[Illustration: Portrait of Lincoln in 1860 209]
The election over, Mr. Lincoln scarcely had time enough to take a breath
until another campaign and one equally trying, so far as a test of his
constitution and nerves was concerned, as the one through which he
had just passed, opened up before him. I refer to the siege of the
cabinet-makers and office-seekers. It proved to be a severe and
protracted strain and one from which there seemed to be no relief, as
the President-elect of this renowned democratic Government is by custom
and precedent expected to meet and listen to everybody who calls to
see him. "Individuals, deputations, and delegations," says one of Mr.
Lincoln's biographers, "from all quarters pressed in upon him in a
manner that might have killed a man of less robust constitution. The
hotels of Springfield were filled with gentlemen who came with light
baggage and heavy schemes. The party had never been in office. A clean
sweep of the 'ins' was expected, and all the 'outs' were patriotically
anxious to take the vacant places. It was a party that had never fed;
and it was voraciously hungry. Mr. Lincoln and Artemus Ward saw a great
deal of fun in it; and in all human probability it was the fun alone
that enabled Mr. Lincoln to bear it."
His own election of course disposed of any claims Illinois might have
had to any further representation in the cabinet, but it afforded Mr.
Lincoln no relief from the argumentative interviews and pressing claims
of the endless list of ambitious statesmen in the thirty-two other
states, who swarmed into Springfield from every point of the compass. He
told each one of them a story, and even if he failed to put their names
on his slate they went away without knowing that fact, and never forgot
the visit.*
* A newspaper correspondent who had been sent down from
Chicago to "write up" Mr. Lincoln soon after his nomination,
was kind enough several years ago to furnish me with an
account of his visit. As some of his reminiscences are more
or less interesting, I take the liberty of inserting a
portion of his letter. "A what-not in the corner of the
room," he relates, "was laden with various kinds of shells.
Taking one in my hand, I said, 'This, I suppose, is called a
Trocus by the geologist or naturalist.' Mr. Lincoln paused a
moment as if reflecting and then replied, 'I do not know,
for I never studied either geology or natural history.' I
then took to examining the few pictures that hung on the
walls, and was paying more than ordinary attention to one
that hung above, the sofa. He was immediately at my left and
pointing to it said, 'That picture gives a very fair
representation of my homely face.'... The time for my
departure nearing, I made the usual apologies and started to
go. 'You cannot get out of the town before a quarter past
eleven,' remonstrated Mr. Lincoln, 'and you may as well stay
a little longer.' Under pretence of some unfinished matters
down town, however, I very reluctantly withdrew from the
mansion. 'Well,' said Mr. Lincoln, as we passed into the
hall, 'suppose you come over to the State House before you
start for Chicago.' After a moment's deliberation I promised
to do so. Mr. Lincoln, following without his hat, and
continuing the conversation, shook hands across the gate,
saying, 'Now, come over.' I wended my way to my hotel, and
after a brief period was in his office at the State House.
Resuming conversation, he said, 'If the man comes with the
key before you go, I want to give you a book.' I certainly
hoped the man would come with the key. Some conversation had
taken place at the house on which his book treated,--but I
had forgotten this,--and soon Mr. Lincoln absented himself
for perhaps two minutes and returned with a copy of the
debates between himself and Judge Douglas. He placed the
book on his knee, as he sat back on two legs of his chair,
and wrote on the fly-leaf, 'J. S. Bliss, from A. Lincoln.'
Besides this he marked a complete paragraph near the middle
of the book. While sitting in the position described little
Willie, his son, came in and begged his father for twenty-
five cents. 'My son,' said the father, 'what do you want
with twenty-five cents?' 'I want it to buy candy with,'
cried the boy. 'I cannot give you twenty-five cents, my son,
but will give you five cents,' at the same time putting his
thumb and finger into his vest pocket and taking therefrom
five cents in silver, which he placed upon the desk before
the boy. But this did not reach Willie's expectations; he
scorned the pile, and turning away clambered down-stairs and
through the spacious halls of the Capitol, leaving behind
him his five cents and a distinct reverberation of sound.
Mr. Lincoln turned to me and said, 'He will be back after
that in a few minutes.' 'Why do you think so?' said I.
