pointed. All the upper grades of the army and navy, the diplomatic corps, the distinguished members of the two Houses, the Supreme Court, the cabinet, foreigners of rank, and that class of persons who, having none of these claims, are, by some subtle magnetism, among those who are always invited everywhere — all these were there.
The two French princes were, of course, most conspicuous and honored. The Comte de Paris was then tall, slender, good-looking, and with the ideal manners of a prince. The Duc de Chartres was taller, thinner, less handsome, but with fine manners. They were both young enough to enjoy a ball and the society of young ladies.
There were the brilliant young soldiers gathered from the ranks of civil life, over whom hung the fatal pall; but the clash of civil war paused while the waltzes played, and the gay festival went on while Death waited outside. A great, original, and distinct form, a grotesque figure perhaps, but lighted up with a pair of wonderful eyes, stood there to receive the guests — a man over whom hung the deepest trials and the baleful death of assassination, Abraham Lincoln.
His smile and voice were beautiful and his eyes superb. There his beauty ended, but the magnetic result of genius remained. Every one is glad to have touched his hand.
We all felt that the men about us were making history, and that we were looking at heroes, if we could only find them out. Mine was General McClellan, whom I always continued to admire. I remember now what a thrill ran through me as he was kind enough to come and talk to me. His style was very quiet and reserved, but his conversation had a charm, impressing
