shadows. The wind of destiny for him was the convictions arising out of
his own soul; for them it was vox populi. The genuineness of Lincoln,
his spiritual reality, had been perceived early by a class of men
whom your true politician seldom understands. The Intellectuals--"them
literary fellers," in the famous words of an American Senator--were
quick to see that the President was an extraordinary man; they were not
long in concluding that he was a genius. The subtlest intellect of the
time, Hawthorne, all of whose prejudices were enlisted against him, said
in the Atlantic of July, 1863: "He is evidently a man of keen faculties,
and what is still more to the purpose, of powerful character. As to his
integrity, the people have that intuition of it which is never deceived
he has a flexible mind capable of much expansion." And this when
Trumbull chafed in spirit because the President was too "weak" for his
part and Wade railed at him as a despot. As far back as 1860, Lowell,
destined to become one of his ablest defenders, had said that Lincoln
had "proved both his ability and his integrity; he . . . had experience
enough in public affairs to make him a statesman, and not enough to make
him a politician." To be sure, there were some Intellectuals who could
not see straight nor think clear. The world would have more confidence
in the caliber of Bryant had he been able to rank himself in the Lincoln
following. But the greater part of the best intelligence of the North
could have subscribed to Motley's words, "My respect for the character
of the President increases every day."(1) The impression he made on men
of original mind is shadowed in the words of Walt Whitman, who saw him
often in the streets of Washington: "None of the artists or pictures
have caught the subtle and indirect expression of this man's face.
One of the great portrait painters of two or three centuries ago is
needed."(2)
Lincoln's popular strength lay in a combination of the Intellectuals and
the plain people against the politicians. He reached the masses in three
ways: through his general receptions which any one might attend; through
the open-door policy of his office, to which all the world was permitted
access; through his visits to the army. Many thousand men and women, in
one or another of these ways, met the President face to face, often in
the high susceptibility of intense woe, and carried away an impression
which was immediately circulated among all their acquaintances.
It would be impossible to exaggerate the grotesque miscellany of the
stream of people flowing ever in and out of the President's open doors.
Patriots eager to serve their country but who could find no place in
the conventional requirements of the War Office; sharpers who wanted to
inveigle him into the traps of profiteers; widows with all their sons in
service, pleading for one to be exempted; other parents struggling with
the red tape that kept them from sons in hospitals; luxurious frauds
prating of their loyalty for the sake of property exemptions; inventors
with every imaginable strange device; politicians seeking to cajole
him; politicians bluntly threatening him; cashiered officers demanding
justice; men with grievances of a myriad sorts; nameless statesmen who
sought to teach him his duty; clergymen in large numbers, generally
with the same purpose; deputations from churches, societies, political
organizations, commissions, trades unions, with every sort of message
from flattery to denunciation; and best of all, simple, confiding people
who wanted only to say, "We trust you--God bless you!"
There was a method in this madness of accessibility. Its deepest
inspiration, to be sure, was kindness. In reply to a protest that he
would wear himself out listening to thousands of requests most of which
could not be granted, he replied with one of those smiles in which there
was so much sadness, "They don't want much; they get but little, and I
must see them."(3)
But there was another inspiration. His open doors enabled him to study
the American people, every phase of it, good and bad. "Men moving only
in an official circle," said he, "are apt to become merely official--not
to say arbitrary--in their ideas, and are apter and apter with each
passing day to forget that they only hold power in a representative
capacity. . . . Many of the matters brought to my notice are utterly
frivolous, but others are of more or less importance, and all serve
to renew in me a clearer and more vivid image of that great popular
assemblage out of which I sprung, and to which at the end of two years I
must return. . . . I call these receptions my public opinion baths; for
I have but little time to read the papers, and gather public opinion
that way; and though they may not be pleasant in all their particulars,
the effect as a whole, is renovating and invigorating to my perceptions
of responsibility and duty."(4)
He did not allow his patience to be abused with evil intent. He read his
suppliants swiftly. The profiteer, the shirk, the fraud of any sort,
was instantly unmasked. "I'll have nothing to do with this business," he
burst out after listening to a gentlemanly profiteer; "nor with any man
who comes to me with such degrading propositions. What! Do you take the
President of the United States to be a commission broker? You have come
to the wrong place, and for you and for every one who comes for the same
purpose, there is the door."(5)
Lincoln enjoyed this indiscriminate mixing with people. It was his chief
escape from care. He saw no reason why his friends should Commiserate
him because of the endless handshaking. That was a small matter compared
with the interest he took in the ever various stream of human types.