'Because, as soon as he finds I will give him no more he
will come and get it.' After the matter had been nearly
forgotten and conversation had turned in an entirely
different channel, Willie came cautiously in behind my chair
and that of his father, picked up the specie, and went away
without saying a word."--J. S. Bliss, letter, Jan. 29, 1867,
MS.
He had a way of pretending to assure his visitor that in the choice of
his advisers he was "free to act as his judgment dictated," although
David Davis, acting as his manager at the Chicago convention, had
negotiated with the Indiana and Pennsylvania delegations, and assigned
places in the cabinet to Simon Cameron and Caleb Smith, besides making
other "arrangements" which Mr. Lincoln was expected to ratify. Of this
he was undoubtedly aware, although in answer to a letter from Joshua R.
Giddings, of Ohio, congratulating him on his nomination, he said,*
* Letter, May 21st, 1860, MS.
"It is indeed most grateful to my feelings that the responsible position
assigned me comes without conditions." Out of regard to the dignity
of the exalted station he was about to occupy, he was not as free in
discussing the matter of his probable appointments with some of his
personal friends as they had believed he would be. In one or two
instances, I remember, the latter were offended at his seeming disregard
of the claims of old friendship. My advice was not asked for on such
grave subjects, nor had I any right or reason to believe it would
be; hence I never felt slighted or offended. On some occasions in our
office, when Mr. Lincoln had come across from the State House for a
rest or a chat with me, he would relate now and then some
circumstance--generally an amusing one--connected with the settlement
of the cabinet problem, but it was said in such a way that one would
not have felt free to interrogate him about his plans. Soon after his
election I received from my friend Joseph Medill, of Chicago, a letter
which argued strongly against the appointment of Simon Cameron to a
place in the cabinet, and which the writer desired I should bring to Mr.
Lincoln's attention. I awaited a favorable opportunity, and one evening
when we were alone in our office I gave it to him. It was an eloquent
protest against the appointment of a corrupt and debased man, and coming
from the source it did--the writer being one of Lincoln's best newspaper
supporters--made a deep impression on him. Lincoln read it over several
times, but refrained from expressing any opinion. He did say however
that he felt himself under no promise or obligation to appoint anyone;
that if his friends made any agreements for him they did so over his
expressed direction and without his knowledge. At another time he said
that he wanted to give the South, by way of placation, a place in his
cabinet; that a fair division of the country entitled the Southern
States to a reasonable representation there, and if not interfered
with he would make such a distribution as would satisfy all persons
interested. He named three persons who would be acceptable to him.
They were Botts, of Virginia; Stephens, of Georgia; and Maynard, of
Tennessee. He apprehended no such grave danger to the Union as the mass
of people supposed would result from Southern threats, and said he could
not in his heart believe that the South designed the overthrow of the
Government. This is the extent of my conversation about the cabinet.
Thurlow Weed, the veteran in journalism and politics, came out from
New York and spent several days with Lincoln. He was not only the
representative of Senator Seward, but rendered the President-elect
signal service in the formation of his cabinet. In his autobiography Mr.
Weed relates numerous incidents of this visit. He was one day opposing
the claims of Montgomery Blair, who aspired to a cabinet appointment,
when Mr. Lincoln inquired of Weed whom he would recommend. "Henry Winter
Davis," was the response. "David Davis, I see, has been posting you up
on this question," retorted Lincoln. "He has Davis on the brain. I think
Maryland must be a good State to move from." The President then told a
story of a witness in court in a neighboring county, who on being asked
his age replied, "Sixty." Being satisfied he was much older the question
was repeated, and on receiving the same answer, the court admonished the
witness, saying, "The court knows you to be much older than sixty."
