Wednesday morning was devoted to the continued examination of the
court-martial cases, to the great vexation of a score of political
applicants, whom I could hear impatiently pacing the floor of the
hall and waiting-room. At one o’clock, however, the doors were thrown
open, and the throng admitted and dismissed, as rapidly as possible.
I was much amused and interested, later in the day, in a variety of
characters who presented themselves. First was an elderly lady, plainly
but comfortably dressed, whose son was a prisoner in Baltimore. Her
story, spun out to some length, was briefly this: Her son had been
serving in the Rebel army. He heard that his sister was lying dead at
home, and his mother at the supposed point of death. He determined to
see them, and succeeded in getting through our lines undiscovered. He
found his mother better. Before he got ready to return, he became very
ill himself. She said she hid him in the house until he recovered, and
on his way back to his regiment he was captured. He was now anxious
to take the oath, and his mother assured the President that he should
henceforth “have nothing to do with the Rebels.” Mr. Lincoln sat
quietly through the story, his face in half shadow. As she finished he
said, with some impatience,--“Now this is a pretty story to come to me
with, isn’t it? Your son came home from fighting against his country;
he was sick; you secreted him, nursed him up, and when cured, started
him off again to help destroy some more of our boys. Taken prisoner,
trying to get through our lines, you now want me to let him off upon
his oath.” “Yes,” said the woman, not in the least disconcerted, “and
I give you my word, Mr. President, he shall never have anything more
to do with the Rebels--never--I was always opposed to his joining
them.” “Your word,” rejoined Mr. Lincoln dryly, “what do I know about
your word?” He finally took the application, and writing something
upon the back of it, returned it to her with the words, “Now, I want
you to understand that I have done this just to get rid of you!” “Oh,”
said she, “Mr. President, I have always heard that you were such
a kind-hearted man, and now I know it is true.” And so, with much
apparent satisfaction, she withdrew.
The party that followed consisted of a lady and two gentlemen. She had
come to ask that her husband, who was also a prisoner of war, might be
permitted to take the oath and be released from confinement. To secure
a degree of interest on the part of the President, one of the gentlemen
claimed to be an acquaintance of Mrs. Lincoln; this, however, received
but little attention and the President proceeded to ask what position
the lady’s husband held in the Rebel service. “Oh,” said she, “he was
a captain.” “_A captain!_,” rejoined Mr. Lincoln, “indeed!--rather
too big a fish to set free simply upon his taking the oath. If he was
an officer, it is proof positive that he has been a zealous rebel; I
cannot release him.” Here the lady’s friend reiterated the assertion
of his acquaintance with Mrs. Lincoln. Instantly the President’s hand
was upon the bell-rope. The usher in attendance answered the summons.
“Cornelius, take this man’s name to Mrs. Lincoln, and ask her what
she knows of him.” The boy presently returned, with the reply that
“_the Madam_” (as she was called by the servants) knew nothing of him
whatever. The man said it was very strange. “Well, it is just as I
suspected,” said the President. The party made one more attempt to
enlist his sympathy, but without effect. “It is of no use,” was the
reply; “I cannot release him;” and the trio withdrew, the lady in high
displeasure.
Next came a Methodist minister by the name of “G.,” claiming to be the
son of the inventor of iron-clad gunboats. He had understood that the
President appointed the hospital chaplains, and he greatly desired such
a place. Mr. Lincoln replied rather curtly, that he could do nothing
for him. “But I was told, sir, that these appointments were made by the
President,” said the gentleman, very respectfully. “I will just tell
you how that is,” was the answer; “when there are vacancies I appoint,
not without.” The clergyman here alluded to his having left with the
private secretary a war-sermon which he had lately preached. Stepping
out, he returned with the pamphlet, saying, as he handed it to the
President, “I suppose, sir, you have little time to read anything of
this kind; but I shall be very glad to leave it with you.” Upon this he
bowed himself out, and the sermon was carelessly tossed aside, never to
be thought of again by Mr. Lincoln.
Subsequently the sermon fell into my hands. The only thing I remember
about it was the practical application of a professional incident.
The clergyman one day fell in with two soldiers fighting. One had
the other down, and was severely handling him. Rebuking the men, the
one underneath responded very heartily, “Plase your _riverince_, I
am willing to give up this minute, solely out of respect for your
_riverince_.” And so the preacher thought the South should be made to
say “in regard to the Constitution.”