The Life of Abraham Lincoln (Holland)/Chapter XXV

by Josiah Gilbert Holland

The pen has been so busy with the record of the great national events with which Mr. Lincoln was directly concerned, that no space has been found for entering the White House, and witnessing the kind of life that was lived there. The closing paragraphs of the last chapter will give an intimation of some of the perplexities that attended Mr. Lincoln's daily experience. More than any of his predecessors was he regarded as the father of his people. He was so accessible that they came to him with all their troubles, from the represeptatives of the factions in Missouri, to the old woman who applied to him to have a sum of money reserved from the wages of a clerk in one of the departments, that he might pay her bill for board. Every man seemed to think that Mr. Lincoln could settle his little difficulty, or provide for his little want, whatever it might be. It was the story of his younger life re-enacted. He had always been a reconciler of difficulties between men; and he remarked, while in the presidential chair, that it seemed as if he was regarded as a police justice, before whom all the petty troubles of men were brought for adjustment.

In one matter--and that an important one--he differed from all who had preceded him in his office. Such an affair as a genuine cabinet consultation hardly occurred during his administration. His heads of departments were heads of departments indeed. He intended that they should do the work of their special office, and that they should be held responsible for it. The affairs of state were managed by Mr. Seward, and not by Mr. Lincoln. The Treasury was almost as much in the hands of Mr. Chase, during his occupation of office, as if he were irresponsible to the head of the government. The same fact held concerning all the other secretaries. He was more intimate with the Secretary of War, probably, than with any other member of the cabinet, because operations in the field were the leading affairs of interest and importance; and it is probable, also, that his influence was more felt in the war office than in any other of the departments. Mr. Chase has said that he never attended a meeting of the cabinet without taking with him the figures that showed the exact condition of the Treasury at the time, and that, during the whole of his official life, he was not once called upon to show these figures. Mr. Lincoln contented himself with such knowledge as he gained in a general way concerning the affairs entrusted to him. The tenacity with which he clung to his chosen advisers and official family, throughout all the attempts of politicians and the public to unseat them, was remarkable; and illustrated not only the faithfulness of his friendship but the inflexibleness of his will.

If any action was ever taken by one of his secretaries that seemed to him ill-advised, he did not hesitate to interfere; but, sitting in his place, and performing what seemed to him to be his special duties, he intended that his associates in the government should sit in their places, and perform their duties; and he left them free to win such honor as they could, by the administration of the affairs of their respective departments.

The first three years of the war, with all their excitements, responsibilities and anxieties, produced a powerful effect upon his physical constitution. He entered the White House a healthy man, with a frame of iron; and, withdut indulgence in a single debilitating vice, he became a feeble man, weary and worn beyond the reach of rest. The tired feeling very rarely left him. His relief was in story-telling, in books of humor, in theatrical representations, and in music. A lady who was, for a time, a member of his family, related to the writer an incident touching his love of music and its effect upon him. One evening he was prevailed upon to attend the opera. He was very tired, and quite inclined to remain at home; but, at the close of the evening's entertainment, he declared himself so much rested that he felt as if he could go home and work a month. Simple heart-songs pleased him, however, much more than the elaborate music of the opera. The poetry of Burns, and the class of verse to which it belonged, were subjects of his special admiration; and the music that was their fitting expression was to him the most delightful of all.

With the soldiers who were fighting the battles of the country, he had the deepest sympathy. Whenever he was congratulated upon a success in the field, he never failed to allude gratefully to the noble men who had won it. The trials of these men--their sacrifices of comfort and health, of limb and life--touched him with a sympathy that really sapped the foundations of his constitution. They were constantly in his thoughts; and not a battle was fought to whose sacrifices his own vitality did not contribute. He admired the fighting man, and looked upon him as, in one sense, his superior. Although he did not plead guilty to the weakness of moral cowardice, he felt that the battle-field was a fearful place, from which, unaided by its special inspirations, he should run. Indeed, Mr. Lincoln did not give himself credit for the physical courage which he really possessed, though he had probably grown timid with his failing strength.

This sympathy with the soldiers he manifested in many ways, and in none more than in his treatment of their offenses against military law. In a letter to the author, a personal friend of the President says: "I called on him one day in the early part of the war. He had just written a pardon for a young man who had been sentenced to be shot, for sleeping at his post, as a sentinel. He remarked as he read it to me: 'I could not think of going into eternity with the blood of the poor young man on my skirts.' Then he added: 'It is not to be wondered at that a boy, raised on a farm, probably in the habit of going to bed at dark, should, when required to watch, fall asleep; and I cannot consent to shoot him for such an act.'" This story, with its moral, is made complete by Rev. Newman Hall of London, who, in a sermon preached after and upon Mr. Lincoln's death, says that the dead body of this youth was found among the slain on the field of Fredericksburg, wearing next his heart a photograph of his preserver, beneath which the grateful fellow had written, "God bless President Lincoln!" From the same sermon, another anecdote is gleaned, of a similar character, which is evidently authentic. An officer of the army, in conversation with the preacher, said: "The first week of my command, there were twenty-four deserters sentenced by court martial to be shot, and the warrants for their execution were sent to the President to be signed. He refused. I went to Washington, and had an interview. I said: 'Mr. President, unless these men are made an example of, the army itself is in danger. Mercy to the few is cruelty to the many.' He replied: 'Mr. General, there are already too many weeping widows in the United States. For God's sake, don't ask me to add to the number, for I won't do it.'"