"Oh, I understand now," was the rejoinder; "you're thinking of those ten
years I spent on the eastern shore of Maryland; that was so much time
lost and don't count." Before Mr. Lincoln's departure from Springfield,
people who knew him personally were frequently asked what sort of man he
was. I received many letters, generally from the Eastern States, showing
that much doubt still existed in the minds of the people whether he
would prove equal to the great task that lay in store for him. Among
others who wrote me on the subject was the Hon. Henry Wilson, late
Vice-president of the United States, whom I had met during my visit to
Washington in the spring of 1858. Two years after Mr. Lincoln's death,
Mr. Wilson wrote me as follows: "I have just finished reading your
letter dated December 21, 1860, in answer to a letter of mine asking you
to give me your opinion of the President just elected. In this letter
to me you say of Mr. Lincoln what more than four years of observation
confirmed. After stating that you had been his law partner for over
eighteen years and his most intimate and bosom friend all that time you
say, 'I know him better than he does himself. I know this seems a little
strong, but I risk the assertion. Lincoln is a man of heart--aye, as
gentle as a woman's and as tender--but he has a will strong as iron. He
therefore loves all mankind, hates slavery and every form of despotism.
Put these together--love for the slave, and a determination, a will,
that justice, strong and unyielding, shall be done when he has the right
to act, and you can form your own conclusion. Lincoln will fail here,
namely, if a question of political economy--if any question comes up
which is doubtful, questionable, which no man can demonstrate, then his
friends can rule him; but when on justice, right, liberty, the
Government, the Constitution, and the Union, then you may all stand
aside: he will rule then, and no man can move him--no set of men can do
it. There is no fail here. This is Lincoln, and you mark my prediction.
You and I must keep the people right; God will keep Lincoln right.'
These words of yours made a deep impression upon my mind, and I came to
love and trust him even before I saw him. After an acquaintance of more
than four years I found that your idea of him was in all respects
correct--that he was the loving, tender, firm, and just man you
represented him to be; while upon some questions in which moral elements
did not so clearly enter he was perhaps too easily influenced by others.
Mr. Lincoln was a genuine democrat in feelings, sentiments, and actions.
How patiently and considerately he listened amid the terrible pressure
of public affairs to the people who thronged his ante-room! I remember
calling upon him one day daring the war on pressing business. The ante-
room was crowded with men and women seeking admission. He seemed
oppressed, careworn, and weary, I said to him, 'Mr. President, you are
too exhausted to see this throng waiting to see you; you will wear
yourself out and ought not see these people today.' He replied, with one
of those smiles in which sadness seemed to mingle, 'They don't want
much; they get but little, and I must see them.' During the war his
heart was oppressed and his life burdened with the conflict between the
tenderness of his nature and what seemed to be the imperative demands of
duty. In the darkest hours of the conflict desertions from the army were
frequent, and army officers urgently pressed the execution of the
sentences of the law; but it was with the greatest effort that he would
bring himself to consent to the execution of the judgment of the
military tribunals. I remember calling early one sabbath morning with a
wounded Irish officer, who came to Washington to say that a soldier who
had been sentenced to be shot in a day or two for desertion had fought
gallantly by his side in battle. I told Mr. Lincoln we had come to ask
him to pardon the poor soldier. After a few moments' reflection he said,
'My officers tell me the good of the service demands the enforcement of
the law; but it makes my heart ache to have the poor fellows shot. I
will pardon this soldier, and then you will all join in blaming me for
it. You censure me for granting pardons, and yet you all ask me to do
so.' I say again, no man had a more loving and tender nature than Mr.
Lincoln."
Before departing for Washington Mr. Lincoln went to Chicago* for a few
days' stay, and there by previous arrangement met his old friend, Joshua
F. Speed. Both were accompanied by their wives, and while the latter
were out shopping the two husbands repaired to Speed's room at the
hotel. "For an hour or more," relates Speed, "we lived over again the
scenes of other days. Finally Lincoln threw himself on the bed, and
fixing his eyes on a spot in the ceiling asked me this question, 'Speed,
what is your pecuniary condition? are you rich or poor?' I answered,
addressing him by his new title, 'Mr. President, I think I can
anticipate what you are going to say. I'll speak candidly to you on the
subject. My pecuniary condition is satisfactory to me now; you would
perhaps call it good. I do not think you have within your gift any
office I could afford to take.' Mr. Lincoln then proposed to make
Guthrie, of Kentucky, Secretary of War, but did not want to write to
him--asked me to feel of him. I did as requested, but the Kentucky
statesman declined on the ground of his advanced age, and consequent
physical inability to fill the position. He gave substantial assurance
of his loyal sentiments, however, and insisted that the Union should be
preserved at all hazards."
