I had been engaged in the official chamber until quite late one
evening, upon some pencil studies of accessories, necessary to
introduce in my picture. The President, Mrs. Lincoln, and the Private
Secretaries had gone to the opera, and for the time being I had
undisturbed possession. Towards twelve o’clock I heard some persons
enter the sleeping apartment occupied by Mr. Nicolay and Major Hay,
which was directly opposite the room where I was sitting; and shortly
afterward the hearty laugh of Mr. Lincoln broke the stillness,
proceeding from the same quarter. Throwing aside my work, I went
across the hall to see what had occasioned this outbreak of merriment.
The Secretaries had come in and Hay had retired; Mr. Nicolay sat by
the table with his boots off, and the President was leaning over the
“footboard” of the bed, laughing and talking with the hilarity of a
schoolboy. It seemed that Hay, or “John,” as the President called
him, had met with a singular adventure, which was the subject of the
amusement. Glancing through the half-open door, Mr. Lincoln caught
sight of me, and the story had to be repeated for my benefit. The
incident was trifling in itself, but the President’s enjoyment of it
was very exhilarating. I never saw him in so frolicsome a mood as on
this occasion.
It has been well said by a critic of Shakspeare, that “the spirit which
held the woe of ‘Lear,’ and the tragedy of ‘Hamlet,’ would have broken,
had it not also had the humor of the ‘Merry Wives of Windsor,’ and the
merriment of ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream.’” With equal justice can this
profound truth be applied to the late President. The world has had no
better illustration of it since the immortal plays were written.
Mr. Lincoln’s “laugh” stood by itself. The “neigh” of a wild horse
on his native prairie is not more undisguised and hearty. A group of
gentlemen, among whom was his old Springfield friend and associate,
Hon. Isaac N. Arnold, were one day conversing in the passage near
his office, while waiting admission. A congressional delegation had
preceded them, and presently an unmistakable voice was heard through
the partition, in a burst of mirth. Mr. Arnold remarked, as the sound
died away: “That laugh has been the President’s life-preserver!”
In a corner of his desk he kept a copy of the latest humorous work; and
it was his habit when greatly fatigued, annoyed, or depressed, to take
this up and read a chapter, frequently with great relief.
Among the callers in the course of an evening which I well
remember, was a party composed of two senators, a representative,
an ex-lieutenant-governor of a western State, and several private
citizens. They had business of great importance, involving the
necessity of the President’s examination of voluminous documents.
He was at this time, from an unusual pressure of office-seekers, in
addition to his other cares, literally worn out. Pushing everything
aside, he said to one of the party: “Have you seen the ‘Nasby Papers’?”
“No, I have not,” was the answer; “who is ‘Nasby?’” “There is a chap
out in Ohio,” returned the President, “who has been writing a series of
letters in the newspapers over the signature of ‘Petroleum V. Nasby.’
Some one sent me a pamphlet collection of them the other day. I am
going to write to ‘Petroleum’ to come down here, and I intend to tell
him if he will communicate his talent to me, I will ‘_swap_’ places
with him.” Thereupon he arose, went to a drawer in his desk, and,
taking out the “Letters,” sat down and read one to the company finding
in their enjoyment of it the temporary excitement and relief which
another man would have found in a glass of wine. The instant he ceased,
the book was thrown aside, his countenance relapsed into its habitual
serious expression, and the business before him was entered upon with
the utmost earnestness.
During the dark days of ’62, the Hon. Mr. Ashley, of Ohio, had occasion
to call at the White House early one morning, just after news of a
disaster. Mr. Lincoln commenced some trifling narration, to which the
impulsive congressman was in no mood to listen. He rose to his feet and
said: “Mr. President, I did not come here this morning to hear stories;
it is too serious a time.” Instantly the smile faded from Mr. Lincoln’s
face. “Ashley,” said he, “sit down! I respect you as an earnest,
sincere man. You cannot be more anxious than I have been constantly
since the beginning of the war; and I say to you now, that were it not
for this occasional _vent_, I should die.”