On the evening of February 4th, 1864, I went to Washington. Shortly
after noon of the following day, I rang the bell at Mr. Lovejoy’s
residence on Fifteenth Street. To my sorrow, I found him very ill; but
it was hoped by his friends that he was then improving. Though very
feeble, he insisted upon seeing me, and calling for writing materials,
sat up in bed to indite a note introducing me to the President. This,
handed to me open, I read. One expression I have not forgotten, it was
so like Mr. Lincoln himself, as I afterward came to know him. “I am
gaining very slowly.--It is hard work drawing the sled up-hill.” And
this suggests the similarity there was between these men. Lovejoy had
much more of the agitator, the reformer, in his nature, but both drew
the inspiration of their lives from the same source, and it was founded
in sterling honesty. Their modes of thought and illustration were
remarkably alike. It is not strange that they should have been bosom
friends. The President called repeatedly to see him during his illness;
and it was on one of these occasions that he said to him, “This war is
eating my life out; I have a strong impression that I shall not live
to see the end.” Mr. Lovejoy’s health subsequently improved, and for
a change he went to Brooklyn, N. Y., where, it will be remembered,
he had a relapse, and died, universally mourned as one of the truest
and most faithful of our statesmen. Mr. Lincoln did not hear from
him directly after he left Washington. Through a friend I learned by
letter that he was lying at the point of death. This intelligence I
communicated to the President the same evening, in the vestibule of
the White House,--meeting him on his way to the War Department. He
was deeply affected by it. His only words were, “Lovejoy was the best
friend I had in Congress.”
To return from this pardonable digression,--I took the note of
introduction at once to the White House; but no opportunity was
afforded me of presenting it during the day. The following morning
passed with the same result, and I then resolved to avail myself of
Mrs. Lincoln’s Saturday afternoon reception--at which, I was told, the
President would be present--to make myself known to him. Two o’clock
found me one of the throng pressing toward the centre of attraction,
the “blue” room. From the threshold of the “crimson” parlor as I
passed, I had a glimpse of the gaunt figure of Mr. Lincoln in the
distance, haggard-looking, dressed in black, relieved only by the
prescribed white gloves; standing, it seemed to me, solitary and alone,
though surrounded by the crowd, bending low now and then in the process
of hand-shaking, and responding half abstractedly to the well-meant
greetings of the miscellaneous assemblage. Never shall I forget the
electric thrill which went through my whole being at this instant. I
seemed to see lines radiating from every part of the globe, converging
to a focus at the point where that plain, awkward-looking man stood,
and to hear in spirit a million prayers, “as the sound of many
waters,” ascending in his behalf. Mingled with supplication I could
discern a clear symphony of triumph and blessing, swelling with an
ever-increasing volume. It was the voice of those who had been bondmen
and bondwomen, and the grand diapason swept up from the coming ages.
It was soon my privilege, in the regular succession, to take that
honored hand. Accompanying the act, my name and profession were
announced to him in a low tone by one of the assistant private
secretaries, who stood by his side. Retaining my hand, he looked at
me inquiringly for an instant, and said, “Oh yes; I know; this is the
painter.” Then straightening himself to his full height, with a twinkle
of the eye, he added, playfully, “Do you think, Mr. C----, that you
can make a handsome picture of _me_?” emphasizing strongly the last
word. Somewhat confused at this point-blank shot, uttered in a tone so
loud as to attract the attention of those in immediate proximity, I
made a random reply, and took the occasion to ask if I could see him
in his study at the close of the reception. To this he responded in
the peculiar vernacular of the West, “I reckon,” resuming meanwhile the
mechanical and traditional exercise of the hand which no President has
ever yet been able to avoid, and which, severe as is the ordeal, is
likely to attach to the position, so long as the Republic endures.