Whole chapters might be occupied by the record of such incidents as these. The woe that the war brought upon the people kept his sympathetic heart always bleeding. One of the last acts of his official life was the granting of a pardon for a military offense. A friend from Illinois called to plead for the life of a neighbor--a soldier who was on his way with his regiment through Washington, and, falling out of the ranks, entered a drinking saloon, was overcome with liquor, and failed to join his regiment before it left the city. He was arrested for desertion, and sentenced to be shot. The soldier's friend found Mr. Lincoln with a table before him literally covered with documents, which were all to be signed by him. There was not room enough on the table to hold the paper for a pardon. Mr. Lincoln heard the explanation of the case, and remarked: "Well, I think the boy can do us more good above ground than under ground;" and then he proceeded to another table to write his pardon. Afterwards, laughingly regarding the table from which the mass of papers had driven him, he said: "By the way, do ydu know how the Patagonians eat oysters? They open them, and throw the shells out of the window, till the pile gets higher than the house, and then they move!" He could not omit his "little story," even in a case of life and death.

There never lived a man more considerate of human weakness than Abraham Lincoln. He always found so many apologies for the sins of others that he could cherish no resentments against them, even when those sins were maliciously committed against himself. When his friends went to him with the remarks of ill-natured and inimical persons, he preferred not to have them repeated, and turned off his indignant informers with a story, or the remark: "I guess we won't talk about that now." He never read the public abuse of himself in the newspapers; and of one of the most virulent attacks upon him he simply remarked that it was "ill-timed." Of one of his bitter political enemies, he said: "I've been told that insanity is hereditary in his family, and I think we will admit the plea in his case." Charity, pity, mercy, sympathy--these were virtues which reigned in the White House during Mr. Lincoln's occupation of it.

Yet Mr. Lincoln could be severe. Toward crimes resulting from sudden anger, or untoward circumstances and sharp temptations,--the long catalogue of vices growing out of human weakness,--toward these, he was always lenient; but toward a cool, calculating crime against the race, or any member of it, from ambitious or mercenary motives, he was severe. The systematic, heartless oppression of one man by another man, always aroused his indignation to the highest pitch. An incident occurred soon after his inauguration which forcibly illustrates this point. Hon. John B. Alley of Lynn, Massachusetts, was made the bearer to the President of a petition for pardon, by a person confined in the Newburyport jail for being engaged in the slave-trade. He had been sentenced to five years' imprisonment, and the payment of a fine of one thousand dollars. The petition was accompanied by a letter to Mr. Alley, in which the prisoner acknowledged his guilt and the justice of his sentence. He was very penitent,--at least, on paper,--and had received the full measure of his punishment, so far as it related to the term of his imprisonment; but he was still held because he could not pay his fine. Mr. Alley read the letter to the President, who was much moved by its pathetic appeals; and when he had himself read the petition, he looked up, and said: "My friend, that is a very touching appeal to our feelings. You know my weakness is to be, if possible, too easily moved by appeals for mercy, and, if this man were guilty of the foulest murder that the arm of man could perpetrate, I might forgive him on such an appeal; but the man who could go to Africa, and rob her of her children, and sell them into interminable bondage, with no other motive than that which is furnished by dollars and cents, is so much worse than the most depraved murderer, that he can never receive pardon at my hands. No! He may rot in jail before he shall have liberty by any act of mine." A sudden crime, committed under strong temptation, was venial in his eyes, on evidence of repentance; but the calculating, mercenary crime of man-stealing and man-selling, with all the cruelties that are essential accompaniments of the business, could win from him, as an officer of the people, no pardon.

Two ladies, wives of rebel officers imprisoned on Johnson's Island, applied for their release, with great importunity, one of them urging that her husband was a very religious man. As he granted their request, he said to the lady who had testified to her husband's religion: "You say your husband is a religious man: tell him, when you meet him, that I say I am not much of a judge of religion; but that, in my opinion, the religion that sets men to rebel and fight against their government, because, as they think, that government does not sufficiently help some men to eat their bread in the sweat of other men's faces, is not the sort of religion upon which men can get to heaven."

Certainly Mr. Lincoln's religion was very different from this. It was one which sympathized with all human sorrow; which lifted, so far as it had the power, the burden from the oppressed; which let the prisoner go free; and which called daily for supplies of strength and wisdom from the divine fountains. He grew more religious with every passing year of his official life. The tender piety that breathed in some of his later state papers is unexampled in any of the utterances of his predecessors. In all the great emergencies of his closing years, his reliance upon divine guidance and assistance was often extremely touching. "I have been driven many times to my knees," he once remarked, "by the overwhelming conviction that I had no where else to go. My own wisdom and that of all about me seemed insufficient for that day." On another occasion, when told that he was daily remembered in the prayers of those who prayed, he said that he had been a good deal helped by the thought; and then he added with much solemnity: "I should be the most presumptuous blockhead upon this footstool, if I for one day thought that I could discharge the duties which have come upon me since I came into this place, without the aid and enlightenment of One who is wiser and stronger than all others." He felt, he said, that he should leave Washington a better man if not a wiser, from having learned what a very poor sort of man he was. He always remained shy in the exposure of his religious experiences, but those around him caught golden glimpses of a beautiful Christian character. With failing strength and constant weariness, the even temper of the man sometimes gave way, while his frequent experience of the faithlessness and cupidity of men made him at last distrustful of those who approached him.

