The day after the review of Burnside’s division, some photographers
from Brady’s Gallery came up to the White House to make some
stereoscopic studies for me of the President’s office. They requested
a dark closet, in which to develop the pictures; and without a
thought that I was infringing upon anybody’s rights, I took them to
an unoccupied room of which little “Tad” had taken possession a few
days before, and with the aid of a couple of the servants, had fitted
up as a miniature theatre, with stage, curtains, orchestra, stalls,
parquette, and all. Knowing that the use required would interfere with
none of his arrangements, I led the way to this apartment.
Everything went on well, and one or two pictures had been taken, when
suddenly there was an uproar. The operator came back to the office,
and said that “Tad” had taken great offence at the occupation of
his room without his consent, and had locked the door, refusing all
admission. The chemicals had been taken inside, and there was no way
of getting at them, he having carried off the key. In the midst of
this conversation, “Tad” burst in, in a fearful passion. He laid all
the blame upon me,--said that I had no right to use his room, and that
the men should not go in even to get their things. He had locked the
door, and they should not go there again--“they had no business in his
room!” Mr. Lincoln had been sitting for a photograph, and was still
in the chair. He said, very mildly, “Tad, go and unlock the door.”
Tad went off muttering into his mother’s room, refusing to obey. I
followed him into the passage, but no coaxing would pacify him. Upon
my return to the President, I found him still sitting patiently in the
chair, from which he had not risen. He said: “Has not the boy opened
that door?” I replied that we could do nothing with him,--he had gone
off in a great pet. Mr. Lincoln’s lips came together firmly, and then,
suddenly rising, he strode across the passage with the air of one bent
on punishment, and disappeared in the domestic apartments. Directly
he returned with the key to the theatre, which he unlocked himself.
“There,” said he, “go ahead, it is all right now.” He then went back
to his office, followed by myself, and resumed his seat. “Tad,” said
he, half apologetically, “is a peculiar child. He was violently excited
when I went to him. I said, ‘Tad, do you know you are making your
father a great deal of trouble?’ He burst into tears, instantly giving
me up the key.”
This brief glimpse of the home life of the President, though trifling
in itself, is the gauge of his entire domestic character. The Hon.
W. D. Kelly, of Philadelphia, in an address delivered in that city soon
after the assassination, said: “His intercourse with his family was
beautiful as that with his friends. I think that father never loved
his children more fondly than he. The President never seemed grander
in my sight than when, stealing upon him in the evening, I would find
him with a book open before him, as he is represented in the popular
photograph, with little Tad beside him. There were of course a great
many curious books sent to him, and it seemed to be one of the special
delights of his life to open those books at such an hour, that his
boy could stand beside him, and they could talk as he turned over the
pages, the father thus giving to the son a portion of that care and
attention of which he was ordinarily deprived by the duties of office
pressing upon him.”
No matter who was with the President, or how intently he might be
absorbed, little Tad was always welcome. At the time of which I write
he was eleven years old, and of course rapidly passing from childhood
into youth. Suffering much from an infirmity of speech which developed
in his infancy, he seemed on this account especially dear to his
father. “One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,” and it was an
impressive and affecting sight to me to see the burdened President lost
for the time being in the affectionate parent, as he would take the
little fellow in his arms upon the withdrawal of visitors, and caress
him with all the fondness of a mother for the babe upon her bosom!
Tad, as he was universally called, almost always accompanied his father
upon the various excursions down the Potomac, which he was in the
habit of making. Once, on the way to Fortress Monroe, he became very
troublesome. The President was much engaged in conversation with the
party who accompanied him, and he at length said, “Tad, if you will be
a good boy, and not disturb me any more till we get to Fortress Monroe,
I will give you a dollar.” The hope of reward was effectual for a while
in securing silence, but, boy-like, Tad soon forgot his promise, and
was as noisy as ever. Upon reaching their destination, however, he said
very promptly, “Father, I want my dollar.” Mr. Lincoln turned to him
with the inquiry: “Tad, do you think you have earned it?” “Yes,” was
the sturdy reply. Mr. Lincoln looked at him half reproachfully for an
instant, and then taking from his pocket-book a dollar note, he said:
“Well, my son, at any rate, I will keep _my_ part of the bargain.”
While paying a visit to Commodore Porter at Fortress Monroe, on one
occasion, an incident occurred, subsequently related by Lieutenant
Braine, one of the officers on board the flag-ship, to the Rev. Mr.
Ewer, of New York. Noticing that the banks of the river were dotted
with spring blossoms, the President said, with the manner of one asking
a special favor: “Commodore, Tad is very fond of flowers;--won’t you
let a couple of your men take a boat and go with him for an hour or two
along shore, and gather a few?--it will be a great gratification to
him.”
There is a lesson in such simple incidents,--abounding as they did in
the life of the late President,--which should not be lost upon the
young men of this country. The Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Navy
of the United States,--with almost unlimited power in his hands,--the
meekness and simplicity with which Mr. Lincoln bore the honors of that
high position, is a spectacle for all time. How paltry do conceit and
vainglory appear in the majesty of such an example.
“Nothing was more marked in Mr. Lincoln’s personal demeanor,” writes
one who knew him well,[3] “than his utter unconsciousness of his
position. It would be difficult, if not impossible, to find another man
who would not, upon a sudden transfer from the obscurity of private
life in a country town to the dignities and duties of the Presidency,
feel it incumbent upon him to assume something of the manner and tone
befitting that position. Mr. Lincoln never seemed to be aware that his
place or his business were essentially different from those in which
he had always been engaged. He brought to every question--the loftiest
and most imposing--the same patient inquiry into details, the same
eager longing to know and to do exactly what was just and right, and
the same working-day, plodding, laborious devotion, which characterized
his management of a client’s case at his law office in Springfield. He
had duties to perform in both places--in the one case to his country,
as to his client in the other. But all duties were alike to him. All
called equally upon him for the best service of his mind and heart, and
all were alike performed with a conscientious, single-hearted devotion
that knew no distinction, but was absolute and perfect in every case.”