a thin ghost of a man. Sitting in a chair alongside my
desk, he seemed to totter, to lean toward the sun coming
in the window.
He showed me pieces of bone that had been removed from
a shoulder wound, laying them on my desk, in the sun.
I talked with him for about an hour, questioning about
his army experiences, his home...he is mustered out. Back
to Albany.
A soldier bumped into me on the White House grounds,
swearing because he had not been able to get his pay; his
crutch poked at the ground, his leg-stump jerked, as he
talked to me.
“Let me see your papers? Remember, I’ve been a lawyer
and maybe I can help.”
Jip is dead.
March 28th, ’65
Someone is singing outside my office, singing that old
favorite, “Massa’s in de cole, cole ground.”
Memories.
I see the newspaper heading:
5,000 COTTON BALES BURNED.
Baton Rouge, last week bales were piled in
the Commons, soaked with alcohol, and burned.
At this date, bales are valued at $100.00 per
bale.
Another item, by the same reporter:
Two flatboats, loaded with cotton bales, were
floated down the Mississippi, at New Orleans.
Soaked with alcohol, they were set afire...
My little mulatto brings me my lunch; she bows and
says:
“Good day, mistaaaaa President...cawnbread...thais
cawnbread on my tray...”
March 29th
I have gone through my desk today, weeding out.
I have had a pigeonhole marked: A.
That’s for assassination.
I think there were about eighty ’nonymous threats in
that pigeonhole. I have thrown them into the fireplace. I
should have done this long ago. Some of the threats were
made by persons who had never been to Washington, whose
geographical knowledge would have led them to the stables
rather than the White House. Some seemed to think I
resided in the Washington monument. One person proposed
that he assassinate me on the Presidential yacht. No
doubt he felt that would please the press and general
public.
It is uncommonly chilly this afternoon; I think I will
have a fire in the fireplace. We can have some oak logs
to burn up the ashes of the assassins.
General Grant and I have been on friendly terms for a
long while. He likes to talk about his farming days in
Missouri. He used to haul wood ten or twelve miles into
St. Louis. $10.00 a cord. He is proud of his log cabin,
which he designed and built, a two-story.
At his HQ we sat under a tent flap and talked. He
unfolded a letter from his wife and showed me his baby’s
smudge print. Wife and son are two thousand miles away.
I talked about my courtship days, and Grant said:
“...Let me tell you how I got hitched. We were buggy
riding and had to cross a flooded creek. As the buggy
sank into the water and the water poured in, she yelled:
‘I’m gonna hold onto you no matter what happens.’ After
we crossed I asked her: ‘Would you like to cling to me
the rest of your life?’ Or something like that.”
We got to talking horses. I described some of my nags
and some of my faithfuls. He talked about his West Point
horses, thoroughbreds... Wilma could out-hurdle any
other...six foot six inches...then he talked about
Mexican horses and Mexican saddles...you should see the
one I got as booty...silver ornaments...
It was good to get away from Washington.
When I reviewed Grant’s troops, I rode his Cincinnati,
a huge bay. The soldiers are always pleased by my visits.
I remove my hat and bow. Men clamor around me, huzzahing.
They stroke Cincinnati. They kiss my hand: these are the
blacks who are willing to fight for the union. Grant
singled out a corps: recently, they had captured six
cannons, under fire all the time.
Cincinnati whuffs and bobs his splendid head, as Grant
and I ride along, a woodland around us.
After lunch in his tent, he gave me a lieutenant’s
diary, written at Shiloh.
Our General Grant sat on his horse and
watched the enemy try to capture a hill. Men
fought from tree to tree. A man near me has
been shot while aiming his rifle, one eye is
closed, one eye is still open. A corporal has
been disemboweled by a cannon ball. Riderless
horses are running wild. Trees are plugged
with lead bullets. I counted sixty bullets in
a small tree.
I plan to collect personal accounts of the war; men
must know.
Mary Mitchell, a volunteer nurse, has written:
The wounded filled every building and
overflowed into the country around, into farm
houses, barns, corncribs, cabins. Six
churches were full, the Odd Fellows’ Hall,
the Freemasons’, the Town Council room, the
school. I saw men with cloths about their
heads, about their feet, men with arms in
slings, men without arms, men in ambulances,
carts, wheelbarrows.
At the center of this autumn harvest stood
the little white Dunker church, where the
teaching on Sundays was that war is a sin.