* A lady called one day at the hotel where the Lincolns were
stopping in Chicago to take Mrs. Lincoln out for a promenade
or a drive. She was met in the parlor by Mr. Lincoln, who,
after a hurried trip upstairs to ascertain the cause of the
delay in his wife's appearance, returned with the report
that "She will be down as soon as she has all her trotting
harness on."
Late in January Mr. Lincoln informed me that he was ready to begin the
preparation of his inaugural address. He had, aside from his law books
and the few gilded volumes that ornamented the centre-table in his
parlor at home, comparatively no library. He never seemed to care to own
or collect books. On the other hand I had a very respectable collection,
and was adding to it every day. To my library Lincoln very frequently
had access. When, therefore, he began on his inaugural speech he told me
what works he intended to consult. I looked for a long list, but when
he went over it I was greatly surprised. He asked me to furnish him
with Henry Clay's great speech delivered in 1850; Andrew Jackson's
proclamation against Nullification; and a copy of the Constitution. He
afterwards called for Webster's reply to Hayne, a speech which he read
when he lived at New Salem, and which he always regarded as the grandest
specimen of American oratory. With these few "volumes," and no further
sources of reference, he locked himself up in a room upstairs over a
store across the street from the State House, and there, cut off
from all communication and intrusion, he prepared the address. Though
composed amid the unromantic surroundings of a dingy, dusty, and
neglected back room, the speech has become a memorable document.
Posterity will assign to it a high rank among historical utterances; and
it will ever bear comparison with the efforts of Washington, Jefferson,
Adams, or any that preceded its delivery from the steps of the national
Capitol.
After Mr. Lincoln's rise to national prominence, and especially since
his death, I have often been asked if I did not write this or that paper
for him; if I did not prepare or help prepare some of his speeches. I
know that other and abler friends of Lincoln have been asked the same
question.* To people who made such enquiries I always responded, "You
don't understand Mr. Lincoln. No man ever asked less aid then he; his
confidence in his own ability to meet the requirements of every hour
was so marked that his friends never thought of tendering their aid, and
therefore no one could share his responsibilities. I never wrote a line
for him; he never asked me to. I was never conscious of having
exerted any influence over him. He often called out my views on
some philosophical question, simply because I was a fond student of
philosophy, and conceding that I had given the subject more attention
than he; he often asked as to the use of a word or the turn of a
sentence, but if I volunteered to recommend or even suggest a change
of language which involved a change of sentiment I found him the most
inflexible man I have ever seen."
* "I know it was the general impression in Washington that
I knew all about Lincoln's plans and ideas, but the truth
is, I knew nothing. He never confided to me anything of his
purposes."--David Davis, statement, September 20, 1866.
One more duty--an act of filial devotion--remained to be done before
Abraham Lincoln could announce his readiness to depart for the city of
Washington--a place from which it was unfortunately decreed he should
never return. In the first week of February he slipped quietly away
from Springfield and rode to Farmington in Coles County, where his aged
step-mother was still living. Here, in the little country village, he
met also the surviving members of the Hanks and Johnston families. He
visited the grave of his father, old Thomas Lincoln, which had been
unmarked and neglected for almost a decade, and left directions that a
suitable stone should be placed there to mark the spot. Retracing his
steps in the direction of Springfield he stopped over-night in the town
of Charleston, where he made a brief address, recalling many of his
boyhood exploits, in the public hall. In the audience were many persons
who had known him first as the stalwart young ox-driver when his
father's family drove into Illinois from southern Indiana. One man had
brought with him a horse which the President-elect, in the earlier days
of his law practice, had recovered for him in a replevin suit; another
one was able to recite from personal recollection the thrilling details
of the famous wrestling match between Lincoln the flat-boatman in 1830
and Daniel Needham; and all had some reminiscence of his early manhood
to relate. The separation from his step-mother was particularly
touching.*
* Lincoln's love for his second mother was a most filial and
affectionate one. His letters show that he regarded the
relation truly as that of mother and son. November 4, 1851,
he writes her after the death of his father:
"Dear Mother:
"Chapman tells me he wants you to go and live with him. If I
were you I would try it awhile. If you get tired of it (as I
think you will not) you can return to your own home. Chapman
feels very kindly to you; and I have no doubt he will make
your situation very pleasant.
