President and People--Society at the White House in 1862-3--The
President's Informal Receptions--A Variety of
Callers--Characteristic Traits of Lincoln--His Ability to Say _No_
when Necessary--Would not Countenance Injustice--Good Sense and
Tact in Settling Quarrels--His Shrewd Knowledge of Men--Getting Rid
of Bores--Loyalty to his Friends--Views of his Own
Position--"Attorney for the People"--Desire that they Should
Understand him--His Practical Kindness--A Badly Scared
Petitioner--Telling a Story to Relieve Bad News--A Breaking Heart
beneath the Smiles--His Deeply Religious Nature--The Changes
Wrought by Grief.
In a work which is not intended to cover fully the events of a great
historic period, but rather to trace out the life of a single individual
connected with that period, much must be included which, although not
possessing special historical significance, cannot be overlooked in a
personal study of the subject of the biography. Lincoln's life as
President was by no means made up of Cabinet meetings, official messages
and proclamations, or reviews of armies; interspersed with these
conspicuous acts was a multitude of less heroic but scarcely less
interesting details, with incidents and experiences humorous or sad, but
all, even the most trivial, being expressions of the life and character
of the man whom we are seeking to portray.
"Society," as now understood at the national capital, had but little
existence during the war. At the White House there were the usual
President's receptions, which were quite public in character and were
largely attended. Aside from these democratic gatherings there was
little enough of gaiety. The feeling that prevailed is shown by an
incident that occurred during the winter of 1862-3, when a good deal of
clamor was raised over a party given by Mrs. Lincoln, at which, it was
asserted, dancing was indulged in; and Mrs. Lincoln was severely
censured for what was regarded as inexcusable frivolity. Hon. A.G.
Riddle, who was present on the occasion referred to, states positively
that there was no dancing; the party was a quiet one, intended only to
relieve the rather dull and formal receptions. But the President was
pained by the rumors that "fashionable balls" were permitted at the
White House in war-time; and the party was not repeated.
It was the custom of President Lincoln to open, twice a week, the doors
of his office in the Executive Mansion for the admission of all visitors
who might wish to speak with him. These brief interviews, quite devoid
of ceremony, seemed to reveal the man in his true character, and to set
forth the salient traits that fitted him for his great position, and
endeared him so greatly to the popular heart. They showed how easily
accessible he was to all classes of citizens, how readily he could adapt
himself to people of any station or degree, how deep and true were his
human sympathies, how quickly and keenly he could discriminate
character, and how heartily he detested meanness and all unworthy acts
and appliances to compass a selfish or sordid end. On these occasions,
as may well be imagined, many curious incidents occurred. Lincoln was
usually clad "in a black broadcloth suit, nothing in his dress
betokening disregard of conventionality, save perhaps his neat cloth
slippers, which were doubtless worn for comfort. He was seated beside a
plain cloth-covered table, in a commodious arm-chair." As each visitor
approached the President he was greeted with an encouraging nod and
smile, and a few moments were cordially given him in which to state the
object of the visit; the President listening with the most respectful
and patient attention, and deciding each case with tact, sympathy, and
good humor. "His _Yes_," says Mr. Riddle, "was most gracious and
satisfactory; his _No_, when reached, was often spoken by the
petitioner, and left only a soothed disappointment. He saw the point of
a case unerringly. He had a confidence in the homely views and speech of
the common people, with whom his heart and sympathies ever were."
At these informal meetings with people who usually wanted some favor
from him, no case was too trivial to receive his attention. Taking
advantage of the opportunity, there came one day, says Mr. C. Van
Santvoord, "a sturdy, honest-looking German soldier, minus a leg, who
hobbled up to the President on crutches. In consideration of his
disabled condition, he wanted some situation about Washington, the
duties of which he might be able to discharge; and he had come to the
President, hoping that he would provide the desired situation for him.
On being interrogated as to how he had lost his leg, he answered that it
was the effect of a wound received in battle, mentioning the time and
the place. 'Let me look at your papers,' said Mr. Lincoln. The man
replied that he had none, and that he supposed his word would be
sufficient. 'What!' exclaimed the President, 'no papers, no credentials,
nothing to show how you lost your leg! How am I to know that you did not
lose it by a trap after getting into somebody's orchard?' This was
spoken with a droll expression which amused the bystanders, all except
the applicant, who with a very solemn visage earnestly protested the
truth of his statement, muttering something about the reasons for not
being able to produce his papers. 'Well, well,' said the President, 'it
is a little risky for an army man to be wandering around without papers
to show where he belongs and what he is, but I will see what can be
done for you.' And taking a blank card from a little pile of similar
blanks on the table, he wrote some lines upon it, addressed it, and
handing it to the man bade him deliver it to a certain quartermaster,
who would attend to his case."