There the dead lay in gray and blue. In the
fields lay thousands. Corn leaves over some
of them were spattered with blood.
Grant and I ride. There is mud on the horses. His
officers crowd round. Grant helps me dismount. We talk.
Grant speaks favorably of yesterday’s battle, speaks with
a rasping voice, hand to his throat. Behind his chair
lies a muddy saddle. It is cloudy, cold. A private brings
a dispatch. Grant reads it and nods. I respect this man.
Cabinet members reveal their excitement. Rumors. But
the rumors may have solid foundations. Grant, they say.
Sherman, he left to rejoin his army. His army will move.
My secretaries believe in the rumors. Seward is
optimistic. Hill waves his arms. Of course. At the
telegraph office the men say “yes.” It is a kind of yes
that could mean almost anything. The newspapers are
reporting this same news.
Mary has spent $2,000 for a gown. She has spent $3,000
for earrings. $5,000 for a lace shawl.
She thinks I do not know about these extravagances. My
previous efforts at control produce hysteria, hysteria
that lasted for days.
I remember Ann Rutledge.
I order the brougham and drive.
The April weather is fine.
As the war draws to a close I remember that four
million people have been involved in this struggle.
I have heard from Robert but he reports that his
mother’s letters are unbalanced. He has offered to bring
them to the White House when he has leave. He says that
her letters have been distraught for months. He is deeply
concerned over her condition.
Evening
Desk
Details are coming in.
General William T. Sherman, with his 60,000 men, has
cut a swath across insurgent territory, a swath twenty to
forty miles wide, and three hundred miles long.
All day the news comes.
All items confirm the success of his march.
Sherman’s men have foraged off the country; their
devastation of property has been extreme; miles of
railroad track have been ripped up; rolling stock has
been captured; his forces advanced ten or twelve miles a
day. The Confederate press refers to his march as a
scourge.
Savannah—that was Sherman’s gift on Christmas.
Now, across the nation, a million and a half slaves
have been freed.
Wednesday we went to Richmond by boat, a party of us,
the day clear. Most of Richmond is gutted. Smoke is
rising from burned buildings, buildings burned by the
retreating Southern army. I walked a main street, holding
Tad’s hand, our escort with us. Along both sides of the
street were derelict people, blacks and whites, hungry
people, uncertain what our presence meant to them.
I walked into the capitol building, sat hesitantly at
the desk of President Jefferson Davis. Sitting there, the
escort nearby, I remembered a pubic statement made by
Davis, that blacks are children, that slavery is their
training school.
In the streets we were met by cheering blacks; they
wished to crowd around, realizing we meant no harm.
I sent men to that hellhole, Libby Prison, where
thousands of our men have died of starvation and disease
and torture; they are to be freed from that tobacco
warehouse cesspool.
Riding in a carriage we saw the devastation of the
city, ashes and memories. Five years ago today there were
three million slaves.
Palm Sunday
1865
In the salon of the River Queen I met with my guests as
we sailed up the Potomac, the river calm and the air
fresh. We talked of the ruins of Richmond, the looters,
the burned buildings, the wounded in tent hospitals. I
saw a general feeling of sympathy.
During the afternoon, a military band played for us—the
“Marseillaise” for my special guest, the Marquis de
Chambrun; we had “Dixie” and Foster melodies for the
congressmen and their wives.
As we sailed by Mount Vernon someone asked me about
Springfield: did I think of returning after my second
term? I thought it proper to say that my home was no
Mount Vernon but I looked forward to returning.
The meals on our flagship were excellent. Tad was
always hungry. Mary did not relish the food, or enjoy
some of the guests. All of us know the war is winding
down. General Lee has lost 19,000 men, as prisoners to
Grant.
I can’t remember when I have felt so encouraged.
As I lay in my bunk I could see in my mind a tree that
reminded me of great trees I saw as a boy, trees with
great shadows. It is worth a man’s time to hold communion
with trees. The trunk of this tree, seen on the river
bank, supported layers of outgoing branches.
Next morning I read to guests in the salon. I read from
Macbeth. I always find it relaxing to read aloud, though
my glasses sometimes bother me. I explained how Macbeth
suffered mentally after becoming king. I helped my
listeners visualize the murderer. I read from the quarto,
graciously given me by Dr. Bancroft.