Sometimes, indeed, he would lapse into a brown study in the midst of
a reception. Then he "would shake hands with thousands of people,
seemingly unconscious of what he was doing, murmuring monotonous
salutations as they went by, his eye dim, his thoughts far withdrawn.
. . . Suddenly, he would see some familiar face--his memory for faces was
very good-and his eye would brighten and his whole form grow attentive;
he would greet the visitor with a hearty grasp and a ringing word
and dismiss him with a cheery laugh that filled the Blue Room with
infectious good nature."(6) Carpenter, the portrait painter, who for a
time saw him daily, says that "his laugh stood by itself. The neigh of a
wild horse on his native prairie is not more undisguised and hearty." An
intimate friend called it his "life preserver."(7)
Lincoln's sense of humor delighted in any detail of an event which
suggested comedy. His genial awkwardness amused himself quite as much
as it amused the world. At his third public reception he wore a pair
of white kid gloves that were too small. An old friend approached. The
President shook hands so heartily that his glove burst with a popping
sound. Holding up his hand, Lincoln gazed at the ruined glove with a
droll air while the arrested procession came to a standstill. "Well, my
old friend," said he, "this is a general bustification; you and I were
never intended to wear these things. If they were stronger they might do
to keep out the cold, but they are a failure to shake hands with between
old friends like us. Stand aside, Captain, and I'll see you shortly."(8)
His complete freedom from pose, and from the sense of place, was
glimpsed by innumerable visitors. He would never allow a friend to
address him by a title. "Call me Lincoln," he would say; "Mr. President
is entirely too formal for us."(9)
In a mere politician, all this might have been questioned. But Hawthorne
was right as to the people's intuition of Lincoln's honesty. He hated
the parade of eminence. Jefferson was his patron saint, and "simplicity"
was part of his creed. Nothing could induce him to surround himself with
pomp, or even--as his friends thought--with mere security. Rumors of
plots against his life were heard almost from the beginning. His friends
begged long and hard before he consented to permit a cavalry guard at
the gates of the White House. Very soon he countermanded his consent.
"It would never do," said he, "for a president to have guards with drawn
sabers at his door, as if he fancied he were, or were trying to be, or
were assuming to be, an emperor."(10)
A military officer, alarmed for his safety, begged him to consider
"the fact that any assassin or maniac seeking his life, could enter
his presence without the interference of a single armed man to hold
him back. The entrance doors, and all doors on the official side of
the building, were open at all hours of the day and very late into the
evening; and I have many times entered the mansion and walked up to the
rooms of the two private secretaries as late as nine or ten o'clock at
night, without Seeing, or being challenged by a single soul." But the
officer pleaded in vain. Lincoln laughingly paraphrased Charles II, "Now
as to political assassination, do you think the Richmond people would
like to have Hannibal Hamlin here any more than myself? . . . As to
the crazy folks, Major, why I must only take my chances-the most
crazy people at present, I fear, being some of my own too zealous
adherents."(11) With Carpenter, to whom he seems to have taken a liking,
he would ramble the streets of Washington, late at night, "without
escort or even the company of a servant."(12) Though Halleck talked him
into accepting an escort when driving to and fro between Washington and
his summer residence at the Soldiers' Home, he would frequently give it
the slip and make the journey on horseback alone. In August of 1862 on
one of these solitary rides, his life was attempted. It was about eleven
at night; he was "jogging along at a slow gait immersed in deep thought"
when some one fired at him with a rifle from near at hand. The ball
missed its aim and the President's horse, as Lincoln confided to his
familiars, "gave proof of decided dissatisfaction at the racket,
and with one reckless bound, he unceremoniously separated me from my
eight-dollar plug hat . . . At break-neck speed we reached a haven of
safety. Meanwhile, I was left in doubt whether death was more desirable
from being thrown from a runaway Federal horse, or as the tragic result
of a rifle ball fired by a disloyal bushwhacker in the middle of the