"Sincerely your son,
"A. Lincoln."
On the 9th of the same month he writes his step-brother John D.
Johnston: "If the land can be sold so that I can get three hundred
dollars to put to interest for mother I will not object if she does not.
But before I will make a deed the money must be had, or secured beyond
all doubt at ten per cent."
The parting, when the good old woman, with tears streaming down her
cheeks, gave him a mother's benediction, expressing the fear that his
life might be taken by his enemies, will never be forgotten by those
who witnessed it. Deeply impressed by this farewell scene Mr. Lincoln
reluctantly withdrew from the circle of warm friends who crowded around
him, and, filled with gloomy forebodings of the future, returned to
Springfield. The great questions of state having been pretty well
settled in his own mind, and a few days yet remaining before his final
departure, his neighbors and old friends called to take leave of him and
pay their "best respects." Many of these callers were from New Salem,
where he had made his start in life, and each one had some pleasant
or amusing incident of earlier days to call up when they met. Hannah
Armstrong, who had "foxed" his trowsers with buckskin in the days when
he served as surveyor under John Calhoun, and whose son Lincoln had
afterwards acquitted in the trial for murder at Beardstown, gave
positive evidence of the interest she took in his continued rise in the
world.
She bade him good-bye, but was filled with a presentiment that she would
never see him alive again. "Hannah," he said, jovially, "if they do kill
me I shall never die again." Isaac Cogsdale, another New Salem pioneer,
came, and to him Lincoln again admitted his love for the unfortunate
Anne Rutledge. Cogsdale afterwards told me of this interview. It
occurred late in the afternoon. Mr. Nicolay, the secretary, had gone
home, and the throng of visitors had ceased for the day. Lincoln asked
about all the early families of New Salem, calling up the peculiarities
of each as he went over the list. Of the Rutledges he said: "I have
loved the name of Rutledge to this day. I have kept my mind on their
movements ever since." Of Anne he spoke with some feeling: "I loved her
dearly. She was a handsome girl, would have made a good, loving wife;
she was natural, and quite intellectual, though not highly educated. I
did honestly and truly love the girl, and think often of her now."
Early in February the last item of preparation for the journey to
Washington had been made. Mr. Lincoln had disposed of his household
goods and furniture to a neighbor, had rented his house; and as these
constituted all the property he owned in Illinois there was no further
occasion for concern on that score. In the afternoon of his last day in
Springfield he came down to our office to examine some papers and
confer with me about certain legal matters in which he still felt some
interest. On several previous occasions he had told me he was coming
over to the office "to have a long talk with me," as he expressed it. We
ran over the books and arranged for the completion of all unsettled
and unfinished matters. In some cases he had certain requests to
make--certain lines of procedure he wished me to observe. After these
things were all disposed of he crossed to the opposite side of the room
and threw himself down on the old office sofa, which, after many years
of service, had been moved against the wall for support. He lay for some
moments, his face towards the ceiling, without either of us speaking.
Presently he inquired, "Billy,"--he always called me by that name,--"how
long have we been together?" "Over sixteen years," I answered. "We've
never had a cross word during all that time, have we?" to which I
returned a vehement, "No, indeed we have not." He then recalled some
incidents of his early practice and took great pleasure in delineating
the ludicrous features of many a lawsuit on the circuit. It was at this
last interview in Springfield that he told me of the efforts that had
been made by other lawyers to supplant me in the partnership with him.
He insisted that such men were weak creatures, who, to use his own
language, "hoped to secure a law practice by hanging to his coat-tail."
I never saw him in a more cheerful mood. He gathered a bundle of books
and papers he wished to take with him and started to go; but before
leaving he made the strange request that the sign-board which swung on
its rusty hinges at the foot of the stairway should remain. "Let it hang
there undisturbed,"* he said, with a significant lowering of his voice.