In February, 1862, Mr. Lincoln was visited by severe affliction in the death of his beautiful son Willie, and the extreme sickness of Thomas, familiarly called "Tad." This was a new burden; and the visitation which, in his firm faith in Providence, he regarded as providential, was also inexplicable. Why should he, with so many burdens upon him, and with such necessity for solace in his home and his affections, be brought into so tender a trial? It was to him a trial of faith, indeed. A Christian lady of Massachusetts, who was officiating as nurse in one of the hospitals, came in to attend the sick children. She reports that Mr. Lincoln watched with her about the bedside of the sick ones, and that he often walked the room, saying sadly: "This is the hardest trial of my life; why is it? Why is it?" In the course of conversations with her, he questioned her concerning her situation. She told him she was a widow, and that her husband and two children were in Heaven; and added that she saw the hand of God in it all, and that she had never loved him so much before as she had since her affliction. "How is that brought about?" inquired Mr. Lincoln. "Simply by trusting in God, and feeling that he does all things well," she replied. "Did you submit fully under the first loss?" he asked. "No," she answered, "not wholly; but, as blow came upon blow, and all was taken, I could and did submit, and was very happy." He responded: "I am glad to hear you say that. Your experience will help me to bear my afflictions."

On being assured that many Christians were praying for him on the morning of the funeral, he wiped away the tears that sprang in his eyes, and said: "I am glad to hear that. I want them to pray for me. I need their prayers." As he was going out to the burial, the good lady expressed her sympathy with him. He thanked her gently, and said: "I will try to go to God with my sorrows." A few days afterward, she asked him if he could trust God. He replied: "I think I can, and I will try. I wish I had that childlike faith you speak of, and I trust He will give it to me." And then he spoke of his mother, whom so many years before he had committed to the dust among the wilds of Indiana. In this hour of his great trial, the memory of her who had held him upon her bosom, and soothed his childish griefs, came back to him with tenderest recollections. "I remember her prayers," said he, "and they have always followed me. They have clung to me all my life."

This lady was with the President on subsequent occasions. After the second defeat at Bull Run, he appeared very much distressed about the number of killed and wounded, and said: "I have done the best I could. I have asked God to guide me, and now I must leave the event with him." On another occasion, having been made acquainted with the fact that a great battle was in progress, at a distant but important point, he came into the room where the lady was engaged in nursing a member of the family, looking worn and haggard, and saying that he was so anxious that he could eat nothing. The possibility of defeat depressed him greatly; but the lady told him he must trust, and that he could at least pray. "Yes," said he, and taking up a Bible, he started for his room. Could all the people of the nation have overheard the earnest petition that went up from that inner chamber, as it reached the ears of the nurse, they would have fallen upon their knees with tearful and reverential sympathy. At one o'clock in the afternoon, a telegram reached him announcing a Union victory; and then he came directly to the room, his face beaming with joy, saying: "Good news! Good news! The victory is ours, and God is good." "Nothing like prayer," suggested the pious lady, who traced a direct connection between the event and the prayer which preceded it. "Yes there is," he replied--"praise:--prayer and praise." The good lady who communicates these incidents closes them with the words: "I do believe he was a true Christian, though he had very little confidence in himself."

Mr. Lincoln always manifested a strong interest in the peculiar work of the Christian Commission in the army, and attended the important meetings of that body at Washington. His official and personal approval of the plan of this charity was one of the greatest encouragements of those engaged in the work. In the early part of 1864, a meeting of the commission was held, at which Mr. Lincoln was a deeply interested spectator. He was particularly moved on this occasion by the remarks of Chaplain McCabe, just released from Libby prison, at Richmond, who described, in a graphic manner, the scene among the prisoners on the reception of the news of the national victory at Gettysburg, as they took up Mrs. Howe's spirited lyric, beginning with the line,

"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord,"

and made the prison walls rock with the melody. The Chaplain sang it to the meeting, and Mr. Lincoln requested its repetition. That was a song that he could appreciate; and it stirred him like a trumpet.

At another of these meetings, he was greatly interested and amused by a story told by General Fisk of Missouri. The General had begun his military life as a Colonel; and, when he raised his regiment in Missouri, he proposed to his men that he should do all the swearing of the regiment. They assented; and for months no instance was known of the violation of the promise. The Colonel had a teamster named John Todd, who, as roads were not always the best, had some difficulty in commanding his temper and his tongue. John happened to be driving a mule-team through a series of mud-holes a little worse than usual, when, unable to restrain himself any longer, he burst forth into a volley of energetic oaths. The Colonel took notice of the offense, and brought John to an account. "John," said he, "didn't you promise to let me do all the swearing of the regiment?" "Yes, I did, Colonel," he replied, "but the fact was the swearing had to be done then, or not at all, and you weren't there to do it."

Mr. Lincoln enjoyed this story quite as much as he did the singing of the previous occasion, and gave himself up to laughter the most boisterous. The next morning, General Fisk attended the reception at the White House; and saw, waiting in the ante-room, a poor old man from Tennessee. Sitting down beside him, he inquired his errand; and learned that he had been waiting three or four days to get an audience, and that on his seeing Mr. Lincoln probably depended the life of his son, who was under sentence of death for some military offense. General Fisk wrote his case in outline on a card, and sent it in, with a special request that the President would see the man. In a moment, the order came; and past senators, governors and generals, waiting impatiently, the old man went into the President's presence. He showed Mr. Lincoln his papers; and he, on taking them, said he would look into the case, and give him the result on the following day. The old man, in an agony of apprehension, looked up into the President's sympathetic face, and actually cried out: "Tomorrow may be too late! My son is under sentence of death! The decision ought to be made now!" and the streaming tears told how much he was moved. "Come," said Mr. Lincoln, "wait a bit, and I'll tell you a story;" and then he told the old man General Fisk's story about the swearing driver; and, as he told it, the old man forgot his boy, and both the President and his listener had a hearty laugh together at its conclusion. Then he wrote a few words which the old man read, and in which he found new oocasion for tears; but the tears were tears of joy, for the words saved the life of his son.

