Lincoln's Home-life in the White House--Comfort in the
Companionship of his Youngest Son--"Little Tad" the Bright Spot in
the White House--The President and his Little Boy Reviewing the
Army of the Potomac--Various Phases of Lincoln's Character--His
Literary Tastes--Fondness for Poetry and Music--His Remarkable
Memory--Not a Latin Scholar--Never Read a Novel--Solace in
Theatrical Representation--Anecdotes of Booth and
McCullough--Methods of Literary Work--Lincoln as an Orator--Caution
in Impromptu Speeches--His Literary Style--Management of his
Private Correspondence--Knowledge of Woodcraft--Trees and Human
Character--Exchanging Views with Professor Agassiz--Magnanimity
toward Opponents--Righteous Indignation--Lincoln's Religious
Nature.
Of the two sons left to Lincoln after the death of Willie in 1862,
Robert, the older, was a student in Harvard College until appointed to
service on the staff of General Grant; and "Little Tad," or Thomas, the
youngest, was the only one remaining in the White House during the last
hard years. He was ten years old in 1863, a bright and lovable child,
with whom his father was associated in constant and affectionate
companionship. The boy was much with him in his walks and journeys about
Washington, and even in his visits to the army in the field. The father
would often gain a brief respite from his heavy cares by sharing in the
sports and frolics of the light-hearted boy, who was a general favorite
at the White House, where he was free to go and come at will. No matter
who was with the President, or how intently he might be absorbed, little
Tad was always welcome. "It was an impressive and affecting sight," says
Mr. Carpenter, an inmate of the White House for several months, "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." Hon. W.D. Kelley, a member of Congress at
that time, says: "I think no father ever 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, 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 a time when 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 heavy duties pressing upon him."
Tad lived to be eighteen years old, dying in Chicago in 1871. It was
well said of him that he "gave to the sad and solemn White House the
only comic relief it knew."
When President Lincoln visited General Hooker's headquarters with the
Army of the Potomac, just before the battle of Chancellorsville, little
Tad went with him, and rode with his father and General Hooker through
the grand reviews that were held. "Over hill and dale," says a member of
the Presidential party, "dashed the brilliant cavalcade of the
General-in-Chief, surrounded by a company of officers in gay attire and
sparkling with gold lace, the party being escorted by the Philadelphia
Lancers, a showy troop of soldiers. In the midst, or at the head, rose
and fell, as the horses galloped afar, the form of Lincoln, conspicuous
by his height and his tall black hat. And ever on the flanks of the
hurrying column flew, like a flag or banneret, Tad's little gray
riding-cloak. The soldiers soon learned of Tad's presence in the army,
and wherever he went on horseback he easily divided the honors with his
father. The men cheered and shouted and waved their hats when they saw
the dear face and tall figure of the good President, then the
best-beloved man in the world; but to these men of war, far away from
home and children, the sight of that fresh-faced and laughing boy seemed
an inspiration. They cheered like mad."
There were various phases of Lincoln's character, as manifested during
his life in the White House, that afford material for an interesting
study. It has been said of him that he lacked imagination. This was
certainly not one of the faculties of his mind which had been largely
cultivated. He relied more upon the exercise of reason and logic, in all
his intellectual processes, than upon fancy or imagination. Still, there
are often striking figures of speech to be met with in his writings, and
he had a great fondness for poetry and music. He had studied Shakespeare
diligently in his youth, and portions of the plays he repeated with
singular accuracy. He had a special liking for the minor poems of Thomas
Hood and of Oliver Wendell Holmes. Dr. Holmes, writing in July, 1885,
says that of all the tributes received by him, the one of which he was
most proud was from "good Abraham Lincoln," who had a great liking for
the poem of "The Last Leaf," and "repeated it from memory to Governor
Andrew, as the Governor himself told me." Mr. Arnold says: "He had a
great love for poetry and eloquence, and his taste and judgment were
excellent. Next to Shakespeare among the poets, his favorite was Burns.