"Give our clients to understand that the election of a President makes
no change in the firm of Lincoln and Herndon. If I live I'm coming back
some time, and then we'll go right on practising law as if nothing had
ever happened." He lingered for a moment as if to take a last look
at the old quarters, and then passed through the door into the narrow
hallway. I accompanied him downstairs. On the way he spoke of the
unpleasant features surrounding the Presidential office. "I am sick of
office-holding already," he complained, "and I shudder when I think of
the tasks that are still ahead." He said the sorrow of parting from his
old associations was deeper than most persons would imagine, but it
was more marked in his case because of the feeling which had become
irrepressible that he would never return alive. I argued against the
thought, characterizing it as an illusory notion not in harmony or
keeping with the popular ideal of a President. "But it is in keeping
with my philosophy," was his quick retort. Our conversation was
frequently broken in upon by the interruptions of passers-by, who, each
in succession, seemed desirous of claiming his attention. At length he
broke away from them all. Grasping my hand warmly and with a fervent
"Good-bye," he disappeared down the street, and never came back to the
office again. On the morning following this last interview, the 11th
day of February, the Presidential party repaired to the railway station,
where the train which was to convey them to Washington awaited the
ceremony of departure.
* In answer to the many inquiries made of me, I will say
here that during this last interview Mr. Lincoln, for the
first time, brought up the subject of an office under his
administration. He asked me if I desired an appointment at
his hands, and, if so, what I wanted. I answered that I had
no desire for a Federal office, that I was then holding the
office of Bank Commissioner of Illinois under appointment of
Governor Bissel, and that if he would request my retention
in office by Yates, the incoming Governor, I should be
satisfied. He made the necessary recommendation, and
Governor Yates complied. I was present at the meeting
between Yates and Lincoln, and I remember that the former,
when Lincoln urged my claims for retention in office, asked
Lincoln to appoint their mutual friend A. Y. Ellis
postmaster at Springfield. I do not remember whether Lincoln
promised to do so or not, but Ellis was never appointed.
[Illustration: Springfield Railway Station 228]
The intention was to stop at many of the principal cities along the
route, and plenty of time had been allotted for the purpose. Mr. Lincoln
had told me that a man named Wood had been recommended to him by Mr.
Seward, and he had been placed in charge of the party as a sort of
general manager. The party, besides the President, his wife, and three
sons, Robert, William, and Thomas, consisted of his brother-in-law, Dr.
W. S. Wallace, David Davis, Norman B. Judd, Elmer E. Ellsworth, Ward
H. Lamon, and the President's two secretaries, John G. Nicolay and John
Hay. Colonel E. V. Sumner and other army gentlemen were also in the car,
and some friends of Mr. Lincoln--among them O. H. Browning, Governor
Yates, and ex-Governor Moore--started with the party from Springfield,
but dropped out at points along the way. The day was a stormy one, with
dense clouds hanging heavily overhead. A goodly throng of Springfield
people had gathered to see the distinguished party safely off. After
the latter had entered the car the people closed about it until the
President appeared on the rear platform. He stood for a moment as if
to suppress evidences of his emotion, and removing his hat made the
following brief but dignified and touching address: * "Friends: No one
who has never been placed in a like position can understand my feelings
at this hour, nor the oppressive sadness I feel at this parting. For
more than a quarter of a century I have lived among you, and during all
that time I have received nothing but kindness at your hands. Here I
have lived from my youth until now I am an old man. Here the most sacred
ties of earth were assumed. Here all my children were born; and here one
of them lies buried. To you, dear friends, I owe all that I have, all
that I am. All the strange, checkered past seems to crowd now upon my
mind. To-day I leave you. I go to assume a task more difficult than that
which devolved upon Washington. Unless the great God who assisted him
shall be with and aid me, I must fail; but if the same omniscient mind
and almighty arm that directed and protected him shall guide and support
me I shall not fail--I shall succeed. Let us all pray that the God of
our fathers may not forsake us now. To him I commend you all. Permit me
to ask that with equal sincerity and faith you will invoke his wisdom
and guidance for me. With these words I must leave you, for how long
I know not. Friends, one and all, I must now bid you an affectionate
farewell."