Only a few months before Mr. Lincoln died, he was waited upon at the White House by about two hundred members of the commission, who had been holding their annual meeting. The chairman of the commission, George H. Stuart, addressed a few words to Mr. Lincoln, speaking of the debt which the country owed him. "My friends," said Mr. Lincoln in reply, "you owe me no gratitude for what I have done: and I--" and here he hesitated, and the long arm came through the air awkwardly, as if he might be misunderstood in what he was going to say,--"and I, I may say, owe you no gratitude for what you have done; just as, in a sense, we owe no gratitude to the men who have fought our battles for us. I trust that this has all been for us a work of duty;" and at the mention of that word, the homely, sad face was irradiated with the light of a divine emotion. Looking around for encouragement into the faces of the eager group, he then proceeded in the simplest words to say that all gratitude was due to the Great Giver of all good. At the close of his remarks, Mr. Stuart, who cared as little for precedent as Mr. Lincoln himself, asked him if he had any objection, then and there, to a word of prayer. Quietly, but very cordially, as if he were grateful for the suggestion, he assented; and Bishop James offered in the East Room a brief and fervent petition. It was a memorable scene, which must always be reverted to with interest by every Christian patriot.

On another occasion, when a number of the members of the commission were holding an interview with the President, Rev. J.T. Duryea of New York referred to the trust that they were encouraged to repose in the Providence of God, and to the fact that appeal was so constantly made to it in the prayers of Christian people that even children were taught to pray for the President in their simple morning and evening petitions. "If it were not for my firm belief in an over-ruling Providence," responded Mr. Lincoln, "it would be difficult for me, in the midst of such complications of affairs, to keep my reason on its seat. But I am confident that the Almighty has his plans, and will work them out; and, whether we see it or not, they will be the wisest and best for us. I have always taken counsel of him, and referred to him my plans, and have never adopted a course of proceeding without being assured, as far as I could be, of his approbation. To be sure, he has not conformed to my desires, or else we should have been out of our trouble long ago. On the other hand. his will does not seem to agree with the wish of our enemy over there (pointing across the Potomac). He stands the judge between us, and we ought to be willing to accept his decisions. We have reason to anticipate that it will be favorable to us, for our cause is right." It was during this interview that the fact was privately communicated to a member of the commission, that Mr. Lincoln was in the habit of spending an early hour each day in prayer.

It was during this interview, also, that, on some allusion being made to the unfriendly personal criticisms of the press, he said: "It has been asserted that we are conducting the present administration in the interest of a party, to secure a re-election. It is said that appointments in the army are made with this view, and that the removals are intended to put promising rivals out of the way. Now, if any man shows himself to be able to save the country, he shall have my hearty support. If he wants to be president, he ought to be, and I will help him. The charge is absurd. What matters it who is chosen the next president, if there is to be no next presidency? What matters it who is appointed pilot for the next voyage, if the ship is going down this voyage?" When allusion was made to the carping spirit of some of the professed friends of the government, who, distinguishing between the administration and the government, condemned the former while pretending to defend the latter, he said: "There is an important sense in which the government is distinct from the administration. One is perpetual, the other is temporary and changeable. A man may be loyal to his government, and yet oppose the peculiar principles and methods of the administration. I should regret to see the day in which the people should cease to express intelligent, honest, generous criticism upon the policy of their rulers. It is true, however, that, in time of great peril, the distinction ought not to be so strongly urged; for then criticism may be regarded by the enemy as opposition, and may weaken the wisest and best efforts for the public safety. If there ever was such a time, it seems to me it is now."

An illustration of Mr. Lincoln's interest in the efforts of religious men, is found in his treatment of a case brought before him by Rev. Mr. Duryea, whose name has already been mentioned. Colonel Loomis, commandant at Fort Columbus, on Governor's Island, was to be removed because he had passed the legal limit of age for active service. His religious influence was so powerful that the Chaplain of the post appealed to Mr. Duryea to use his influence for the good officer's retention in the service. Accordingly, appeal was made to the President for that object, purely on religious grounds. "What does Mr. Duryea know of military matters?" inquired Mr. Lincoln, with a smile, of the bearer of his petition. "Nothing," replied the gentleman; "and he makes no request on military considerations. The record of Colonel Loomis for fifty years, in the War Department, will furnish these. He asks simply to retain the influence of a man whose Christian character is pure and consistent, who sustains religious exercises at the fort, leads a weekly prayer-meeting, and teaches a Bible class in the Sabbath School." Mr. Lincoln replied: "That is his highest possible recommendation. Take this petition to the Secretary of War, with my approval." The result was the retention of Colonel Loomis at his post, until his services were needed in important court-martial business.

Mr. Lincoln's habits at the White House were as simple as they were at his old home in Illinois. He never alluded to himself as "President," or as occupying "the Presidency." His office, he always designated as "this place." "Call me Lincoln," said he to a friend,--"Mr. President" had become so very tiresome to him. "If you see a newsboy down the street, send him up this way," said he to a passenger, as he stood waiting for the morning news at his gate. Friends cautioned him against exposing himself so openly in the midst of enemies; but he never heeded them. He frequently walked the streets at night, entirely unprotected; and he felt any check upon his free movements as a great annoyance. He delighted to see his familiar western friends; and he gave them always a cordial welcome. He met them on the old footing, and fell at once into the accustomed habits of talk and story-telling. An old acquaintance, with his wife, visited Washington. Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln proposed to these friends a ride in the presidential carriage. It should be stated, in advance, that the two men had probably never seen each other with gloves on in their lives, unless when they were used as protection from the cold. The question of each--Mr. Lincoln at the White House, and his friend at the hotel--was, whether he should wear gloves. Of course, the ladies urged gloves; but Mr. Lincoln only put his in his pocket, to be used or not, according to circumstances. When the presidential party arrived at the hotel, to take in their friends, they found the gentleman, overcome by his wife's persuasions, very handsomely gloved. The moment he took his seat, he began to draw off the clinging kids, while Mr. Lincoln began to draw his on. "No! no! no!" protested his friend, tugging at his gloves; "It is none of my doings: put up your gloves, Mr. Lincoln." So the two old friends were on even and easy terms, and had their ride after their old fashion.

