Many aspects of my life have assumed ridiculous
proportions among these people. The fact that I was a
wrestler affronts some; that I could plow with oxen
annoys others. My humor shocks many. My lizard joke, that
I thought very amusing, is now in bad taste. If I said:
“Spit against the wind and you spit in your own face”
...well, certain politicians might understand and
appreciate that.
I see people and more people. My office is often
crowded. I am criticized for the amount of time I devote
to the public. My secretaries try to restrain me.
I’ll do the very best I can, the very best I know how.
And I mean to keep doing so to the end. If the end brings
me out all right what is said against me won’t amount to
anything. If the end brings me out wrong, ten angels
swearing I was right would make no difference.
People have asked me how it feels to be president, and
I sometimes say, if there is an appropriate moment:
You have heard about the man tarred and feathered and
ridden out of town on a rail? A man in the crowd asked
him how he liked it, and his reply was that if it wasn’t
for the honor of the thing, he would much rather walk.
W. H.
January 20
The other night I had a dream and in that dream I
observed myself in a huge mirror; my face had two
distinct images, one more or less superimposed on the
other, the underneath face much paler than the upper
face. The dream has perplexed me; something about it, its
shadowiness maybe, seems part of my wilderness life, the
shadowiness of those star-roofed nights. Mary was
disturbed by my dream. She interpreted it, saying that it
meant that I would be re-elected for a second term. The
pale image meant I would not finish that term. As she
talked about the dream I remembered how emphatically I
felt that I would never return to Springfield, an emotion
that nearly overwhelmed me as I waved from the train.
W. H.
1864
It was only a few years ago that John Quincy Adams was
swimming in the Potomac with his son. Adams used to rise
at five, to read the Bible, Commentary, and then read the
newspapers. He was about fifty-seven when he was
President. I recall his vivid description of abolitionist
Lovejoy’s printing press tragedy, in Alton, in ’37, how
the mob destroyed the man’s press and murdered him, such
a fate for a truly conscientious man! A martyr to the
cause of freedom! Adams recounts preacher Joseph
Cartwright’s plea for money, for $450 to buy the freedom
of his own three grandchildren. What a meaningful
exemplification of slavery!
JQA—fine President!
White House
January 24, ’64
Job seekers have besieged me. It must be the new year
that sends so many. They come from every part of our
nation, even the deep South. Some of the job seekers feel
they have every right to storm my office; some are
pitifully humble. Some bring recommendations; some have
prepared a little speech; some have no credentials.
Yesterday an elderly woman burst into tears as she pled
for a job. I helped her to sit down. I offered her a
drink of water. I did my best to console her. In her case
there seemed to be no job available; I asked her to
return in a few days; I had to ask my secretary to show
her out. I am resolved to permit my countrymen access to
my office. I can understand my country through these
seekers. If some are loath to leave, I can sit up later
over my important documents. Of course there are not
enough oats for all these hosses.
February 2, ’64
The howitzers and the rifles and the bayonets and the
ammunition and the sandbags are gone from our public
buildings. The invasion crisis is forgotten. Some say
that 10,000 men guard Washington, perhaps 8,000; I am
wary of statistics today.
There is a hint of spring in the air today.
I stand on the steps of the White House and shout for a
boy to bring me the morning paper.
How do I obtain accurate information?
I learn that two million dollars have disappeared from
our national treasury.
I learn that General Grant is seriously ill.
I learn that the Confederate forces plan to invade
Wilmington tomorrow at noon.
I learn that I have assumed dictatorial powers.
I read that the Confederacy has 220,000 men under arms.
Tomorrow the Cabinet meets... I will point out some of
these items to my Secretary of War, my Secretary of
State, my Secretary of the Treasury.
February 5, 1864
I think that my strength as wrestler, ox driver, and
rail splitter helps me. I channel it into my cabinet
meetings, office hours, discussions, late hours. Chase,
Sumner, Seward, Trumbul, Usher—each receives some of that
energy. I repeat that the dogmas of the quiet past are
inadequate for the stormy present. I re-affirm that we
must act anew. We must continually disenthrall ourselves.
Fellow citizens...we of this Congress...ours is a
mutual concern at this time...
