countenance indicated decided displeasure. ‘Why, Jones, what have you been doing?’ he asked. ‘Oh,’ rejoined the sculptor, ‘not much, I confess, General; I have been working out the details of the face a little more, this morning.’ ‘Details?’ exclaimed the General, warmly; ‘---- the details! Why, my man, you are spoiling the bust!’”

At three o’clock the President was to accompany me, by appointment, to Brady’s photographic galleries on Pennsylvania Avenue. The carriage had been ordered, and Mrs. Lincoln, who was to accompany us, had come down at the appointed hour, dressed for the ride, when one of those vexations, incident to all households, occurred. Neither carriage or coachman was to be seen. The President and myself stood upon the threshold of the door under the portico, awaiting the result of the inquiry for the coachman, when a letter was put into his hand. While he was reading this, people were passing, as is customary, up and down the promenade, which leads through the grounds to the War Department, crossing, of course, the portico. My attention was attracted to an approaching party, apparently a countryman, plainly dressed, with his wife and two little boys, who had evidently been straying about, looking at the places of public interest in the city. As they reached the portico, the father, who was in advance, caught sight of the tall figure of Mr. Lincoln, absorbed in his letter. His wife and the little boys were ascending the steps. The man stopped suddenly, put out his hand with a “hush” to his family, and, after a moment’s gaze, he bent down and whispered to them,--“There is the President!” Then leaving them, he slowly made a half circuit around Mr. Lincoln, watching him intently all the while. At this point, having finished his letter, the President turned to me, and said: “Well, we will not wait any longer for the carriage; it won’t hurt you and me to walk down.” The countryman here approached very diffidently, and asked if he might be allowed to take the President by the hand; after which, “Would he extend the same privilege to his wife and little boys?” Mr. Lincoln good-naturedly approached the latter, who had remained where they were stopped, and, reaching down, said a kind word to the bashful little fellows, who shrank close up to their mother, and did not reply. This simple act filled the father’s cup full. “The Lord is with you, Mr. President,” he said reverently; and then, hesitating a moment, he added, with strong emphasis, “and the people too, sir; and the people too!”

The walk, of a mile or more, was made very agreeable and interesting to me by a variety of stories, of which Mr. Lincoln’s mind was so prolific. Something was said soon after we started about the penalty which attached to high positions in a democratic government--the tribute those filling them were compelled to pay to the public. “Great men,” said Mr. Lincoln, “have various estimates. When Daniel Webster made his tour through the West years ago, he visited Springfield among other places, where great preparations had been made to receive him. As the procession was going through the town, a barefooted little darkey boy pulled the sleeve of a man named T., and asked,--‘What the folks were all doing down the street?’ ‘Why, Jack,’ was the reply, ‘the biggest man in the world is coming.’ Now, there lived in Springfield a man by the name of G.,--a very corpulent man. Jack darted off down the street, but presently returned, with a very disappointed air. ‘Well, did you see him?’ inquired T. ‘Yees,’ returned Jack; ‘but laws--he ain’t half as big as old G.’”

Shortly afterward, he spoke of Mr. Ewing, who was in both President Harrison’s and President Taylor’s cabinet. “Those men,” said he, “were, you know, when elected, both of advanced years,--sages. Ewing had received, in some way, the nickname of ‘Old Solitude.’ Soon after the formation of Taylor’s cabinet, Webster and Ewing happened to meet at an evening party. As they approached each other, Webster, who was in fine spirits, uttered, in his deepest bass tones, the well-known lines,--

“‘O Solitude, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face?’”

The evening of Tuesday I dined with Mr. Chase, the Secretary of the Treasury, of whom I painted a portrait in 1855, upon the close of his term as United States Senator. He said during the dinner, that, shortly after the dedication of the cemetery at Gettysburg, the President told this story at a cabinet meeting. “Thad. Stevens was asked by some one, the morning of the day appointed for that ceremony, where the President and Mr. Seward were going. ‘To Gettysburg,’ was the reply. ‘But where are Stanton and Chase?’ continued the questioner. ‘At home, at work,’ was the surly answer; ‘let the dead bury the dead.’” This was some months previous to the Baltimore Convention, when it was thought by some of the leaders of the party, that Mr. Lincoln’s chances for a renomination were somewhat dubious.

Levee night occurring weekly, during the regular season, was always a trying one to the President. Whenever sympathy was expressed for him, however, he would turn it off playfully, asserting that the tug at his hand was much easier to bear than that upon his heartstrings for all manner of favors beyond his power to grant, to which he had daily to submit. As I took his hand at the levee, which closed my first day’s experiences with him, he said in his homely way, “Well, C., you have seen one day’s run;--what is your opinion of it?”

XIII.

Wednesday morning was devoted to the continued examination of the court-martial cases, to the great vexation of a score of political applicants, whom I could hear impatiently pacing the floor of the hall and waiting-room. At one o’clock, however, the doors were thrown open, and the throng admitted and dismissed, as rapidly as possible. I was much amused and interested, later in the day, in a variety of characters who presented themselves. First was an elderly lady, plainly but comfortably dressed, whose son was a prisoner in Baltimore. Her story, spun out to some length, was briefly this: Her son had been serving in the Rebel army. He heard that his sister was lying dead at home, and his mother at the supposed point of death. He determined to see them, and succeeded in getting through our lines undiscovered. He found his mother better. Before he got ready to return, he became very ill himself. She said she hid him in the house until he recovered, and on his way back to his regiment he was captured. He was now anxious to take the oath, and his mother assured the President that he should henceforth “have nothing to do with the Rebels.” Mr. Lincoln sat quietly through the story, his face in half shadow. As she finished he said, with some impatience,--“Now this is a pretty story to come to me with, isn’t it? Your son came home from fighting against his country; he was sick; you secreted him, nursed him up, and when cured, started him off again to help destroy some more of our boys. Taken prisoner, trying to get through our lines, you now want me to let him off upon his oath.” “Yes,” said the woman, not in the least disconcerted, “and I give you my word, Mr. President, he shall never have anything more to do with the Rebels--never--I was always opposed to his joining them.” “Your word,” rejoined Mr. Lincoln dryly, “what do I know about your word?” He finally took the application, and writing something upon the back of it, returned it to her with the words, “Now, I want you to understand that I have done this just to get rid of you!” “Oh,” said she, “Mr. President, I have always heard that you were such a kind-hearted man, and now I know it is true.” And so, with much apparent satisfaction, she withdrew.

The party that followed consisted of a lady and two gentlemen. She had come to ask that her husband, who was also a prisoner of war, might be permitted to take the oath and be released from confinement. To secure a degree of interest on the part of the President, one of the gentlemen claimed to be an acquaintance of Mrs. Lincoln; this, however, received but little attention and the President proceeded to ask what position the lady’s husband held in the Rebel service. “Oh,” said she, “he was a captain.” “_A captain!_,” rejoined Mr. Lincoln, “indeed!--rather too big a fish to set free simply upon his taking the oath. If he was an officer, it is proof positive that he has been a zealous rebel; I cannot release him.” Here the lady’s friend reiterated the assertion of his acquaintance with Mrs. Lincoln. Instantly the President’s hand was upon the bell-rope. The usher in attendance answered the summons. “Cornelius, take this man’s name to Mrs. Lincoln, and ask her what she knows of him.” The boy presently returned, with the reply that “_the Madam_” (as she was called by the servants) knew nothing of him whatever. The man said it was very strange. “Well, it is just as I suspected,” said the President. The party made one more attempt to enlist his sympathy, but without effect. “It is of no use,” was the reply; “I cannot release him;” and the trio withdrew, the lady in high displeasure.