* I was not present when Mr. Lincoln delivered his farewell
at the depot in Springfield, and never heard what he said. I
have adopted the version of his speech as published in our
papers. There has been some controversy over the exact
language he used on that occasion, and Mr. Nicolay has
recently published the speech from what he says is the
original MS., partly in his own and partly in the
handwriting of Mr. Lincoln. Substantially, however, it is
like the speech as reproduced here from the Springfield
paper.
At the conclusion of this neat and appropriate farewell the train rolled
slowly out, and Mr. Lincoln, still standing in the doorway of the rear
car, took his last view of Springfield. The journey had been as well
advertised as it had been carefully planned, and therefore, at every
town along the route, and at every stop, great crowds were gathered to
catch a glimpse of the President-elect.*
* "Before Mr. Lincoln's election in 1860 I, then a child of eleven
years, was presented with his lithograph. Admiring him with my whole
heart, I thought still his appearance would be much improved should
he cultivate his whiskers. Childish thoughts must have utterance. So I
proposed the idea to him, expressing as well as I was able the esteem
in which he was held among honest men. A few days after I received this
kind and friendly letter?
"* Springfield, III., October 19, 1860.
"'Miss Grace Bedell.
"'My Dear Little Miss:--Your very agreeable letter of the
15th is received. I regret the necessity of saying I have no
daughter. I have three sons--one seventeen, one nine, and
one seven. They with their mother constitute my whole
family. As to the whiskers, as I have never worn any, do you
not think that people would call it a piece of silly
affectation were I to begin wearing them now?
"'I am your true friend and sincere well-wisher,
"'A. Lincoln.'
"It appears I was not forgotten, for after his election to
the Presidency, while on his journey to Washington, the
train stopped at Westfield, Chautauqua County, at which
place I then resided. Mr. Lincoln said, 'I have a
correspondent in this place, a little girl whose name is
Grace Bedell, and I would like to see her.' I was conveyed
to him; he stepped from the cars, extending his hand and
saying, 'You see I have let these whiskers grow for you,
Grace,' kissed me, shook me cordially by the hand, and was
gone. I was frequently afterward assured of his
remembrance.'" Grace G. Bedell, MS. letter, Dec. 14, 1866.
Mr. Lincoln usually gratified the wishes of the crowds, who called
him out for a speech whether it was down on the regular programme of
movements or not. In all cases his remarks were well-timed and sensibly
uttered. At Indianapolis, where the Legislature was in session, he
halted for a day and delivered a speech the burden of which was
an answer to the Southern charges of coercion and invasion. From
Indianapolis he moved on to Cincinnati and Columbus, at the last-named
place meeting the Legislature of Ohio. The remainder of the journey
convinced Mr. Lincoln of his strength in the affections of the
people. Many, no doubt, were full of curiosity to see the now famous
rail-splitter, but all were outspoken and earnest in their assurances
of support. At Steubenville, Pittsburg, Cleveland, Buffalo, Albany,
New York, and Philadelphia he made manly and patriotic speeches. These
speeches, plain in language and simple in illustration, made every man
who heard them a stronger friend than ever of the Government. He was
skilful enough to warn the people of the danger ahead and to impress
them with his ability to deal properly with the situation, without in
any case outlining his intended policy or revealing the forces he
held in reserve.* At Pittsburg he advised deliberation and begged the
American people to keep their temper on both sides of the line.
At Cleveland he insisted that "the crisis, as it is called, is an
artificial crisis and has no foundation in fact;" and at Philadelphia he
assured his listeners that under his administration there would be "no
bloodshed unless it was forced upon the Government, and then it would be
compelled to act in self-defence."
* The following are extracts from Mr. Lincoln's letters
written during the campaign in answer to his position with
reference to the anticipated uprisings in the Southern
States. They are here published for the first time:
[From a letter to L. Montgomery Bond, Esq., Oct. 15, 1860.]
"I certainly am in no temper and have no purpose to embitter
the feelings of the South, but whether I am inclined to such
a course as would in fact embitter their feelings you can
better judge by my published speeches than by anything I
would say in a short letter if I were inclined now, as I am
not, to define my position anew."
[From a letter to Samuel Haycraft, dated, Springfield, Ill.,
June 4, 1860.]