The President could, however, be emphatic and even severe when necessary
on such occasions. One day, we are told, "he was approached by a man
apparently sixty years of age, with dress and manner which showed that
he was acquainted with the usages of good society, whose whole exterior,
indeed, would have favorably impressed people who form opinions from
appearances. The object of his visit was to solicit aid in some
commission project, for the success of which Mr. Lincoln's favor was
regarded as essential. The President heard him patiently, but demurred
against being connected with or countenancing the affair, suggesting
mildly that the applicant would better set up an office of the kind
described, and run it in his own way and at his own risk. The man
pleaded his advanced years and obscurity as a reason for not attempting
this, but said if the President would only let him use his name to
advertise and recommend the enterprise, he would then, he thought, need
nothing more. At this the eyes of the President flashed with sudden
indignation, and his whole aspect and manner underwent a portentous
change. 'No!' he broke forth, with startling vehemence, springing from
his seat under the impulse of his emotion. 'No! I'll have nothing to do
with this business, nor with any man who comes to me with such degrading
propositions. What! Do you take the President of the United States to be
a commission broker? You have come to the wrong place; and for you and
every one who comes for such purposes, there is the door!' The man's
face blanched as he cowered and slunk away confounded, without uttering
a word. The President's wrath subsided as speedily as it had risen."
Another example of Lincoln's power to dispose summarily of people who
tried his patience too far is given by Secretary Welles, who records
that a Mrs. White--a sister or half-sister of Mrs. Lincoln--made herself
so obnoxious as a Southern sympathizer in Washington in 1864, that the
President sent her word that "if she did not leave forthwith she might
expect to find herself within twenty-four hours in the Old Capitol
Prison."
With all his kindness and desire to do what was asked of him, Lincoln
could not be persuaded to consent to anything which he felt to be
distinctly wrong, regardless of any unfavorable consequences which his
refusal might bring upon himself. When the members of Congress from
Minnesota, late in 1862, called on him in a body to urge him to order
the execution of three hundred Indian prisoners, captured in their State
and charged with great atrocities, he positively refused, although
realizing that it might cost him the support of those members of the
House, which he greatly needed at that time.
"The President is always disposed to mitigate punishments and grant
favors," says a member of his Cabinet. "As a matter of duty and
friendship, I one day mentioned to him the case of Laura Jones, a young
lady residing in Richmond and there engaged to be married, who came up
three years ago to attend her sick mother and had been unable to pass
through the lines and return. A touching appeal was made by the poor
girl, who truly says her youth is passing. The President at once said he
would give her a pass. I told him her sympathies were with the
secessionists. But he said he would let her go; the war had depopulated
the country and prevented marriages enough, and if he could do a
kindness of this sort he would do it."
Another applicant for a pass through the lines was less fortunate than
the one just noted. One day, in the spring of 1862, a gentleman from
some Northern city entered Lincoln's private office, and earnestly
requested a pass to Richmond. "A pass to Richmond!" exclaimed the
President. "Why, my dear sir, if I should give you one it would do you
no good. You may think it very strange, but there's a lot of fellows
between here and Richmond who either can't read or are prejudiced
against every man who totes a pass from me. I have given McClellan and
more than two hundred thousand others passes to Richmond, _and not a
single one of 'em has got there yet!_"
Lincoln sometimes had a very effective way of dealing with men who asked
troublesome or improper questions. A visitor once asked him how many men
the rebels had in the field. The President replied, very seriously,
"_Twelve hundred thousand_, according to the best authority." The
interrogator blanched in the face, and ejaculated, "Good heavens!" "Yes,
sir, twelve hundred thousand--no doubt of it. You see, all of our
generals, when they get whipped, say the enemy outnumbered them from
three or five to one, and I must believe them. We have four hundred
thousand men in the field, and three times four makes twelve. Don't you
see it?"