There was a lecture of his upon Burns full of favorite quotations and
sound criticisms." His musical tastes, says Mr. Brooks, who knew him
well, "were simple and uncultivated, his choice being old airs, songs,
and ballads, among which the plaintive Scotch songs were best liked.
'Annie Laurie,' 'Mary of Argyle,' and especially 'Auld Robin Gray,'
never lost their charm for him; and all songs which had for their theme
the rapid flight of time, decay, the recollections of early days, were
sure to make a deep impression. The song which he liked best, above all
others, was one called 'Twenty Years Ago'--a simple air, the words to
which are supposed to be uttered by a man who revisits the playground of
his youth. I remember that one night at the White House, when a few
ladies were with the family, singing at the piano-forte, he asked for a
little song in which the writer describes his sensations when revisiting
the scenes of his boyhood, dwelling mournfully on the vanished joys and
the delightful associations of forty years ago. It is not likely that
there was much in Lincoln's lost youth that he would wish to recall; but
there was a certain melancholy and half-morbid strain in that song which
struck a responsive chord in his heart. The lines sank into his memory,
and I remember that he quoted them, as if to himself, long afterward."
Lincoln's memory was extraordinarily retentive, and he seemed, without
conscious effort, to have stored in his mind almost every whimsical or
ludicrous narrative which he had read or heard. "On several occasions,"
says Mr. Brooks, "I have held in my hand a printed slip while he was
repeating its contents to somebody else, and the precision with which he
delivered every word was marvellous." He was fond of the writings of
"Orpheus C. Kerr" and "Petroleum V. Nasby," who were famous humorists at
the time of the Civil War; and he amused himself and others in the
darkest hours by quoting passages from these now forgotten authors.
Nasby's letter from "Wingert's Corners, Ohio," on the threatening
prospects of a migration of the negroes from the South, and the
President's "evident intenshun of colonizin' on 'em in the North," he
especially relished. After rehearsing a portion of this letter to his
guests at the Soldiers' Home one evening, a sedate New England gentleman
expressed surprise that he could find time for memorizing such things.
"Oh," said Lincoln, "I don't. If I like a thing, it _just sticks_ after
once reading it or hearing it." He once recited a long and doleful
ballad, something like "Vilikins and his Dinah," the production of a
rural Kentucky bard, and when he had finished he added with a laugh, "I
don't believe I have thought of that before for forty years." Mr. Arnold
testifies that "although his reading was not extensive, yet his memory
was so retentive and so ready that in history, poetry, and in general
literature, few if any marked any deficiency. As an illustration of the
powers of his memory, may be related the following: A gentleman called
at the White House one day, and introduced to him two officers serving
in the army, one a Swede and the other a Norwegian. Immediately he
repeated, to their delight, a poem of some eight or ten verses
descriptive of Scandinavian scenery, and an old Norse legend. He said he
had read the poem in a newspaper some years before, and liked it, but it
had passed out of his memory until their visit had recalled it. The two
books which he read most were the Bible and Shakespeare. With these he
was perfectly familiar. From the Bible, as has before been stated, he
quoted frequently, and he read it daily, while Shakespeare was his
constant companion. He took a copy with him almost always when
travelling, and read it at leisure moments."
Lincoln was never ashamed to confess the deficiencies in his early
education. A distinguished party, comprising George Thompson, the
English anti-slavery orator, Rev. John Pierpont, Oliver Johnson, and
Hon. Lewis Clephane, once called upon him, and during the conversation
Mr. Pierpont turned to Mr. Thompson and repeated a Latin quotation from
the classics. Mr. Lincoln, leaning forward in his chair, looked from one
to the other inquiringly, and then remarked, with a smile, "_Which_, I
suppose you are both aware, _I_ do not understand."
While Edwin Forrest was playing an engagement at Ford's Theatre, Mr.
Carpenter spoke to the President one day of the actor's fine
interpretation of the character of Richelieu, and advised him to witness
the performance. "Who wrote the play?" asked the President of Mr.