Let us look a little deeper into this life in the White House. The writer has before him a private letter written by a lady of great intelligence and the keenest powers of observation, from which he has the liberty to draw some most interesting materials, illustrative of Mr. Lincoln's mode of dealing with men and women, and with the questions which were presented to him for decision. They will illustrate as well his weakness as his strength; and show, better than any direct statement, how the duties of his position had worn upon his nerves and his temper. The lady was the widow of one who had died while serving the soldiers of the state of which he was the Governor; and she had taken up his work of charity, and pursued it from the time of his death.

The lady says she was received by Mr. Lincoln after a brief delay. He was alone, in a medium-sized, office-like room, with no elegance around him, and no elegance in him. He was plainly clad in a suit of black, that fitted him poorly; and was sitting in a folded-up sort of way, in his arm-chair. At his side stood a high writing-desk and table combined; under his feet was a simple straw matting; and around him were sofas and chairs, covered with green worsted. Nothing more unpretending could be imagined. As she entered, his head was bent forward, his chin resting on his breast, and his hand holding the letter she had sent in. He made a feint of rising; and, looking out from under his eyebrows, said inquiringly: "Mrs.---?" Hastening forward, she replied: "Yes, and I am very glad to see you, Mr. Lincoln." He took her hand, and "hoped she was well," but gave no smile of welcome. She had come on business which interfered with his policy and plans; and she anxiously read his face, full of its lines of care and thought, and almost stern in its expression. He motioned her to a chair; and, while he was reading her letter, she continued the perusal of his features. After he had finished, he looked up, ran his fingers through his slightly silvered brown hair, and with an air of sad severity said: "Madam, this matter of northern hospitals has been talked of a great deal, and I thought it was aettled; but it seems this is not the case. What have you got to say about it?" "Simply this," she replied, "that many soldiers, sick in our western army on the Mississippi, must have northern air, or die. There are thousands of graves along the Mississippi and Yazoo, for which the government is responsible--ignorantly, undoubtedly; but this ignorance must not continue. If you will permit these men to come North, you, will have ten men in one year where you have got one now."

Mr. Lincoln could not see the logic of this. Shrugging his shoulders, and smiling in his peculiar, quizzical way, he said: "If your reasoning were correct, your argument would be a good one. I don't see how sending one sick man North is going to give us ten well ones." The lady replied: "You understand me, I think." "Yes, yes," said he, "I understand you; but if they go North they will desert, and where is the difference?" Her reply was: "Dead men cannot fight, and they may not desert." "A fine way to decimate the army!" exclaimed the President. "We should never get a man back--not one--not one." "Pardon me," responded the lady, "but I believe you are mistaken. You do not understand our people. They are as true and as loyal to the government as yourself. The loyalty is among the common soldiers, and they are the chief sufferers." Almost contemptuously Mr. Lincoln replied: "This is your opinion!"

The reader will see in this exhibition of petulance, evidence that the Preaident was conscious of being undermined in his predeterminations. "Mrs. ---," said he, earnestly, "How many men of the army of the Potomac do you suppose the government was paying at the battle of Antietam? and how many men do you suppose could be got for active service at that time?" She replied: "I know nothing of the army of the Potomac, except that it has made some noble sacrifices." "Well, but give a guess," persisted the President. "Indeed, I cannot," was her answer. He threw himself awkwardly around in his chair, with one leg over the arm, and spoke slowly: "This war might have been finished at that time, if every man had been in his place who was able to be there; but they were scattered here and there over the North--some on furloughs, and in one way and another gone, so that, out of one hundred and seventy thousand men, whom the government was paying, only eighty-three thousand could be got for action. The consequences, you know, proved nearly disastrous." The President paused for a response, and it came. "It was very sad; but the delinquents were certainly not in northern hospitals, nor were they deserters from northern hospitals, for we have had none: so your argument is not against them."

The President appreciated this logic thoroughly, and replied: "Well, well; you go and call on the Secretary of War, and see what he saYs." He then took the lady's letter, and wrote on the back: "Admit Mrs. --- at once. Listen to what she saYs. She is a lady of intelligence, and talks sense. A. Lincoln." "May I return to you, Mr. Lincoln?" she inquired. "Certainly," said he, gently; and then the lady found her way to Mr. Stanton's office, and was listened to and treated with great respectfulness and kindness. She was told by the Secretary that he had sent the Surgeon-general to New Orleans, with directions to come up the river, and visit all the hospitals. Mrs. --- had no faith in these inspections, and told him so--told him, further, that no good to the western soldiers had ever resulted from them. She also indicated what she believed to be the reasons for the favorable reports from the southern hospitals, that had uniformly been made. "I believe," said she, "that it is because the medical authorities know that the heads of departments are opposed to establishing hospitals so far from army lines, and report accordingly. I wish this could be over-ruled. Can nothing be done?" "Nothing until the Surgeon-general returns," he replied. Personally, he expressed himself in favor of hospitals in every northern state, but he had to be guided by the medical authorities.

She bade him "good morning," and returned to the President. No one was waiting, and at the invitation of the messenger she passed directly into the President's room. She found a gentleman engaged in conversation with the President, but neither noticed her entrance. Taking a seat at a distance from the two gentlemen, she waited her opportunity. The visitor handed a paper to Mr. Lincoln. He looked it over carelessly, and said: " Yes, that is a sufficient indorsement for anybody: what do you want?" The reply was not heard; but the promotion of some person in the army was strongly urged. She heard the sarcastic words from the applicant: "I see there are no vacancies among the Brigadiers, from the fact that so many Colonels are commanding brigades."