night"(13)
While carrying his life in his hands in this oddly reckless way, he
belied himself, as events were to show, by telling his friends that he
fancied himself "a great coward physically," that he felt sure he would
make a poor soldier. But he was sufficiently just to himself to add,
"Moral cowardice is something which I think I never had."(14)
Lincoln's humor found expression in other ways besides telling stories
and laughing at himself. He seized every opportunity to convert a
petition into a joke, when this could be done without causing pain. One
day, there entered a great man with a long list of favors which he hoped
to have granted. Among these was "the case of Betsy Ann Dougherty, a
good woman," said the great man. "She lived in my county and did my
washing for a long time. Her husband went off and joined the Rebel army
and I wish you would give her a protection paper." The pompous gravity
of the way the case was presented struck Lincoln as very funny. His
visitor had no humor. He failed to see jokes while Lincoln quizzed him
as to who and what was Betsy Ann. At length the President wrote a line
on a card and handed it to the great man. "Tell Betsy Ann to put a
string in this card and hang it round her neck," said he. "When the
officers (who may have doubted her affiliations) see this they will keep
their hands off your Betsy Ann." On the card was written, "Let Betsy Ann
Dougherty alone as long as she behaves herself. A. Lincoln."(15)
This eagerness for a joke now and then gave offense. On one occasion,
a noted Congressman called on the President shortly after a disaster.
Lincoln began to tell a story. The Congressman jumped up. "Mr.
President, I did not come here this morning to hear stories. It is too
serious a time." Lincoln's face changed. "Ashley," said he, "sit down! I
respect you as an earnest, sincere man. You can not be more anxious than
I have been constantly since the beginning of the war; and I say to you
now, that were it not for this occasional vent, I should die."(16) Again
he said, "When the Peninsula Campaign terminated suddenly at Harrison's
Landing, I was as near inconsolable as I could be and live."(17)
Lincoln's imaginative power, the ineradicable artist in him, made
of things unseen true realities to his sensibility. Reports of army
suffering bowed his spirit. "This was especially' the case when the
noble victims were of his own acquaintance, or of the narrower circle of
his familiar friends; and then he seemed for the moment possessed of a
sense of personal responsibility for their individual fate which was at
once most unreasonable and most pitiful." On hearing that two sons of an
old friend were desperately wounded and would probably die, he broke out
with: "Here, now, are these dear brave boys killed in this cursed war.
My God! My God! It is too bad! They worked hard to earn money to
educate themselves and this is the end! I loved them as if they were my
own."(18) He was one of the few who have ever written a beautiful letter
of condolence. Several of his letters attempting this all but impossible
task, come as near their mark as such things can. One has become a
classic:
"I have been shown," he wrote to Mrs. Bixby, "in the files of the War
Department a statement of the Adjutant-General of Massachusetts that
you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field
of battle. I feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which
should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming.
But I can not refrain from tendering to you the consolation that may be
found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save. I pray that our
heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave
you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn
pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the
altar of freedom."(19)
All these innumerable instances of his sympathy passed from mouth to
mouth; became part of a floating propaganda that was organizing the
people in his support. To these were added many anecdotes of his mercy.
The American people had not learned that war is a rigorous thing.
Discipline in the army was often hard to maintain. Impulsive young men
who tired of army life, or who quarreled with their officers, sometimes
walked away. There were many condemnations either for mutiny or
desertion. In the stream of suppliants pouring daily through the
President's office, many were parents imploring mercy for rash sons. As
every death-warrant had to be signed by the President, his generals
were frequently enraged by his refusal to carry out their decisions.