Carpenter. "Bulwer," was the reply. "Ah!" he rejoined; "well, I knew
Bulwer wrote novels, but I did not know he was a play-writer also. It
may seem somewhat strange to say," he continued, "but _I never read an
entire novel in my life_. I once commenced 'Ivanhoe,' but never finished
it."
Among the few diversions which Lincoln allowed himself in Washington was
an occasional visit to the theater to witness a representation of some
good play by a favorite actor. He felt the necessity of some relaxation
from the terrible strain of anxiety and care; and while seated behind
the screen in a box at the theatre he was secure from the everlasting
importunities of politicians and office-seekers. He could forget himself
and his problems while watching the scenes on the mimic stage before
him. He enjoyed the renditions of Booth with great zest; yet after
witnessing "The Merchant of Venice" he remarked on the way home: "It was
a good performance, but I had a thousand times rather read it at home,
if it were not for Booth's playing. A farce or a comedy is best
_played_; a tragedy is best _read_ at home." He was much pleased one
night with Mr. McCullough's delineation of the character of "Edgar,"
which the actor played in support of Edwin Forrest's "Lear." He wished
to convey his approval to the young actor, and asked Mr. Brooks, his
companion at the moment, with characteristic simplicity, "Do you suppose
he would come to the box if we sent word?" Mr. McCullough was summoned,
and, standing at the door of the box in his stage attire, received the
thanks of the President, accompanied with words of discriminating praise
for the excellence of his delineation.
With his keen sense of humor, Lincoln appreciated to the utmost the
inimitable presentation of "Falstaff" by a well-known actor of the time.
His desire to accord praise wherever it was merited led him to express
his admiration in a note to the actor. An interchange of slight
civilities followed, ending at last in a singular situation. Entering
the President's office late one evening, Mr. Brooks noticed the actor
sitting in the waiting-room. Lincoln inquired anxiously if there were
anyone outside. On being told, he said, half sadly, almost desperately,
"Oh, I can't see him; I can't see him! I was in hopes he had gone away."
Then he added, "Now, this illustrates the difficulty of having pleasant
friends in this place. You know I liked him as an actor, and that I
wrote to tell him so. He sent me a book, and there I thought the matter
would end. He is a master of his place in the profession, I suppose, and
well fixed in it. But just because we had a little friendly
correspondence, such as any two men might have, he wants something. What
do you suppose he wants?" I could not guess, and Lincoln added, "Well,
he wants to be consul at London. Oh, dear!"
Lincoln was not a ready writer, and when preparing documents or speeches
of special importance he altered and elaborated his sentences with
patient care. His public utterances were so widely reported and so
mercilessly discussed that he acquired caution in expressing himself
without due preparation. It is stated, on what seems sufficient
authority, that his Gettysburg speech, brief and simple as it is, was
rewritten many times before it finally met his approval. He began also
to be guarded in responding to demands for impromptu speeches, which
were constantly being called for. Mr. Brooks relates that "once, being
notified that he was to be serenaded, just after some notable military
or political event, he asked me to come to dinner, 'so as to be on hand
and see the fun afterward,' as he said. He excused himself as soon as we
had dined, and while the bands were playing, the crowds cheering and the
rockets bursting outside the house, he made his reappearance in the
parlor with a roll of manuscript in his hand. Perhaps noticing a look of
surprise on my face, he said, 'I know what you are thinking about. You
think it mighty queer that an old stump-speaker like myself should not
be able to address a crowd like this outside without a written speech.
But you must remember that in a certain way I am talking to the country,
and I have to be mighty careful. Now, the last time I made an off-hand
speech, in answer to a serenade, I used the phrase, as applied to the
rebels, "turned tail and ran." Some very nice Boston folks, I am grieved
to hear, were very much outraged by that phrase, which they thought
improper. So I resolved to make no more impromptu speeches if I could
help it.'"