Among the many illustrations of the sturdy sense and firmness of
Lincoln's character, the following should be recorded: During the early
part of 1863 the Union men in Missouri were divided into two factions,
which waged a bitter controversy with each other. General Curtis,
commander of the military district comprising Missouri, Kansas, and
Arkansas, was at the head of one faction, while Governor Gamble led the
other. Their differences were a source of great embarrassment to the
Government at Washington, and of harm to the Union cause. The President
was in constant receipt of remonstrances and protests from the
contesting parties, to one of which he made the following curt reply:
Your despatch of to-day is just received. It is very painful to me
that you, in Missouri cannot, or will not, settle your factional
quarrel among yourselves. I have been tormented with it beyond
endurance, for months, by both sides. Neither side pays the least
respect to my appeals to reason. I am now compelled to take hold of
the case.
A. LINCOLN.
The President promptly followed up this warning by removing General
Curtis, and appointing in his place General Schofield, to whom he soon
after addressed the following letter:
EXECUTIVE MANSION, WASHINGTON,
May 27, 1863.
GENERAL J.M. SCHOFIELD.
DEAR SIR: Having removed General Curtis and assigned you to the
command of the Department of the Missouri, I think it may be of
some advantage to me to state to you why I did it. I did not remove
General Curtis because of my full conviction that he had done wrong
by commission or omission. I did it because of a conviction in my
mind that the Union men of Missouri, constituting, when united, a
vast majority of the people, have entered into a pestilent,
factious quarrel among themselves; General Curtis, perhaps not of
choice, being the head of one faction, and Governor Gamble that of
the other. After months of labor to reconcile the difficulty, it
seemed to grow worse and worse, until I felt it my duty to break it
up somehow, and as I could not remove Governor Gamble, I had to
remove General Curtis. Now that you are in the position, I wish you
to undo nothing merely because General Curtis or Governor Gamble
did it, but to exercise your own judgment, and do right for the
public interest. Let your military measures be strong enough to
repel the invaders and keep the peace, and not so strong as to
unnecessarily harass and persecute the people. It is a difficult
_rôle_, and so much greater will be the honor if you perform it
well. If both factions, or neither, shall abuse you, you will
probably be about right. Beware of being assailed by one and
praised by the other.
Yours truly, A. LINCOLN.
Firm and unyielding as he was when necessity compelled him to be,
Lincoln was by nature a peace-maker, and was ever anxious that personal
differences be adjusted happily. In his efforts to this end he never
failed to show tact and shrewdness, and would if necessary sacrifice his
own preferences in the interests of peace and harmony. A characteristic
instance of the exercise of these traits occurred in connection with the
Missouri troubles just referred to. General Schofield's course in
command of his department proved satisfactory, and he had been nominated
for a Major-General's commission. He was, however, a somewhat
conservative man, and in spite of his efforts to carry out the
President's injunctions of impartiality, he had given offense to certain
Missouri radicals, who now opposed his promotion, and were able to exert
sufficient influence in the Senate to prevent the confirmation of his
appointment as a Major-General. The Missouri delegation appealed to the
more radical Senators, and the nomination was "hung up" for about six
weeks. Lincoln was very desirous that it should be confirmed, and the
Missouri Congressmen were equally bent on its defeat. In this dilemma,
Lincoln sent for Senator Zack Chandler of Michigan, and proposed a
compromise. "General Rosecrans," said he, "has a great many friends; he
fought the battle of Stone River and won a brilliant victory, and his
advocates begin to grumble about his treatment. Now, I will tell you
what I have been thinking about. If you will confirm Schofield in the
Senate, I will remove him from the command in Missouri and send him down
to Sherman. That will satisfy the radicals. Then I will send Rosecrans
to Missouri, and that will please the latter's friends. In this way the
whole thing can be harmonized." As soon as the Senate grasped the plan
of the President there was no longer any opposition to the confirmation
of Schofield. He was sent to join Sherman in the South, Rosecrans was
appointed to the command in Missouri, and everything worked harmoniously
and pleasantly as the President had predicted and desired.
Secretary Welles remarks that "the President was a much more shrewd and
accurate observer of the characteristics of men--better and more
correctly formed an estimate of their power and capabilities--than the
Secretary of State or most others. Those in the public service he
closely scanned, but was deliberate in forming a conclusion adverse to
any one he had appointed. In giving or withdrawing confidence he was
discriminating and just in his final decision, careful never to wound
unnecessarily the sensibilities of any of their infirmities, always
ready to praise, but nevertheless firm and resolute in discharging the
to him always painful duty of censure, reproof, or dismissal." As an
instance of this sure judgment of the abilities and characters of men,
Mr. Welles gives an anecdote relating to the naval movement under
Admiral Du Pont, against Charleston, S.C. "One day," says Mr. Welles,
"the President said to me that he had but slight expectation that we
should have any great success from Du Pont. 'He, as well as McClellan,'
said Mr. Lincoln, 'hesitates--has _the slows_. McClellan always wanted
more regiments; Du Pont is everlastingly asking for more
gun-boats--more iron-clads. He will do nothing with any. He has
intelligence and system and will maintain a good blockade. You did well
in selecting him for that command, but he will never take Sumter or get
to Charleston. He is no Farragut, though unquestionably a good routine
officer, who obeys orders and in a general way carries out his
instructions.'" The outcome of events proved the soundness of Lincoln's
judgment.