With Tad sitting at my feet, I read:
...After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well;
Treason has done his worst; nor steel, nor
poison,
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing
Can touch him further.
The White House
Library
Here I attempt to find sanctuary, among the poets.
Now I realize that Mary is going insane.
Only imbalance could bring about such reactions; no one
can forget her insults to Grant, to officers and friends
at his headquarters. All this distress centered on an
innocent pretty woman.
For years I have detected imbalance in Mary. It has
come into focus following Willie’s death. Hysteria,
illnesses, doctors.
I am puzzled why I have persisted in this diary. For a
time it seemed fitting to write it for my sons; for a
while I considered Mary. As President, I thought of
posterity. However posterity should have a solid record,
objective, and this record, written at odd moments,
emotional, leaves much to be desired.
While with Grant at the front lines, seeing men dead in
the field, a man without hands dying, after seeing
lifeless boys in the woods, I asked and I ask again, why
do I add to these pages?
For a while it seemed to me I was learning about myself
and others through these jottings. With Mary’s decline I
find more question marks here, question marks beyond
war’s great question marks; these question marks began
with Ann Rutledge, resumed in East Salem, continued along
the Mississippi and on my legal circuits. For years they
lay dormant in Springfield, in the Lincoln house with the
green shutters.
Executive Mansion
April 4, 1865
The capitol is decorated from dome to portico.
Victory!
Flags are everywhere.
The weather is fine.
The Treasury building has a huge bond picked out in
lights. Cooke’s Bank has GLORY TO GOD spelled out in
golden stars. Hotels, shops, restaurants are festive, I
am told. Bands play “Dixie” and “Yankee Doodle,” Irish
tunes, Foster’s songs. Fireworks and rockets explode over
the Potomac. Cannon boom.
Horsemen, carriages, wagons, buggies,
pedestrians...there isn’t a quiet corner in Washington!
This morning, General Grant shook my hand sadly, hardly
a victory gesture. I did not try to penetrate his mood.
Tomorrow I am to speak to a crowd in front of the White
House. I will try to envision a sane future. Rain is
forecast. It will not matter, nothing is going to
diminish the enthusiasm.
Robert is due here tomorrow.
Mary remains in her bedroom.
General Lee has surrendered his forces at the McLean
House, at Appomattox. Grant has permitted Lee and his men
to return to their homes; they may retain their mounts.
Lee pointed out that his army was holding a thousand
Union prisoners, prisoners who have nothing to eat but
parched corn. His own men amply supplied, Grant has
turned over 25,000 rations to Lee’s men and fed the Union
prisoners.
As I write, fire engines roar, whistles blow, church
bells ring.
This morning there was a salute of a hundred guns.
I spoke to a throng in front of the White House. The
newspapers will carry my words but I also add them here,
thinking to improve the text.
Mary is ill...all very unreal.
An end like a beginning can have a bitter edge.
Let us think as brothers. The great rebellion, which we
have endured together, must be forgotten. Now, starting
at once, each state must be granted full privileges of
the Union as soon as state governments can organize and
as soon as 10% of its citizens have taken the oath of
allegiance. It is our national goal to offer clemency and
pardon as we attain peace, peace for our democracy. I
will at once lift the naval blockade. I will urge
Congress to appropriate $400,000,000 to assist the South
in its economic recovery. Ours is no longer a nation
within a nation; ours is a victory for all mankind.
April 10, 1865
Evening
Beautiful sunset
Now that the war is over, Grant thinks we can reduce
army expenditures by at least a half a million per day.
We can reduce navy costs at the same time; this will
bring down our national debt to something like normal
proportions.
I am cheered by such prospects.
Peace is ahead and I will be exploring its
possibilities intensively. It will be a pleasure to
convene a cabinet meeting, to discuss economic changes,
foreign relations, amnesty, rail expansion, and state
laws. I find a new amicability in senate and house.
In another two or three months it may be possible to
have a week or so in the Adirondacks, the three of us.
The White House
Sunday—late
Many have come to congratulate me on the cessation of
the war, warm praise now that the union is preserved.
Telegrams flood the telegraph office. Boys are always
seeking me out, with their hands full of messages. I read
newspapers with pleasure. Letters are piling up on my
desk; my secretaries are complaining happily.
Everyone in Washington is celebrating. There are
parties in homes, in churches, schools, hospitals and
public buildings. The White House has scheduled a gala. I
am happier than I have been in years.