In all Lincoln's writings, even his most important state papers, his
chief desire was to make himself clearly understood by the common
reader. He had a great aversion to what he called "machine writing," and
used the fewest words possible to express his meaning. He never
hesitated to employ a homely expression when it suited his purpose. In
his first message the phrase "sugar-coated" occurred; and when it was
printed, Mr. Defrees, the Public Printer, being on familiar terms with
the President, ventured an objection to the phrase--suggesting that
Lincoln was not now preparing a campaign document or delivering a stump
speech in Illinois, but constructing an important state paper that would
go down historically to all coming time; and that therefore he did not
consider the phrase "sugar-coated" as entirely a becoming and dignified
one. "Well, Defrees," replied Lincoln, good-naturedly, "if you think the
time will ever come when the people will not understand what
'sugar-coated' means, I'll alter it; otherwise, I think I'll let it go."
On the same subject, Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe says: "Our own
politicians were somewhat shocked with his state papers at first. 'Why
not let _us_ make them a little more conventional, and file them to a
classical pattern?' 'No,' was his reply, 'I shall write them myself.
_The people will understand them_.' 'But this or that form of expression
is not elegant, not classical.' '_The people will understand it_,' has
been his invariable reply. And whatever may be said of his state papers
as compared with the classic standards, it has been a fact that they
have always been wonderfully well understood by the people, and that
since the time of Washington the state papers of no President have more
controlled the popular mind. One reason for this is that they have been
informal and undiplomatic. They have more resembled a father's talk to
his children than a state paper. They have had that relish and smack of
the soil that appeal to the simple human heart and head, which is a
greater power in writing than the most artful devices of rhetoric.
Lincoln might well say with the apostle, 'But though I be rude in
speech, yet not in knowledge, but we have been thoroughly _made manifest
among you_ in all things.' His rejection of what is called 'fine
writing' was as deliberate as St. Paul's, and for the same
reason--because he felt that he was speaking on a subject which must be
made clear to the lowest intellect, though it should fail to captivate
the highest. But we say of Lincoln's writing, that for all true manly
purposes there are passages in his state papers that could not be better
put; they are absolutely perfect. They are brief, condensed, intense,
and with a power of insight and expression which make them worthy to be
inscribed in letters of gold."
Hon. William J. Bryan, certainly a competent judge of oratory, says of
Lincoln as an orator: "Brevity is the soul of wit, and a part of
Lincoln's reputation for wit lies in his ability to condense a great
deal into a few words. He was epigrammatic. His Gettysburg speech is the
world's model in eloquence, elegance, and condensation. He was apt in
illustration--no one more so. A simple story or simile drawn from
every-day life flashed before his hearers the argument that he wanted to
present. He made frequent use of Bible language, and of illustrations
drawn from Holy Writ. It is said that when he was preparing his
Springfield speech of 1858 he spent hours in trying to find language
that would express the central idea--that a republic could not
permanently endure part free and part slave. Finally a Bible passage
flashed through his mind, and he exclaimed, 'I have found it--_a house
divided against itself cannot stand_.' Probably no other Bible passage
ever exerted as much influence as this one in the settlement of a great
controversy."
Lincoln was a tireless worker, and delegated no duties to others which
he could perform himself. His health seemed to bear the strain of his
terrible burdens wonderfully well. There are but few references anywhere
to his being incapacitated by illness. One such reference occurs in
Welles's Diary, dated March 14, 1865: "The President was somewhat
indisposed, but not seriously ill. The members [of the Cabinet] met in
his bedroom." His correspondence was extensive and burdensome, and as a
rule he wrote his most important letters with his own hand, frequently
going to the trouble of taking copies, which were filed with careful
order in a cabinet, the interior of which was divided into pigeon-holes.
These pigeon-holes, as Mr. Brooks tells us, "were lettered in
alphabetical order, but a few were devoted to individuals. Horace
Greeley had a pigeon-hole by himself; so did each of several generals
who wrote often to him. One compartment, labelled 'W. & W.,' excited
much curiosity, but I never asked what it meant, and one night, being
sent to the cabinet for a letter which the President wanted, he said, 'I
see you looking at my "W. & W." Can you guess what that stands for?' Of
course it was useless to guess. 'Well,' said he, with a roguish twinkle
of the eye, 'that's Weed and Wood--Thurlow and Fernandy.' Then he added,
with an indescribable chuckle, 'That's a pair of 'em.' When asked why he
did not have a letter-book and copying-press, he said, 'A letter-book
might be easily stolen and carried off, but that stock of filed letters
would be a _back-load_.'"
