FAREWELL TO SPRINGFIELD.
However bitter and acrimonious a political campaign may have been, the
result is usually accepted good-naturedly. The defeated party hopes for
better luck next time, and awaits with interest the course of the new
Executive. But this was not the case after the election which made Mr.
Lincoln President. The South was sullen, the North divided in sentiment.
The party that sustained slavery had staked all on the issue of the
campaign. They were not disposed to acquiesce in the result. They were
quiet, but it was a dangerous quiet. They were biding their time, and
meant mischief.
James Buchanan was President. He was an old man; cautious to timidity,
overawed by the bold, defiant spirits that constituted his Cabinet--not
seeing, or not caring to see, the evidences of their disloyalty. Never
did a President long more ardently for his term to close. He saw that a
storm was brewing, the like of which the country had never seen. He
earnestly hoped that it would not burst till he had laid down the
responsibilities of office.
Abraham Lincoln waited quietly at Springfield for the time to come that
should separate him from the tranquil course of life he had led hitherto
and precipitate him into the maelstrom of political excitement at
Washington, wherein he was to be the central figure. Knowing him as in
after years we learned to know him, we can not doubt that at times he
felt almost overwhelmed by his coming burdens. It was well, perhaps,
that he was not permitted to be too much alone. His attention was
distracted by throngs of visitors,--autograph-hunters and office-seekers
being the most conspicuous--who consumed a large part of his time.
As this story is written especially for young people, I will venture to
transcribe from Mr. Holland’s “Life” two incidents which connected him
with children:
“He was holding a reception at the Tremont House in Chicago. A fond
father took in a little boy by the hand who was anxious to see the new
President. The moment the child entered the parlor door, he of his own
motion, and quite to the surprise of his father, took off his hat, and,
giving it a swing, cried, ‘Hurrah for Lincoln!’ There was a crowd, but
as soon as Mr. Lincoln could get hold of the little fellow, he lifted
him in his hands, and, tossing him toward the ceiling, laughingly
shouted, ‘Hurrah for you!’
“To Mr. Lincoln it was evidently a refreshing episode in the dreary work
of hand-shaking.
“At a party in Chicago during this visit, he saw a little girl timidly
approaching him. He called her to him, and asked her what she wished
for. She replied that she wanted his name. Mr. Lincoln looked back into
the room, and said, ‘But here are other little girls--they would feel
badly if I should give my name only to you.’ The little girl replied
that there were eight in all. ‘Then,’ said Mr. Lincoln, ‘get me eight
sheets of paper and pen and ink and I will see what I can do for you.’
The paper was brought, and Mr. Lincoln sat down in the crowded
drawing-room, and wrote a sentence upon each sheet, appending his name;
and thus every little girl carried off her souvenir.”
On the 11th of February, 1861, Abraham Lincoln left his pleasant Western
home for the capital. It was to be a leisurely journey, for he would be
expected to stop at many points to meet friends and receive friendly
greetings. Three weeks were to elapse before he would be inaugurated,
but, as he bade farewell to his friends and neighbors, he felt that the
burden of care had already fallen upon him. How he felt may be
understood from the few farewell words which he spoke. As reported by
Mr. Lamon, they are as follows:
“Friends:--No one who has never been placed in a like position can
understand my feelings at this hour, nor the oppressive sadness I feel
at this parting. For more than a quarter of a century I have lived among
you, and, during all that time, I have received nothing but kindness at
your hands. Here I have lived from my youth, until now I am an old man.
Here the most sacred ties of earth were assumed. Here all my children
were born, and here one of them lies buried. To you, dear friends, I owe
all that I have--all that I am. All the strange, checkered past seems
to crowd upon my mind. To-day I leave you. I go to assume a task more
difficult than that which devolved upon Washington. Unless the great God
who assisted him shall be with and aid me, I must fail; but, if the same
Omniscient mind and almighty arm that directed and protected him shall
guide and support me, I shall not fail--I shall succeed. Let us all pray
that the God of our fathers may not forsake us now. To Him I commend you
all. Permit me to ask that, with equal security and faith, you will
invoke His wisdom and guidance for me. With these few words, I must
leave you; for how long, I know not. Friends, one and all, I must now
bid you an affectionate farewell.”
I have already alluded to Mr. Lincoln’s constitutional melancholy
inherited from his mother. With it was joined a vein of superstition,
which at times darkened the shadow that seemed to hover about him. In
this connection, and as an illustration of this characteristic of the
President-elect, I quote an interesting reminiscence of John Hay, the
secretary of Mr. Lincoln, in the words of his chief:
“It was just after my election in 1860, when the news had been coming in
thick and fast all day, and there had been a great ‘hurrah, boys!’ so
that I was well tired out, and went home to rest, throwing myself upon a
lounge in my chamber. Opposite to where I lay was a bureau with a
swinging glass upon it; and, in looking in that glass, I saw myself
reflected nearly at full length; but my face, I noticed, had two
separate and distinct images--the tip of the nose of one being about
three inches from the tip of the other. I was a little bothered--perhaps
startled, and got up and looked in the glass, but the illusion vanished.
On lying down again I saw it a second time--plainer, if possible, than
before; and then I noticed that one of the faces was a little
paler--say, five shades--than the other. I got up, and the thing melted
away; and I went off, and in the excitement of the hour forgot all about
it--nearly, but not quite; for the thing would once in a while come up
and give me a little pang, as if something uncomfortable had happened.
When I went home, I told my wife about it; and a few days after, I tried
the experiment again--when, sure enough, the thing came back again; but
I never succeeded in bringing back the ghost after that, though I once
tried very industriously to show it to my wife, who was worried about it
somewhat. She thought it was a ‘sign’ that I was to be elected to a
second term of office, and that the paleness of one of the faces was an
omen that I should not see life through the last term.”
Mrs. Lincoln’s impression was curiously correct, as it turned out; but
we must set it down as a singular coincidence, and nothing more.
Campbell, in one of his spirited lyrics, tells us that “Coming events
cast their shadows before”; but it is hardly likely that in this case
God should have sent the President-elect a premonition of the fate which
was to overtake him some years later. It is better to consider that the
vision had a natural cause in the rumors of assassination which were
even then rife on account of the bitter feeling excited by the election
of a Republican President. Such rumors had been brought to Mr. Lincoln
himself, and he had been urged to take measures against assassination.
But he considered them useless. “If they want to kill me,” he said,
“there is nothing to prevent.” He felt that it would be easy enough for
an enemy to take his life, no matter how many guards he might have
around him. If it were his destiny to die, he felt that death would come
in spite of all precautions.
I need hardly say that Mr. Lincoln was unfortunate in having such a
temperament. Fortunately, it is exceptional. A cheerful, sunny
temperament, that rejoices in prosperity and makes the best of
adversity, providing against ill-fortune, but not anticipating it, is a
happy possession. In Mr. Lincoln his morbid feelings were lighted up and
relieved by a strong sense of humor, which made him in his lighter
moments a very agreeable companion.