At this, the President threw himself forward in his chair in such a way as to expose to the lady the most curious, comical expression of features imaginable. He was looking the man squarely in the face; and, with one hand softly patting the other, and the funny look pervading every line of his countenance, he said: "My friend, let me tell you something about that. You are a farmer, I believe; if not, you will understand me. Suppose you had a large cattle-yard, full of all sorts of cattle--cows, oxen and bulls,--and you kept killing and selling and disposing of your cows and oxen, in one way and another, taking good care of your bulls. By and by you would find out that you had nothing but a yard full of old bulls, good for nothing under heaven. Now it will be just so with the army, if I don't stop making Brigadier-generals."

The man was answered, and he tried to laugh; but the effort was a feeble one. Mr. Lincoln laughed, however, enough for both parties. He laughed all over, and laughed his visitor out of the room.

The lady stepped forward; and, as Mr. Lincoln motioned her to a chair, he inquired what the Secretary of War had sad to her. She gave him a full account of the interview, and added: "I have nowhere to go but to you." He replied, "Mr. Stanton knows there is an acting Surgeon-general here, and that Hammond will not return these two months. I will see the Secretary of War myself, to-night; and you may come again in the morning." He then dismissed her in the kindest manner and with the kindest words.

No reader can doubt that from this moment he had determined to grant the lady her request; and this is to be remembered in the reading of the interviews which followed; for in these interviews occurred a strange exhibition of his penchant for arguing against and opposing his own conclusions--in this case almost with temper--certainly not in the most amiable manner.

In the morning, the lady returned, full of hope, expecting to be greeted by the same genial face and cordial manner with which Mr. Lincoln had dismissed her. The President raised his eyes as she entered his room, said "good morning," and pointed to a chair. He was evidently annoyed at something which had occurred during some previous conversation of the morning, and waited for her to speak. She waited for him. "Well?" said he, after a minute of delay. "Well?" replied his visitor. He looked up under his eyebrows, a little startled, and inquired: "Have you nothing to say?" "Nothing," she replied, "until I hear your decision. Have you decided? You know you bade me come this morning." "No, I have not decided; and I believe this idea of northern hospitals is a great humbug, and I am tired of hearing about it." The lady pitied him in his weak and irritable mood, and said: "I regret to add a feather's weight to your already overwhelming care and responsibility. I would rather have stayed at home." With a feeble smile, he responded: "I wish you had." She was earnest, and replied: "Nothing would have given me greater pleasure, sir; but a keen sense of duty to this government, justice and mercy to its most loyal supporters, and regard for your honor and position, made me come. The people cannot understand why their husbands, fathers and sons are left to die, when, with proper care and attention, they ought to live, and yet do good service for their country. Mr. Lincoln, I do believe you will yet be gratefUl for my coming. I do not come to plead for the lives of criminals, nor for the lives of deserters; but I plead for the lives of those who were the first to hasten to the support of this government, who helped to place you where you are--for men who have done all they could; and now, when flesh and nerve and muscle are gone, who still pray for your life, and the life of the republic. They scarcely ask for that for which I plead. They expect to sacrifice their lives for their country. I know that, if they could come North, they could live, and be well, strong men again,--at least, many of them. I say I know, because I was sick among them last spring, surrounded by every comfort, with the best of care, and determined to get well. I grew weaker and weaker, day by day, until, not being under military law, my friends brought me North. I recovered entirely by breathing northern air."

While she was so earnestly speaking, Mr. Lincolns expression of face changed often, but he did not take his eyes from her. He was evidently distressed, for he was convinced that she was speaking the truth. His face contracted almost painfully as he said: "You assume to know more than I do." The tears almost came in the lady's eyes as she replied: "Pardon me, Mr. Lincoln, I intend no disrespect; but it is because of this knowledge, and because I do know what you do not know, that I come to you. If you had known what I know, and had not already ordered what I ask, I should know that an appeal to you would be in vain; but I believe in you. I believe the people have not trusted you in vain. The question only is--do you believe me, or not? If you believe in me, you will give us hospitals; if not--well."

"You assume to know more than surgeons do," said Mr. Lincoln, sharply. "Oh no," she replied; "I could not perform an amputation nearly as well as some of them do. But this is true: I do not come here for your favor. I am no aspirant for military favor or promotion. While it would be the pride of my life to command your respect and confidence, still, even this I can waive to gain my object--waive for the time. You will do me justice, some time. Now the medical authorities know as well as you and I do, that you are opposed to establishing northern hospitals; and they report to please you. They desire your favor. I come to you from no casual tour of inspection, having passed rapidly through the general hospitals, with a cigar in my mouth and a ratan in my hand, talking to the surgeon in charge of the price of cotton, and abusing our generals in the army for not knowing and performing their duty better, and finally coming into the open air with a long-drawn breath as though I had just escaped suffocation, and complacently saying to the surgeon: 'A very fine hospital you have here, Sir. The boys seem to be doing very well. A little more attention to ventilation is desirable, perhaps.' It is not thus that I have visited hospitals. For eight long months--from early morning until late at night, sometimes--I have visited the regimental and general hospitals on the Mississippi, from Quincy to Vicksburg; and I come to you from the cots of men who have died, and who might have lived if you had permitted it. This is hard to say, but it is true."