A lady who once rode with Lincoln, in the Presidential carriage, to the
Soldiers' Home, gives some interesting details concerning his knowledge
of woodcraft. "Around the 'Home,'" says this lady, "grows every variety
of tree, particularly of the evergreen class. Their branches brushed
into the carriage as we passed along, and left with us that pleasant
woodsy smell belonging to fresh leaves. One of the ladies, catching a
bit of green from one of these intruding branches, said it was cedar,
and another thought it spruce. 'Let me discourse on a theme I
understand,' said the President. 'I know all about trees, by right of
being a backwoodsman. I'll show you the difference between spruce,
pine, and cedar, and this shred of green, which is neither one nor the
other, but a kind of illegitimate cypress.' He then proceeded to gather
specimens of each, and explain the distinctive formation of foliage
belonging to every species. 'Trees,' he said, 'are as deceptive in their
likeness to one another as are certain classes of men, amongst whom none
but a physiognomist's eye can detect dissimilar moral features until
events have developed them. Do you know it would be a good thing if in
all the schools proposed and carried out by the improvement of modern
thinkers, we could have _a school of events_?' 'A school of events?'
repeated the lady addressed. 'Yes,' he continued, 'since it is only by
that active development that character and ability can be tested.
Understand me, I now mean men, not trees; _they_ can be tried, and an
analysis of their strength obtained less expensive to life and human
interests than man's. What I say now is a mere whim, you know; but when
I speak of a school of events, I mean one in which, before entering real
life, students might pass through the mimic vicissitudes and situations
that are necessary to bring out their powers and mark the calibre to
which they are assigned. Thus, one could select from the graduates an
invincible soldier, equal to any position, with no such word as fail; a
martyr to right, ready to give up life in the cause; a politician too
cunning to be outwitted; and so on. These things have all to be tried,
and their sometime failure creates confusion as well as disappointment.
There is no more dangerous or expensive analysis than that which
consists of _trying a man_.'"
Among Lincoln's callers one Sunday evening, was the distinguished
scientist Louis Agassiz. The two men were somewhat alike in their
simple, shy, and unpretending nature, and at first felt their way with
each other like two bashful schoolboys. Lincoln began conversation by
saying to Agassiz, "I never knew how to pronounce your name properly;
won't you give me a little lesson at that, please?" Then he asked if the
name were of French or Swiss derivation, to which the Professor replied
that it was partly of each. That led to a discussion of different
languages, the President speaking several words in different languages
which had the same root as similar words in our own tongue; then he
illustrated that by one or two anecdotes. But he soon returned to his
gentle cross-examination of Agassiz, and found out how the Professor
studied, how he composed, and how he delivered his lectures; how he
found different tastes in his audiences in different portions of the
country. When afterwards asked why he put such questions to his learned
visitor, he said, "Why, what we got from him isn't printed in the books;
the other things are." But Lincoln did not do all the questioning. In
his turn, Agassiz asked Lincoln if he had ever engaged in lecturing.
Lincoln gave the outline of a lecture, which he had partly written years
before, to show the origin of inventions and prove that there is nothing
new under the sun. "I think I can show," said he, "at least, in a
fanciful way, that all the modern inventions were known centuries ago."
Agassiz begged that Lincoln would finish the lecture sometime. Lincoln
replied that he had the manuscript somewhere in his papers, "and," said
he, "when I get out of this place, I'll finish it up, perhaps."