And at all times there is someone who wishes to enter
by the back door, who has a special message or a letter
of prime importance...
Some of my friends predict a final cataclysm; some
believe that by wheedling we can conquer; some voice the
old voice of the abolitionists; some offer a packet of
new tricks; theirs is a jack-in-the-box credibility.
White House
February 8th, 1864
This morning, early, I heard a low rap-rap on my office
door. S. O. S.
The Morse code... S. O. S.
Tad, still in his nightgown, climbed onto my lap.
Together, we figured out how many bales of hay we
should order for his pony, and Willie’s pony. How many
bushels of grain. We decided that the pony’s halter
should be re-adjusted, a new strap over the nose, or a
new buckle. We also puzzled over what should be done
about the small hole in the new red saddle.
If these were not matters of state, we made them as
important—until I showed Tad my pile of correspondence;
then, with a wild kiss, he rushed off, banging the door.
February 18, 1864
I suppose that Willie and Tad—although strictly
forbidden—will rig another toy cannon on the roof of the
White House. That flat roof is an ideal playground for
those scoundrels. With their cannon in place the boys
fire invisible bullets at invisible enemy ships and
troops.
How I laughed when Tad gobbled all the fresh
strawberries intended for a state dinner last June.
Pranks such as that annoy the kitchen staff—and I am
blamed. They cannot possibly understand that when my boys
go berserk I am relieved of war anxiety for the moment.
When Willie and Tad ambush me in some room or corridor,
that tumbled mass of arms and legs and heads is my medal
for the day. As we tumble, Jip growls and barks and joins
in.
Their doll, Jack, a long-legged, blue-jacketed Zouave,
has been put on trial recently. Because he fell asleep
while on picket duty the boys sentenced him to death, and
he was to be buried under a bush in the garden.
“Jack is pardoned. By order of the President,” I wrote,
and signed my name.
However, if I am away, Jack may be accused again and
they may destroy him.
Tad’s Birthday
Tad received a pair of snow-white kittens, toys, a
wooden box of stick candy, and then a boat ride on the
Potomac. The spring afternoon was calm and beautiful. Tad
loved every moment—especially when the skipper allowed
him to steer the sloop. He dashed about the cabin, hung
over the bow, waved a flag at the stern. His grinning
face is unforgettable.
Back in the White House, he became the devoted master
of his kittens. With them lying on his bed, he stuck each
toy in front of a nose, saying :
“Isn’t that a nice one! Look at this little frog,
kitty!”
Tad met a woman in the hall, a woman in homespun. She
told Tad that her girls and boys were hungry and sick,
because their father was in prison in Washington. Tad
believed her; taking in every word she said he ran to me.
I was at my desk; I had been hearing bad news of
deserters; deserters present a grave problem; often there
are complications that make judgment difficult.
Tad’s tear-streaked face shocked me, and, little by
little, as he sat on my lap, as I cuddled him, we put
together the woman’s story. He kissed me and clasped me
around the neck and begged me to intercede. I promised I
would.
Dashing into the hall, he knelt by the woman, and cried
that she was to have her husband back, that her children
were going to have something to eat.
“Papa promised,” I heard him say. “Papa promised.”
March 3rd
Many object to Tad, to his vivacity, his dashing into
my office, throwing his arms around me, staying or
dashing off. There are those who think I, in my office,
my high office, should be above love. Some of those same
people object to my rural humor.
I carry Tad to his bed. I tell him stories. I linger,
linger until he falls asleep. Young as he is he knows
that death is around the city. I ask his fate: shall he
experience an early death, live to be old and wise,
remembering some of these days in Washington, some of the
war stories? A father can ask questions.
Make a noise, Tad, dash into my office tomorrow, jump
on me, kiss me.
I remember the presidential chair vilified, pilloried.
I see the grim cartoons lampooning me. A child offsets
those.
Tuesday evening
This morning I visited one of the hospitals, a tent
hospital by the river. Rain was everywhere. The wounded
felt it, that was easy to see. I went among them, shaking
hands, enquiring; this was not my first visit; I knew
some of the men by name.
“Abraham,” I heard a man whisper to his cot mate.
Can a name influence a life?
Abraham—“father of a multitude.”