"General," said he to an angry commander who charged him with destroying
discipline, "there are too many weeping widows in the United States
now.-For God's sake don't ask me to add to the number; for I tell you
plainly I won't do it."(20)
Here again, kindness was blended with statecraft, mercy with shrewdness.
The generals could not grasp the political side of war. Lincoln tried
to make them see it. When they could not, he quietly in the last resort
counteracted their influence. When some of them talked of European
experience, he shook his head; it would not do; they must work with
the tools they had; first of all with an untrained people, intensely
sensitive to the value of human life, impulsive, quick to forget
offenses, ultra-considerate of youth and its rashness. Whatever else the
President did, he must not allow the country to think of the army as an
ogre devouring its sons because of technicalities. The General saw only
the discipline, the morale, of the soldiers; the President saw the
far more difficult, the more roundabout matter, the discipline and the
morale of the citizens. The one believed that he could compel; the other
with his finger on the nation's pulse, knew that he had to persuade.
However, this flowing army of the propaganda did not always engage him
on the tragic note. One day a large fleshy man, of a stern but
homely countenance and a solemn and dignified carriage, immaculate
dress--"swallow-tailed coat, ruffled shirt of faultless fabric, white
cravat and orange-colored gloves"--entered with the throng. Looking at
him Lincoln was somewhat appalled. He expected some formidable demand.
To his relief, the imposing stranger delivered a brief harangue on the
President's policy, closing with, "I have watched you narrowly ever
since your inauguration. . . . As one of your constituents, I now say
to you, do in future as you damn please, and I will support you." "Sit
down, my friend," said Lincoln, "sit down. I am delighted to see you.
Lunch with us today. Yes, you must stay and lunch with us, my friend,
for I have not seen enough of you yet."(21) There were many of these
informal ambassadors of the people assuring the President of popular
support. And this florid gentleman was not the only one who lunched with
the President on first acquaintance.
This casual way of inviting strangers to lunch with him was typical of
his mode of life, which was exceedingly simple. He slept lightly and
rose early. In summer when he used the Soldiers' Home as a residence, he
was at his desk in the White House at eight o'clock in the morning. His
breakfast was an egg and a cup of coffee; luncheon was rarely more
than a glass of milk and a biscuit with a plate of fruit in season;
his dinner at six o'clock, was always a light meal. Though he had not
continued a total abstainer, as in the early days at Springfield, he
very seldom drank wine. He never used tobacco. So careless was he with
regard to food that when Mrs. Lincoln was away from home, there
was little regularity in his meals. He described his habits on such
occasions as "browsing around."(22)
Even when Mrs. Lincoln was in command at the White House, he was not
invariably dutiful. An amusing instance was observed by some high
officials. The luncheon hour arrived in the midst of an important
conference. Presently, a servant appeared reminding Mr. Lincoln of the
hour, but he took no notice. Another summons, and again no notice.
After a short interval, the door of the office flew open and the titular
"First Lady" flounced into the room, a ruffled, angry little figure,
her eyes flashing. With deliberate quiet, as if in a dream, Lincoln rose
slowly, took her calmly, firmly by the shoulders, lifted her, carried
her through the doorway, set her down, closed the door, and went on with
the conference as if unconscious of an interruption.(23) Mrs. Lincoln
did not return. The remainder of the incident is unknown.
