_August 12th_.--I see the President almost every day, as I happen to
live where he passes to or from his lodgings out of town. He never
sleeps at the White House during the hot season, but has quarters at a
healthy location some three miles north of the city, the Soldiers' home,
a United States military establishment. I saw him this morning about 8
1/2 coming in to business, riding on Vermont avenue, near L street. He
always has a company of twenty-five or thirty cavalry, with sabres drawn
and held upright over their shoulders. They say this guard was against
his personal wish, but he let his counselors have their way. The party
makes no great show in uniform or horses. Mr. Lincoln on the saddle
generally rides a good-sized, easy-going gray horse, is dress'd in plain
black, somewhat rusty and dusty, wears a black stiff hat, and looks
about as ordinary in attire, &c., as the commonest man. A lieutenant,
with yellow straps, rides at his left, and following behind, two by
two, come the cavalry men, in their yellow-striped jackets. They are
generally going at a slow trot, as that is the pace set them by the one
they wait upon. The sabres and accoutrements clank, and the entirely
unornamental _cortège_ as it trots towards Lafayette square arouses
no sensation, only some curious stranger stops and gazes. I see very
plainly ABRAHAM LINCOLN'S dark brown face, with the deep-cut lines, the
eyes, always to me with a deep latent sadness in the expression. We
have got so that we exchange bows, and very cordial ones. Sometimes
the President goes and comes in an open barouche. The cavalry always
accompany him, with drawn sabres. Often I notice as he goes out
evenings--and sometimes in the morning, when he returns early--he turns
off and halts at the large and handsome residence of the Secretary of
War, on K street, and holds conference there. If in his barouche, I can
see from my window he does not alight, but sits in his vehicle, and Mr.
Stanton comes out to attend him. Sometimes one of his sons, a boy of ten
or twelve, accompanies him, riding at his right on a pony. Earlier in
the summer I occasionally saw the President and his wife, toward the
latter part of the afternoon, out in a barouche, on a pleasure ride
through the city. Mrs. Lincoln was dress'd in complete black, with a
long crape veil. The equipage is of the plainest kind, only two horses,
and they nothing extra. They pass'd me once very close, and I saw the
President in the face fully, as they were moving slowly, and his look,
though abstracted, happen'd to be directed steadily in my eye. He bow'd
and smiled, but far beneath his smile I noticed well the expression I
have alluded to. None of the artists or pictures has caught the deep,
though subtle and indirect expression of this man's face. There is
something else there. One of the great portrait painters of two or three
centuries ago is needed.