Through the centuries, thousands of infants have been
christened Abraham. What has it meant? And what kind of
father am I? In the deep of the night, or during a
cabinet meeting, or while playing with my sons, I ask.
Which of the wounded, which of the dead, was my
responsibility?
Now and then the candle beside my bed does not want to
go out.
Mid-afternoon
Rain
In Springfield, Billy de Fleurville’s barbershop was my
favorite barbershop. We were friends, Billy and I. Billy
is a Haitian. His English is a remarkable mixture of
soft, sometimes incomprehensible sounds. A stable person,
he has raised a family and has been a civic influence for
fifteen years or more. He initiated a committee that
brought about a school for blacks. He loves his rabbit
paws and his jokes; while he shaves you or trims your
hair, he entertains. Since Billy loves gumbo and
fricasseed chicken I saw to it that he had more than his
share through the years.
At the depot, as the train pulled out for Washington,
he was there, handing me a farewell note, to read on the
train.
He writes me that tenants are taking proper care of my
house and yard.
“Filibuster has kittens,” he adds, in a postscript.
“One brown, two yellows.”
Evening
Desk
I treasure a letter from a child named Grace Bedell.
Grace wrote me :
“I have four brothers and part of them will vote for
you anyway, and if you let your whiskers grow, I will try
and get the rest of them to vote for you. You would look
a great deal better, for your face is so thin.”
Grace’s suggestion amused me...and I might glean those
two votes! So, I let my beard grow, and Billy de
Fleurville trimmed it for my inaugural. In Westfield, at
the depot, my train was on a siding. While it was there I
asked the crowd:
“Is Grace Bedell here?”
She came running to the train, and I was able to hug
and kiss her.
The White House
Sunday
They were good days in Springfield, our children
growing, bursting with energy, up to antics day in and
day out. They helped and hindered boisterously, helped
pitch-fork the cow’s stall, water the horse, carry in the
wood for the stove; they hindered by being unreliable,
off somewhere when needed.
I liked pulling the little ones in their red wagon, up
and down our street, the kids yelping or fussing happily.
It would be pleasant to be in Springfield, but not the
same, with Robert away at school. But, I would stretch my
legs onto a footstool and lie back on the old horsehair
sofa.
No, a thousand slaves are throwing up fortifications in
Richmond, in Charleston, in Atlanta....fortifications to
enslave more enslavement.
Someone, in the south, has written me:
“I warn you... I will kill you before long. You are
destroying the nation. You have no right to be
President...”
March 24th, 1864
Here is another anonymous letter:
“Dear Mr. President—
“In addressing you, I am prompted by the kindest
motives. I wish to warn you of the peril you are
facing if you remain in office. The South has
strong motives for desiring your death and has
resolved to take your life in the event of your not
relinquishing your office. The blacks are dis-
illusioned by your presidency. The whites can not,
without endangering more lives, allow you to remain
in the seat of government...”
So another letter, with “kindest motives,” has reached
me. How many have, though both secretaries screen my
mail. There is no doubt that anonymity makes a man
courageous.
April 2, 1864
Evening
The North commits atrocities. The South commits
atrocities. War is, without the shadow of a doubt, a form
of insanity. As Commander-in-Chief I can order troops to
attack; with the cessation of military activities I can
not order 50,000 men to reconstruct a devastated area.
The legality of such an order has never been questioned,
as far as I know, by any victorious power. Perhaps,
during my second term in office, I can weigh the
consequences of such an official directive.
Think of Libby Prison, consider Andersonville. They are
collective atrocities.
Was it two years ago a man handed me two red apples at
a depot in Ohio, bowing, and wishing me well?
I insist that the United States form a strictly federal
community, that the states are essential to its welfare
as is the central government, and North must never
dominate the South or the South dominate the North. I
also insist that the Chief Executive remain as center of
the government. If the President uses his power justly,
the people will justify him; if he abuses it, he is in
their hands to be dealt with by all the modes they have
reserved to themselves under the constitution. This is
essentially a people’s contest, I repeat. On the side of
the Union it is a struggle for maintaining in the world
that form and substance of government where the leading
object is to elevate the condition of man...can I repeat
this too often?
The White House
Library
There is room enough for all of us to be free, and that
it not only does not wrong the white man that the negro
should be free, but it positively wrongs the mass of the
white man that the negro should be enslaved.