Loyalty to his friends was always a strong trait of Lincoln's character.
It was put to the proof daily during his life in Washington. Mr. Gurdon
S. Hubbard, in a brief but interesting memorial, relates one or two
interviews held with the President, in which the simplicity of his
character and his fidelity to old friendships appear very conspicuously.
Mr. Hubbard's acquaintance with Lincoln was of long standing. "I called
on him in Washington the year of his inauguration," says Mr. Hubbard,
"and was alone with him for an hour or more. I found him greatly
changed, his countenance bearing an expression of great mental anxiety.
The whole topic of our conversation was the war, which affected him
deeply.... Two years after, I again visited Washington, and went to the
White House to pay my respects, in company with my friend Thomas L.
Forrest. It was Saturday; and, as usual, about six o'clock the band from
the navy-yard appeared and began to play. The President, with
Adjutant-General Thomas, was seated on the balcony. The crowd was great,
marching compactly past the President, the men raising their hats in
salutation. As my friend and myself passed he said to me, 'The President
seems to notice you--turn toward him.' 'No,' I said, 'I don't care to be
recognized.' At that instant Mr. Lincoln started from his seat,
advancing quickly to the iron railing, and leaning over, beckoning with
his long arm, called: 'Hubbard! Hubbard! come here!' I left the ranks
and ascended the stone steps to the gate of the balcony, which was
locked, General Thomas saying, 'Wait a moment, I will get the key.'
'Never mind, General,' said Mr. Lincoln, 'Hubbard is used to jumping--he
can scale that fence.' I climbed over, and for about an hour we
conversed and watched the large crowd, the rebel flag being in sight on
Arlington Heights. This was the last time I ever saw his face in life."
It was noted by those about Lincoln during his residence at the White
House that he usually avoided speaking of himself as President or making
any reference to the office which he held. He used some such roundabout
phrase as "since I came into this place," instead of saying "since I
became President." The war he usually spoke of as "this great trouble,"
and he almost never alluded to the enemy as "Confederates" or "the
Confederate Government." He had an unconquerable reluctance to appear to
lead public opinion, and often spoke of himself as the "attorney for the
people." Once, however, when a Senator was urging on him a certain
course which the President was not disposed to pursue, the Senator said,
"You say you are the people's attorney. Now, you will admit that this
course would be most popular." "But I am not going to let my client
manage the case against my judgment," Lincoln replied quickly. "As long
as I am attorney for the people I shall manage the case to the best of
my ability. They will have a chance to put me out by and by if my
management is not satisfactory."
The President was so tormented by visitors seeking interviews for every
sort of frivolous and impertinent matter, that he resorted sometimes, in
desperation, to curious and effective inventions to rid himself of the
intolerable nuisance. At one time, when he was importuned by some
influential people to interfere to prevent the punishment of certain
persons convicted of fraudulent dealings with the government--a class of
cases too common at that time--the President wrote Secretary Welles that
he desired to see the records of the case before it was disposed of.
Upon Mr. Welles calling upon him with the desired information, the
President said, as if by way of apology, "There was no way to get rid of
the crowd that was upon me but by sending you a note." On another
occasion, when he had been quite ill, and therefore less inclined than
usual to listen to these bores, one of them had just seated himself for
a long visit, when the President's physician happened to enter the room,
and Lincoln said, holding out his hands, "Doctor, what are these
blotches?" "That's varioloid, or mild small-pox," said the doctor.
"They're all over me. It is contagious, I believe," said Lincoln. "Very
contagious, indeed!" replied the doctor. "Well, I can't stop, Mr.
Lincoln; I just called to see how you were," said the visitor. "Oh,
don't be in a hurry, sir!" placidly remarked the Executive. "Thank you,
sir; I'll call again," replied the visitor, executing a masterly retreat
from the White House. "Some people," said the President, looking after
him, "said they could not take very well to my proclamation; but now, I
am happy to say, I have _something that everybody can take_."