While she was speaking the last sentences, Mr. Lincoln's brow had become severely contracted; and a pained, hard expression had settled upon his whole face. Then he sharply asked her how many men her state had sent to the field. She replied: "about fifty thousand." "That means," he responded, "that she has about twenty thousand now." With an unpleasant voice and manner he continued: "You need not look so sober; they are not all dead." The veins filled in his face painfully, and one across his forehead was fearfully large and blue. Then, with an impatient movement of his whole frame, he said: "I have a good mind to dismiss them all from the service, and have no more trouble with them."

The lady was astonished, as she might well be, for she knew that he was not in earnest. They sat looking at one another in silence. He had become very pale, and at last she broke the silence by saying: "They have been faithful to the government; they have been faithful to you; they will still be loyal to the government, do what you will with them. But, if you will grant my petition, you will be glad as long as you live. The prayers of grateful hearts will give you strength in the hour of trial, and strong and willing arms will return to fight your battles."

The President bowed his head; and, with a look of sadness which it is impossible for language to describe, said: "I shall never be glad any more." All severity had passed away from his face, and he seemed looking inward and backward, and appeared unconscious of the fact that he was not alone. The great burdens he had borne, the terrible anxieties and perplexities that had poisoned his life at the fountain, and the peaceful scenes he had forever left behind, swept across his memory; and then the thought that it was possible that he had erred in judgment, and done injustice to the noble men who had fought the nation's battles, brought back all his child-like tenderness.

The lady heard his mournful utteranoes, and said: "Oh! do not say so, Mr. Lincoln, for who will have so much reason to rejoice as yourself, when the government shall be restored--as it will be?"

"I know--I know," he said, pressing a hand on either side; "but the springs of life are wearing away, and I shall not last." She asked him if he felt that his great cares were injuring his health. "No," he replied; "not directly, perhaps." She asked him if he slept well. He never was a good sleeper, he replied, and of course slept now less than ever before. Then, with earnestness, he said: "The people do not yet comprehend the magnitude of the rebellion, and it will be a long time before the end."

The lady, feeling that she had occupied too much of his time, rose to take her leave; and, as she did so, said: "Have you decided upon your answer to me?" "No," he replied, "come to-morrow morning:--stop, it is cabinet-meeting to-morrow. Yes, come at twelve o'clock; there is not much for the cabinet to do, to-morrow." Then he bade his visitor a cordial good morning, and she retired.

The next morning, the lady found that her interview had prostrated her; but at twelve o'clock she was at the White House. The President sent her word that the cabinet would adjourn soon, and that she must wait. For three long hours she waited, receiving occasional messages from Mr. Lincoln, to the effect that the cabinet woUld soon adjourn, and he would then see her. She was in distress, expecting defeat. She walked the room, and gazed at the maps; and, at last, she heard the sound of feet. The cabinet had adjourned. Mr. Lincoln did not send for her, but came shuffling into the room, rubbing his hands, and saying: "My dear Madam, I am sorry I have kept you waiting so long, but we have this moment adjourned." "My waiting is no matter," she replied, "but you must be very tired, and we will not talk to-night." Bidding her to a seat, she having risen as he entered, he sat down at her side, and quietly remarked: "I only wish to say to you that an order which is equivalent to the granting of a hospital in your state, has been issued from the War Department, nearly twenty-four hours."

The lady could make no reply, except through the tears that sprang at once. Mr. Lincoln looked on, and enjoyed it. When, at last, she could command her voice, she said: "God bless you!" Then, as doubts came, touching the nature of the order, she said earnestly: "Do you mean, really and truly, that we are going to have a hospital now?" With a look full of benevolence and tenderness,-such a look as rarely illuminates any face, he said: "I do most certainly hope so;" and then he told her to come on the following morning, and he would give her a copy of the order. But his visitor was too much affected to talk; and perceiving this, he kindly changed the subject, asking her to look at a map which hung in the room, representing the great battle-grounds of Europe. "It is a very fine map," said he; "see--here is Waterloo, here are all the battle-fields about the Crimea." Then, suddenly turning to the lady, he said: "I'm afraid you will not like it so well, when I tell you who executed it." She replied: "It is a great work, whoever executed it. Who was it, Mr. President?" "McClellan," he answered, and added: "He certainly did do this well. He did it while he was at West Point."

The next morning, sick with the excitement through which she had passed, the lady was at the White House again. She found more than fifty persons waiting for an audience; so she sent in her name, and said she would call again. The messenger said he thought the President would see her, and she had better be seated. Soon afterward, he informed her that the President would see her. As she paeeed in, she heard the words from one of the waiting throng: "She has been here six days; and, what is more, she is going to win." As she entered, Mr. Lincoln smiled pleasantly, drew a chair to his side, and said: "Come here, and sit down." As she did so, he handed her a copy of the coveted order. She thanked him, and apologized for not being more promptly at the house; she had been sick all night. "Did joy make you sick?" he inquired. "I suppose," he added, "you would have been mad if I had said 'no.'" She replied: "No, Mr. Lincoln, I should have been neither angry nor sick." "What would you have done?" he inquired. "I should have been here at nine o'clock this morning." "Well," said he, laughing, "I think I have acted wisely then." Then he turned suddenly, and looked into her face as he said: "Don't you ever get angry?" She replied that she never did when she had an important object to attain. Further conversation occurred as to the naming of the hospital, when the lady rose, and said: "You will not wish to see me again." "I did not say that, and I shall not say it," said the President. "You have been very kind to me, and I am very grateful for it," said his visitor. He looked up at her from under his eyebrows, in his peculiar way, and said: "You almost think I am handsome, don't you?" His face was full of benevolence, and his countenance lighted by a cordial smile; and it is not strange that the lady exclaimed: "You are perfectly lovely to me now, Mr. Lincoln." The President colored a little, and laughed a good deal, at the impulsive response, and reached out his hand to bid her farewell. She took it reverently, bowed her head upon it, and, bowing, prayed: "God bless you, Abraham Lincoln!" Then she turned, heard his "good bye," and was gone.