Here among a heap of newspapers I pause...
April 6th
White House
(windows open)
When brought to my final reckoning, may I have to
answer for robbing no man of his goods; yet, more
tolerable even this, than for robbing one of himself and
all that was his. When, a year or two ago, professedly
holy men of the South met in the semblance of prayer and
devotion, and, in the name of Him who said, “As ye would
all men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them,”
appealed to the Christian world to aid them in doing to a
whole race of men as they would have no man do unto
themselves, to my thinking they contemned and insulted
God and His church...but let me forebear, remembering it
is also written, “Judge not lest ye be judged.”
My words, my record, this diary, seem obtuse at times;
I attempt to write down what I think and the writing
evolves another way.
In pensive mood I realize that President Jefferson
Davis sits at his desk in his White House. I sit at my
desk in my White House. He orders his army to move across
the chessboard of war. I order my army to move across the
same chessboard. His men fight for their homeland. My men
fight for a nation. It seems to me that this is an
ancient form of puppetry, a puppetry that came into being
in days before the time of Christ. It is obvious, then,
that we have gained nothing in the realm of diplomacy.
The cause of slavery has little to do with puppetry; it
has much to do with man’s future. The nation must have
freedom as its base, a living freedom, a worker’s
freedom, a thinker’s freedom.
Executive Mansion
Desk
April 16, 1864
Some folk still call me “Old Abe,” “Honest Abe,” “The
Backwoodsman,” “Rail Splitter.” I like those names; they
come out of my wilderness; they can be warm. They helped
me through those stormy debate days and still help me in
this prolonged struggle to save our country.
Lincoln: 1,866,452 votes
Douglas: 1,376,957 votes
Those numbers are printed in my mind’s eye. I am proud
that I beat Stephen Douglas, a great man, who, often
impartial, said good things about me as we contested, as
we debated. How was he able to carry on so valiantly? A
sick man—I’ve seen him stagger from fatigue. I’ve seen
him fall asleep, on the platform, after final arguments.
Yet, next day he was on his feet again:
1,866,452
I saw those figures as I walked along Pennsylvania
Avenue after the inauguration ceremony, as I walked
through the White House garden. That was my lucky number,
my lottery number. Destiny, hard work, luck, time—they
dovetail.
I felt the loss keenly, when Douglas died in ’61. He
wore himself out in his effort to save the union.
The White House
April 24, 1864
At the outset of this war, we had a military force of
about 16,000 men. Few of these men could be classed as
professionals. After the loss of Fort Sumter, I called
for 75,000 volunteers. Moving into combat, in those early
days, men fought with antiquated guns and poor equipment;
however, our artillery, at least, was superior.
Our soldiers were fortunate to have field tents. They
bivouacked in mule yards. Uniforms were issued willy-
nilly. Hats had to be stuffed with newspapers. Some men
had to survive on desiccated vegetables—cakes of them. On
the march their knapsacks fell apart.
I see that war is fought on folly. I half-believe there
were sane men who could have steered us without conflict.
Day after day, hour after hour, I walk through this
tragedy. I question my judgment and the judgment of
others. I study a war map and realize I am studying a map
of corpses, men, women, and children.
I wake in the middle of the night. There’s a bell, a
drum.
The White House
We have 3,200,000 slaves in our country.
What man would not want to set them free?
Among them there must be many a man and woman who is
among the finest. Among them there must be inventors,
lawyers, doctors, preachers, teachers—men who never had a
chance. It is my duty, my dedication, to liberate them as
soon as possible. The world can not be a better place
until they are freed.
Three million men and women and children, bound in
irons, what a world! I will do my best to strike those
irons, take away every shackle, so these people can look
at the sun and say: this is my world to make something
of, it is my chance to get something out of life.
The White House
Desk
May 1, 1864
Three or four times I have hidden (incognito?), in the
wings of a theatre to hear an opera. Tales of Hoffman was
performed last week, and I sat in a red leather chair
behind the curtains. Back home I used to watch magic
lantern shows; they were fine antidotes to melancholy;
the Tales of Hoffman minimized the Washington volcano.