The burden of many anecdotes that were included in the propaganda was
his kindness to children. It began with his own. His little rascal
"Tad," after Willie's death, was the apple of his eye. The boy romped in
and out of his office. Many a time he was perched on his father's knee
while great affairs of state were under discussion.(24) Lincoln could
persuade any child from the arms of its mother, nurse, or play fellow,
there being a "peculiar fascination in his voice and manner which the
little one could not resist."(25)
All impressionable, imaginative young people, brought into close
association with him, appear to have felt his spell. His private
secretaries were his sworn henchmen. Hay's diary rings with
admiration--the keen, discriminating, significant admiration of your real
observer. Hay refers to him by pet name-"The Ancient," "The Old Man,"
"The Tycoon." Lincoln's entire relation with these gifted youngsters
may be typified by one of Hay's quaintest anecdotes. Lincoln had gone to
bed, as so often he did, with a book. "A little after midnight as I was
writing, the President came into the office laughing, with a volume of
Hood's Works in his hand, to show Nicolay and me the little caricature,
'An Unfortunate Being'; seemingly utterly unconscious that he, with his
short shirt hanging about his long legs, and setting out behind like
the tail feathers of an enormous ostrich, was infinitely funnier than
anything in the book he was laughing at. What a man it is! occupied all
day with matters of vast moment, deeply anxious about the fate of the
greatest army of the world, with his own plans and future hanging on the
events of the passing hour, he yet has such a wealth of simple bonhomie
and good fellowship that he gets out of bed and perambulates the house
in his shirt to find us that we may share with him the fun of poor
Hood's queer little conceits."(26)
In midsummer, 1863, "The Tycoon is in fine whack. I have rarely seen
him more serene and busy. He is managing this war, the draft, foreign
relations, and planning a reconstruction of the Union, all at once. I
never knew with what a tyrannous authority he rules the Cabinet, until
now. The most important things he decides and there is no cavil. I am
growing more convinced that the good of the country demands that he
should be kept where he is till this thing is over. There is no man in
the country so wise, so gentle, and so firm."(27)
And again, "You may talk as you please of the Abolition Cabal directing
affairs from Washington; some well-meaning newspapers advise the
President to keep his fingers out of the military pie, and all that sort
of thing. The truth is, if he did, the pie would be a sorry mess. The
old man sits here and wields, like a backwoods Jupiter, the bolts of
war and the machinery of government with a hand especially steady and
equally firm. . I do not know whether the nation is worthy of him for
another term. I know the people want him. There is no mistaking that
fact. But the politicians are strong yet, and he is not their 'kind of a
cat.' I hope God won't see fit to scourge us for our sins by any of the
two or three most prominent candidates on the ground."(28) This was the
conclusion growing everywhere among the bulk of the people. There is one
more cause of it to be reckoned with. Lincoln had not ceased to be the
literary statesman. In fact, he was that more effectively than ever. His
genius for fable-making took a new turn. Many a visitor who came to find
fault, went home to disseminate the apt fable with which the President
had silenced his objections and captured his agreement. His skill in
narration also served him well. Carpenter repeats a story about Andrew
Johnson and his crude but stern religion which in mere print is not
remarkable. "I have elsewhere insinuated," comments Carpenter, "that Mr.
Lincoln was capable of much dramatic power. . . . It was shown in his
keen appreciation of Shakespeare, and unrivaled faculty of Storytelling.
The incident just related, for example, was given with a thrilling
effect which mentally placed Johnson, for the time being, alongside
Luther and Cromwell. Profanity or irreverence was lost sight of in a
fervid utterance of a highly wrought and great-souled determination,
united with a rare exhibition of pathos and self-abnegation."(29)
In formal literature, he had done great things upon a far higher level
than any of his writings previous to that sudden change in his style
in 1860. For one, there was the Fast Day Proclamation. There was also a
description of his country, of the heritage of the nation, in the third
message. Its aim was to give imaginative reality to the national idea;
just as the second message had aimed to give argumentative reality.
"There is no line, straight or crooked, suitable for a national boundary
upon which to divide. Trace through from east to west, upon the line
between the free and the slave Country and we shall find a little
more than one-third of its length are rivers, easy to be crossed, and
populated, or soon to be populated, thickly upon both sides; while
nearly all its remaining length are merely surveyors' lines, over
which people may walk back and forth without any consciousness of their
presence. No part of this line can be made any more difficult to pass by
writing it down on paper or parchment as a national boundary.