Among the innumerable nuisances and "cranks" who called on Lincoln at
the White House, were the many who sought to win his favor by claiming
to have been the first to suggest his nomination as President. One of
these claimants, who was the editor of a weekly paper published in a
little village in Missouri, called one day, and was admitted to
Lincoln's presence. He at once began explaining that he was the man who
first suggested Lincoln's name for the Presidency, and pulling from his
pocket an old, worn, defaced copy of his paper, exhibited to the
President an item on the subject. "Do you really think," said Lincoln,
"that announcement was the occasion of my nomination?" "Certainly," said
the editor, "the suggestion was so opportune that it was at once taken
up by other papers, and the result was your nomination and election."
"Ah, well," said Lincoln, with a sigh, and assuming a rather gloomy
countenance, "I am glad to see you and to know this; but you will have
to excuse me, I am just going to the War Department to see Mr. Stanton."
"Well," said the editor, "I will walk over with you." The President,
with that apt good nature so characteristic of him, took up his hat and
said, "Come along." When they reached the door of the Secretary's
office, Mr. Lincoln turned to his companion and said, "I shall have to
see Mr. Stanton alone, and you must excuse me," and taking him by the
hand he continued, "Good-bye. I hope you will feel perfectly easy about
having nominated me; don't be troubled about it; _I forgive you_."
A gentleman who, after the dreadful disaster at Fredericksburg, called
at the White House with news direct from the front, says that Lincoln
appeared so overwhelmed with grief that he was led to remark, "I
heartily wish I might be a welcome messenger of good news instead,--that
I could tell you how to conquer or get rid of these rebellious States."
Looking up quickly, with a marked change of expression, Lincoln said:
"That reminds me of two boys in Illinois who took a short cut across an
orchard, and did not become aware of the presence of a vicious dog until
it was too late to reach either fence. One was spry enough to escape the
attack by climbing a tree; but the other started around the tree, with
the dog in hot pursuit, until by making smaller circles than it was
possible for his pursuer to make, he gained sufficiently to grasp the
dog's tail, and held with desperate grip until nearly exhausted, when he
hailed his companion and called to him to come down. 'What for?' said
the boy. 'I want you to help me let this dog go.' If I could only let
them go!" said the President, in conclusion; "but that is the trouble. I
am compelled to hold on to them and make them stay."
In speaking of Lincoln's fortitude under his trials and sufferings, Mrs.
Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote: "Although we believe he has never made any
religious profession, we see evidence that in passing through this
dreadful national crisis he has been forced by the very anguish of the
struggle to look upward, where any rational creature must look for
support. No man has suffered more and deeper, albeit with a dry, weary,
patient pain, that seemed to some like insensibility. 'Whichever way it
ends,' he said to the writer, 'I have the impression that I sha'n't last
long after it's over.' After the dreadful repulse of Fredericksburg, his
heavy eyes and worn and weary air told how our reverses wore upon him;
and yet there was a never-failing fund of patience at bottom that
sometimes rose to the surface in some droll, quaint saying or story,
that forced a laugh even from himself."
The care and sorrow which Lincoln was called upon to endure in the
responsibilities of his high position graved their melancholy marks on
each feature of his face. He was a changed man. A pathetic picture of
his appearance at this time is given by his old friend, Noah Brooks,
whose description of him as he appeared in 1856, on the stump in Ogle
County, has already been given a place in these pages. "I did not see
Lincoln again," says Mr. Brooks, "until 1862, when I went to Washington
as a newspaper correspondent from California. When Lincoln was on the
stump in 1856, his face, though naturally sallow, had a rosy flush. His
eyes were full and bright, and he was in the fulness of health and
vigor. I shall never forget the shock which the sight of him gave me six
years later in 1862, I took it for granted that he had forgotten the
young man whom he had met five or six times during the Frémont and
Dayton Campaign. He was now President, and was, like Brutus, 'vexed with
many cares.' The change which a few years had made was simply appalling.
His whiskers had grown and had given additional cadaverousness to his
face as it appeared to me. The light seemed to have gone out of his
eyes, which were sunken far under his enormous brows. But there was over
his whole face an expression of sadness, and a far-away look in the
eyes, which were utterly unlike the Lincoln of other days. I was
intensely disappointed. I confess that I was so pained that I could
almost have shed tears."