I escape some of our war tragedy by reading Spencer. In
my bedroom I read till sunup. Every man must skin his own
skunk and I skin mine through books. At sunup I can lay
down my book and sleep, until someone wakes me.
Tonight I would like to bowl at Caspari’s but bowling,
because of the war, is off-limits for me. Somebody’s
afraid a strike might make me laugh. I had a few good
strikes before the war.
The White House is asleep. Perhaps I should find a
ruler and compass and attempt to square the circle.
And so to bed...
My wife is one of the loneliest women in Washington.
Her hospitality, her lavish entertainments, have bred
enemies and have engendered no rewarding friendships.
Because Mary exceeded her Congressional allotment for
essential White House expenditures, the press has
attacked her. I have volunteered to pay the bills out of
my salary. I have cautioned her against ostentation: “War
is no time for preening.”
Elizabeth Keckley, her seamstress, a former slave, is
her confidante. With three brothers fighting in the
Confederate army there are those who accuse Mary of
treason. Injustice can strike. And the sad face, the sad
thoughts continue. Poor Mary. Sharing intimate emotions
with Elizabeth Keckley is a mistake. I do not dare
reproach her.
Today’s cabinet meeting was a bitter one.
Yes, it is true Mary has relatives fighting for the
Southern cause. So has General Grant and other officers.
Does this imply some form of subterfuge? I am well aware
of my wife’s integrity. I respect her family sympathies.
To impugn the loyalty of my spouse is tantamount to
accusing me of treason.
When I learned that a secret committee had been formed
to investigate the loyalty of my wife I made a point of
appearing dramatically, by a seldom used door to the
committee room. I stepped inside without a word—hat in
hand.
A dozen men were sitting around a long table. Rain was
streaking the windows. No one spoke. I waited. I stared
at first one and then the other, searching the faces. I
knew most of the men well.
I said:
“I, Abraham Lincoln, President of the United States,
appear of my own volition before this Senate Committee to
say that I, of my own knowledge, know that it is untrue
that any member of my family holds treasonable
communication with the enemy.”
I walked out.
I have heard no more from that committee or any other;
however, my resentment lingers, sticks in my craw. Who
could forget such calumny?
I have attended lectures at the Smithsonian Institute,
where Horace Greeley has been outspoken on the abuse of
slavery in our nation. His influence, through his
lectures and his associates, through his editorials in
the New York Tribune, is an influence I intend to curry.
At the Smithsonian he drew me aside and thought it
important to inform me that he is a vegetarian, a
teetotaler—that he would never stoop to smoking a cigar.
He seemed to be sounding me out by cataloging his
qualities. Grasping my arm, he grinned and said: “I want
to share this one...since you like stories. I have loaned
considerable sums to the son of Commodore Vanderbilt.
Last week the Commodore burst into my office and rapped
on my desk with his cane. When I glanced up, he said: ‘I
will not be responsible for my son’s borrowing money from
you.’ I said to the Commodore: ‘Who the Hell asked you
to.’ ”
At another Smithsonian lecture, I met George Bancroft,
our distinguished elder historian. Obviously disgruntled
and tired, he wanted to know: Why is General McClellan
living in an aristocratic style in an aristocratic
mansion? Is it true that John Jacob Aster pays his
salary?
When I introduced Bancroft to McClellan, he questioned
Mac about the condition of the cavalry: Is it true that
half the horses purchased for the army are unfit for
service? Was it true that in the District of Columbia,
horses have been chained to trees, where they gnawed
bark, leaves and branches until they died?
McClellan was not happy with Bancroft. I was not happy
with Bancroft and McClellan. Since the General has become
known in Washington as the “general most gifted at
masterly inactivity,” I am seriously considering taking
to the field as Commander-in-Chief. My qualification:
integrity.
I can not sleep.
In Chicago, one windy night, I attended my first
symphony concert. I was in the city working on the
McCormick lawsuit. The concert was all Italian. Verdi. I
recognized, as I listened to the rich outpouring, how
much I had missed during my prairie years. There were no
available seats in the theatre, but that was unimportant;
I leaned against a wall, in the foyer, hat in hand. Mama
would have rejoiced over such music! Why must so many die
young and deprived?
Drums passing.
The White House
Library
May 5th, 1864