I look forward to attending a play at Ford’s Theatre. I
am told that it is a play full of puns. I am in a mood
for something light.
I am also told that we are having corn bread at supper.
Note—
Estimate
s:
North –
360,000 killed in
action
South —
260,000 killed in
action
The White House
April 14, 1865
—rain—
Mary invited Laura Keene, the British actress, to tea.
She is in her forties—rather pretty. Dressed in dark
green velvet she suggested something of quality in the
theatre. She has her own playhouse in New York City. Her
talk was mostly about her acting days in London where she
produced and acted in foreign and American plays.
She said that she is a friend of Taylor, the author of
Our American Cousin. “He has written over a hundred
plays,” she told us.
I spun a frontier story or two; she listened rather
absently, her hands in her lap; Mary queried her about
forthcoming New York productions; very abruptly Miss
Keene exclaimed that she hated war; she said that slavery
could have been abolished without destroying lives.
When Tad bounced in she made over him. He took to her,
laughing hilariously over her British accent as she asked
him to solve a riddle.
“Say it again, pretty lady,” he urged her.
“I’ve heard good things about Our American Cousin,” I
said. “I guess you already know that we’ll be seeing the
play tomorrow night.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
P
aul Alexander Bartlett (1909-1990) was a writer and
artist, born in Moberly, Missouri, and educated at
Oberlin College, the University of Arizona, the Academia
de San Carlos in Mexico City, and the Instituto de Bellas
Artes in Guadalajara. His work can be divided into three
categories: He is the author of many novels, short
stories, and poems; second, as a fine artist, his
drawings, illustrations, and paintings have been ex-
hibited in more than forty one-man shows in leading
galleries, including the Los Angeles County Museum, the
Atlanta Art Museum, the Bancroft Library, the Richmond
Art Institute, the Brooks Museum, the Instituto-Mexicano-
Norteamericano in Mexico City, and many other galleries;
and, third, he devoted much of his life to the most
comprehensive study of the haciendas of Mexico that has
been undertaken. More than 350 of his pen-and-ink
illustrations of the haciendas and more than one thousand
hacienda photographs make up the Paul Alexander Bartlett
Collection held by the Nettie Lee Benson Latin American
Collection of the University of Texas, and form part of a
second diversified collection held by the American
Heritage Center of the University of Wyoming, which also
includes an archive of Bartlett’s literary work, fine
art, and letters.
Paul Alexander Bartlett’s fiction has been commended by
many authors, among them Pearl Buck, Ford Madox Ford,
John Dos Passos, James Michener, Upton Sinclair, Evelyn
Eaton, and many others. He was the recipient of many
grants, awards, and fellowships, from such organizations
as the Leopold Schepp Foundation, the Edward MacDowell
Association, the New School for Social Research, the
Huntington Hartford Foundation, the Montalvo Foundation,
and the Carnegie Foundation.
His wife, Elizabeth Bartlett, a widely published poet,
is the author of seventeen published books of poetry,
numerous poems, short stories, and essays published in
leading literary quarterlies and anthologies, and, as the
founder of Literary Olympics, Inc., is the editor of a
series of multi-language volumes of international poetry
that honor the work of outstanding contemporary poets.
Paul and Elizabeth’s son, Steven, edited and designed
this volume.
Voices from the Past
was set in Garamond type by Autograph Editions. The
typeface is named after Claude Garamond (c. 1480-1561), a
French type designer and publisher and the world’s first
commercial typefounder. Garamond’s contribution to the
history of typesetting was substantial. He perfected the
design of Roman type: The fonts that he cut beginning in
1531 were recognized as possessing a superior grace and
clarity, so much so that Garamond’s fonts influenced
European printing for the next century and a half.
It is interesting to note that Garamond type is the
evolutionary ancestor of the type used to print the first
official copies of the Declaration of Independence. In
the 1730s, Englishman William Caslon refined Garamond’s
version of Aldine roman, the well-balanced typeface
became popular, and was introduced to the American
colonies by Benjamin Franklin.
Despite his considerable contribution to the evolution
of typography, Garamond was not a successful businessman
and he died in poverty.
During the past five centuries, so many variations of
Garamond’s type designs have been created that the phrase
‘Garamond type’ has come to be used loosely, with little
memory remaining of its history.
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End of Project Gutenberg's Voices from the Past, by Paul Alexander Bartlett