As the different members of the Cabinet came in, the President
introduced me, adding in several instances,--“He has an idea of
painting a picture of us all together.” This, of course, started
conversation on the topic of art. Presently a reference was made by
some one to Jones, the sculptor, whose bust of Mr. Lincoln was in the
crimson parlor below. The President, I think, was writing at this
instant. Looking up, he said, “Jones tells a good story of General
Scott, of whom he once made a bust. Having a fine subject to start
with, he succeeded in giving great satisfaction. At the closing sitting
he attempted to define and elaborate the lines and markings of the
face. The General sat patiently; but when he came to see the result,
his countenance indicated decided displeasure. ‘Why, Jones, what have
you been doing?’ he asked. ‘Oh,’ rejoined the sculptor, ‘not much, I
confess, General; I have been working out the details of the face a
little more, this morning.’ ‘Details?’ exclaimed the General, warmly;
‘---- the details! Why, my man, you are spoiling the bust!’”
At three o’clock the President was to accompany me, by appointment, to
Brady’s photographic galleries on Pennsylvania Avenue. The carriage
had been ordered, and Mrs. Lincoln, who was to accompany us, had come
down at the appointed hour, dressed for the ride, when one of those
vexations, incident to all households, occurred. Neither carriage
or coachman was to be seen. The President and myself stood upon the
threshold of the door under the portico, awaiting the result of the
inquiry for the coachman, when a letter was put into his hand. While
he was reading this, people were passing, as is customary, up and down
the promenade, which leads through the grounds to the War Department,
crossing, of course, the portico. My attention was attracted to an
approaching party, apparently a countryman, plainly dressed, with
his wife and two little boys, who had evidently been straying about,
looking at the places of public interest in the city. As they reached
the portico, the father, who was in advance, caught sight of the tall
figure of Mr. Lincoln, absorbed in his letter. His wife and the little
boys were ascending the steps. The man stopped suddenly, put out his
hand with a “hush” to his family, and, after a moment’s gaze, he bent
down and whispered to them,--“There is the President!” Then leaving
them, he slowly made a half circuit around Mr. Lincoln, watching him
intently all the while. At this point, having finished his letter,
the President turned to me, and said: “Well, we will not wait any
longer for the carriage; it won’t hurt you and me to walk down.” The
countryman here approached very diffidently, and asked if he might
be allowed to take the President by the hand; after which, “Would he
extend the same privilege to his wife and little boys?” Mr. Lincoln
good-naturedly approached the latter, who had remained where they were
stopped, and, reaching down, said a kind word to the bashful little
fellows, who shrank close up to their mother, and did not reply. This
simple act filled the father’s cup full. “The Lord is with you, Mr.
President,” he said reverently; and then, hesitating a moment, he
added, with strong emphasis, “and the people too, sir; and the people
too!”
The walk, of a mile or more, was made very agreeable and interesting
to me by a variety of stories, of which Mr. Lincoln’s mind was so
prolific. Something was said soon after we started about the penalty
which attached to high positions in a democratic government--the
tribute those filling them were compelled to pay to the public. “Great
men,” said Mr. Lincoln, “have various estimates. When Daniel Webster
made his tour through the West years ago, he visited Springfield among
other places, where great preparations had been made to receive him. As
the procession was going through the town, a barefooted little darkey
boy pulled the sleeve of a man named T., and asked,--‘What the folks
were all doing down the street?’ ‘Why, Jack,’ was the reply, ‘the
biggest man in the world is coming.’ Now, there lived in Springfield a
man by the name of G.,--a very corpulent man. Jack darted off down the
street, but presently returned, with a very disappointed air. ‘Well,
did you see him?’ inquired T. ‘Yees,’ returned Jack; ‘but laws--he
ain’t half as big as old G.’”
Shortly afterward, he spoke of Mr. Ewing, who was in both President
Harrison’s and President Taylor’s cabinet. “Those men,” said he, “were,
you know, when elected, both of advanced years,--sages. Ewing had
received, in some way, the nickname of ‘Old Solitude.’ Soon after the
formation of Taylor’s cabinet, Webster and Ewing happened to meet at an
evening party. As they approached each other, Webster, who was in fine
spirits, uttered, in his deepest bass tones, the well-known lines,--
“‘O Solitude, where are the charms
That sages have seen in thy face?’”
The evening of Tuesday I dined with Mr. Chase, the Secretary of the
Treasury, of whom I painted a portrait in 1855, upon the close of his
term as United States Senator. He said during the dinner, that, shortly
after the dedication of the cemetery at Gettysburg, the President told
this story at a cabinet meeting. “Thad. Stevens was asked by some one,
the morning of the day appointed for that ceremony, where the President
and Mr. Seward were going. ‘To Gettysburg,’ was the reply. ‘But where
are Stanton and Chase?’ continued the questioner. ‘At home, at work,’
was the surly answer; ‘let the dead bury the dead.’” This was some
months previous to the Baltimore Convention, when it was thought by
some of the leaders of the party, that Mr. Lincoln’s chances for a
renomination were somewhat dubious.
Levee night occurring weekly, during the regular season, was always a
trying one to the President. Whenever sympathy was expressed for him,
however, he would turn it off playfully, asserting that the tug at his
hand was much easier to bear than that upon his heartstrings for all
manner of favors beyond his power to grant, to which he had daily to
submit. As I took his hand at the levee, which closed my first day’s
experiences with him, he said in his homely way, “Well, C., you have
seen one day’s run;--what is your opinion of it?”