"I shall never be glad any more!" The young men of his people were slain. His enemies were seeking his life. With a heart that beat kindly toward every human being, his motives were maligned, and his good name was contemned; greedy politicians and ambitious officers were about him, pushing forward their selfish schemes; he had daily experience of the faithlessness of men; and "this great trouble," as he was accustomed to call the war, was always on his mind and heart. He could not sleep; and, such was the character of the impression he had received from all his toils and cares, that he felt he could never be glad any more.

In Mr. Lincoln's senatorial campaign, and during the course of his debates with Mr. Douglas, it will be remembered that he was not once betrayed into a loss of temper. He was misrepresented and abused in every way, in order to break down his good nature; but, from the first to the last, he did not utter an angry or an impatient word. Then he was well--in the full strength of a hardy constitution. The interview just narrated has shown how much he had become changed by bearing the burdens of office. When he saw that his visitor was not only overthrowing his theory but the policy he had based upon it, and felt either that he was, or that he might be, in the wrong, he became peevish and querulous. This was very unlike Mr. Lincoln in health. He was one of the most generous of men in his dealings; but weakness and weariness made him on this, and on some other occasions, childish and petulant. Exhibitions of this character, which occurred during the last two years of his life, are all referable to the prostrated and irritable condition of his nervous system, resulting from excessive labor, mental suffering, and loss of sleep.

The interview with the lady will show, too, how universal and how minute were his cares. This case was only One among ten thousand cases that came to him for decision. It was a great thing to her, and of itself made her sick. It luted with her a week. It concerned the establishment of a hospital, simply. With him, the burden never was laid aside. He bore hundreds of matters upon his mind, all as important as this; and felt pressing upon his shoulders the interests of freedom, the future of a wonderful nation, and the destiny of a race; while he wielded as instruments for the accomplishment of his purposes a great government, and an army composed of the flower of the national life. It was killing him. There was always one tired spot in him that was not reached by rest.

Throughout the rebellion, Mr. Lincoln was the recipient of many attentions from the various bodies which constitute the Christian church of America. There was hardly a denomination that did not take occasion to express itself upon the war, and the great questions of humanity which it involved. They visited Mr. Lincoln at the White House; they approached him with addresses and resolutions; and the majority of them called forth from him either spoken or written responses. Representatives of foreign religious and philanthropic organizations mingled their voices with these. Expressions of personal sympathy, declarations of loyalty and devotion to the national cause, recommendations of policy, counsels, prayers, encouragements,--all poured in, in almost bewildering profusion, and of themselves became a burden. McPherson's History of the Rebellion gives forty-seven large and finely printed pages, consisting entirely of records of the action of the northern churches upon the rebellion; and the results of this action were communicated to the President in a way to draw from him either grateful acknowledgments, or responses that related to their subject matter.

The wear and tear of brain and nerve were often manifested in a deep melancholy, to which he had a natural tendency. "Whichever way it ends," said he to Mrs. Stowe, the authoress, alluding to the war, "I have the impression that I shall not last long after it is over." Hon. Schuyler Colfax met him one morning, after having received bad news which had not been made public. He had neither slept nor breakfasted, and exclaimed: "How willingly would I exchange places to-day with the soldier who sleeps on the ground in the army of the Potomac!" During the doubts and disasters of 1862, a member of Congress called on him for conversation. Mr. Lincoln began to tell a trifling story. "Mr. President," said the Congressman, rising, "I did not come here this morning to hear stories. It is too serious a time." The smile fled from Mr. Lincoln's face, as he replied: "A., sit down. I respect you as an earnest and sincere man. You cannot be more anxious than I am constantly; and I say to you now, that, if it were not for this occasional vent, I should die." To aother he said: "I feel a presentiment that I shall not outlast the rebellion. When it is over, my work will be done." Of this presentiment he made no secret, but spoke of it to many of his friends.

Thus sad and weary, working early and late, full of the consciousness that God was working through him for the accomplishment of great ends, praying daily for strength and guidance, with a heart full of warm charity toward his foes, and open with sympathy toward the poor and the suffering, this Christian President sat humbly in his high seat, and did his duty. It is with genuine pain that the writer is compelled to leave behind, unrecorded, save in the floating literature of the day, multiplied instances which illustrate his tender-heartedness, his pity, his over-ruling sense of justice, his patience under insult, his loveliness of spirit, his devotion to humanity, his regard for the poor and the despised, his truthfulness, his simplicity, and the long list of manly virtues which distinguished his character and his career. They would of themselves fill a volume.

Mr. Lincoln's character was one which will grow. It will become the basis of an ideal man. It was so pure, and so unselfish, and so rich in its materials, that fine imaginations will spring from it, to blossom and bear fruit through all the centuries. This element was found in Washington, whose human weaknesses seem to have faded entirely from memory, leaving him a demi-god; and it will be found in Mr. Lincoln in a still more remarkable degree. The black race have already crowned him. With the black man, and particularly the black freed man, Mr. Lincoln's name is the saintliest which he pronounces, and the noblest he can conceive. To the emancipated, he is more than man--a being scarcely second to the Lord Jesus Christ himself. That old, white-headed negro who undertook to tell what "Massa Linkum" was to his dark-minded brethren, imbodied the vague conceptions of his race, in the words: "Massa Linkum, he ebery whar; he know ebery ting; he walk de earf like de Lord." He was to these men the incarnation of power and goodness; and his memory will live in the hearts of this unfortunate and oppressed race while it shall exist upon the earth.