So great was Lincoln's magnanimity, and so keen his sense of justice,
that he never allowed personal considerations to influence his official
acts. It is probably true that it was easy for him to forgive an injury;
but he was incapable of using his position as President to gratify his
private resentments. It was once represented to him that a recent
appointee to an important office had been bitterly opposed to him
politically. "I suppose," said he, "the Judge did behave pretty ugly;
but that wouldn't make him any less fit for this place, and I have a
Scriptural authority for appointing him. You recollect that while the
Lord on Mount Sinai was getting out a commission for Aaron, that same
Aaron was at the foot of the mountain making a false god, a golden calf,
for the people to worship; yet Aaron got his commission, you know." At
another time, when remonstrated with upon the appointment to place of
one of his former opponents, he said: "Nobody will deny that he is a
first-rate man for the place, and I am bound to see that his opposition
to me personally shall not interfere with my giving the people a good
officer." And on another similar occasion, when remonstrated with by
members of his Cabinet, he said: "Oh, I can't afford to punish every
person who has seen fit to oppose my election. We want a competent man
in this office, and I know of no one who could perform the duties better
than the one proposed."
With all his self-abnegation, Lincoln could be stern when the occasion
warranted it. As an illustration the following incident is related: An
officer who had been cashiered from the service, forced himself several
times into Lincoln's presence, to plead for a reversal of his sentence.
Each time he read a long argument attempting to prove that he had
received unjust treatment. The President listened to him patiently; but
the facts, on their most favorable showing, did not seem to him to
sanction his interference. In the last interview, the man became angry,
and turning abruptly said: "Well, Mr. President, I see you are
determined not to do me justice!" This was too much, even for the
long-suffering Lincoln. Manifesting, however, no more feeling than that
indicated by a slight compression of the lips, he quietly arose, laid
down a package of papers he held in his hands, and then, suddenly
seizing the disgraced officer by the coat collar, he marched him
forcibly to the door, saying, as he ejected him into the passage, "Sir,
I give you fair warning never to show yourself in this room again. I can
bear censure, but not insult!" In a whining tone the man begged for his
papers, which he had dropped. "Begone, sir," said the President, "your
papers will be sent to you. I wish never to see your face again!"
Much has been said about Lincoln's views on religion. Like many other
great men, he was not what might technically be called a Christian. He
was a religious man in spirit and by nature; yet he never joined a
church. Mrs. Lincoln says that he had no religious faith, in the usual
acceptation of the word, but that religion was a sort of poetry in his
nature. "Twice during his life," she said, "he seemed especially to
think about it. Once was when our boy Willie died. Once--and this time
he thought of it more deeply--was when he went to Gettysburg." But
whatever his inner thoughts may have been, no man on earth had a firmer
faith in Providence than Abraham Lincoln. Perhaps he did not himself
know just where he stood. He believed in God--in immortality. He did not
believe in eternal punishment, but was confident of rest and peace after
this life was over. He may not have felt certain of the divine origin of
all parts of the Bible, but he valued its precepts, and his whole life
gave evidence of faith in a higher power than that of man. Mr. Nicolay,
his secretary, testifies that "his nature was deeply religious, but he
belonged to no denomination; he had faith in the eternal justice and
boundless mercy of Providence, and made the Golden Rule of Christ his
practical creed." And Dr. Phillips Brooks, in an eloquent and expressive
passage, calls him "Shepherd of the people--that old name that the best
rulers ever craved. What ruler ever won it like this President of ours?
He fed us faithfully and truly. He fed us with counsel when we were in
doubt, with inspiration when we sometimes faltered, with caution when we
would be rash, with calm, clear, trustful cheerfulness through many an
hour when our hearts were dark. He fed hungry souls all over the country
with sympathy and consolation. He spread before the whole land feasts of
great duty and devotion and patriotism on which the land grew strong. He
fed us with solemn, solid truths. He taught us the sacredness of
government, the wickedness of treason. He made our souls glad and
vigorous with the love of Liberty that was in his. He showed us how to
love truth, and yet be charitable; how to hate wrong and all oppression,
and yet not treasure one personal injury or insult. He fed all his
people, from the highest to the lowest, from the most privileged down to
the most enslaved. 'He fed them with a faithful and true heart.'"