"Like yourself I belonged to the old Whig party from its
origin to its close. I never belonged to the American party
organization, nor ever to a party called a Union party;
though I hope I neither am or ever have been less devoted to
the Union than yourself or any other patriotic man."
[Private and Confidential.]
Springfield, Ill., Nov. 13, 1860.
"Hon. Samuel Haycraft.
"My Dear Sir:--Yours of the 9th is just received. I can only
answer briefly. Rest fully assured that the good people of
the South who will put themselves in the same temper and
mood towards me which you do will find no cause to complain
of me.
"Yours very truly,
"A. Lincoln."
This last utterance was made in front of Independence Hall, where, a few
moments before, he had unfurled to the breeze a magnificent new flag, an
impressive ceremony performed amid the cheers swelling from the vast sea
of upturned faces before him. From Philadelphia his journey took him to
Harrisburg, where he visited both branches of the Legislature then in
session. For an account of the remainder of this now famous trip I beg
to quote from the admirable narrative of Dr. Holland. Describing the
welcome tendered him by the Legislature at Harrisburg, the latter says:
"At the conclusion of the exercises of the day Mr. Lincoln, who was
known to be very weary, was permitted to pass undisturbed to his
apartments in the Jones House. It was popularly understood that he was
to start for Washington the next morning, and the people of Harrisburg
supposed they had only taken a temporary leave of him. He remained in
his rooms until nearly six o'clock, when he passed into the street,
entered a carriage unobserved in company with Colonel Lamon, and was
driven to a special train on the Pennsylvania railroad in waiting for
him. As a matter of precaution the telegraph wires were cut the moment
he left Harrisburg, so that if his departure should be discovered
intelligence of it could not be communicated at a distance. At half-past
ten the train arrived at Philadelphia, and here Mr. Lincoln was met by
a detective, who had a carriage in readiness in which the party were
driven to the depot of the Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore
railroad. At a quarter past eleven they arrived and very fortunately
found the regular train, which should have left at eleven, delayed.
The party took berths in the sleeping, car, and without change of cars
passed directly through Baltimore to Washington, where Mr. Lincoln
arrived at half-past six o'clock in the morning and found Mr. Washburne
anxiously awaiting him. He was taken into a carriage and in a few
minutes he was talking over his adventures with Senator Seward at
Willard's Hotel." The remaining members of the Presidential party from
whom Mr. Lincoln separated at Harrisburg left that place on the special
train intended for him; and as news of his safe arrival in Washington
had been already telegraphed over the country no attempt was made to
interrupt their safe passage through Baltimore. As is now generally well
known many threats had up to that time been made that Mr. Lincoln, on
his way to Washington, should never pass through Baltimore alive. It was
reported and believed that conspiracies had been formed to attack the
train, blow it up with explosives or in some equally effective way
dispose of the President-elect. Mr. Seward and others were so deeply
impressed with the grave features of the reports afloat that Allan
Pinkerton, the noted detective of Chicago, was employed to investigate
the matter and ferret out the conspiracy, if any existed. This shrewd
operator went to Baltimore, opened an office as a stock-broker, and
through his assistants--the most adroit and serviceable of whom was a
woman--was soon in possession of inside information. The change of plans
and trains at Harrisburg was due to his management and advice. Some
years before his death Mr. Pinkerton furnished me with a large volume
of the written reports of his subordinates and an elaborate account by
himself of the conspiracy and the means he employed to ferret it out.
The narrative, thrilling enough in some particulars, is too extended
for insertion here. It is enough for us to know that the tragedy
was successfully averted and that Mr. Lincoln was safely landed in
Washington.
In January preceding his departure from Springfield Mr. Lincoln,
becoming somewhat annoyed, not to say alarmed, at the threats emanating
from Baltimore and other portions of the country adjacent to Washington,
that he should not reach the latter place alive, and that even if
successful in reaching the Capitol his inauguration should in some way
be prevented, determined to ascertain for himself what protection would
be given him in case an effort should be made by an individual or a mob
to do him violence. He sent a young military officer in the person of
Thomas Mather, then Adjutant-General of Illinois, to Washington with a
letter to General Scott, in which he recounted the threats he had heard
and ventured to inquire as to the probability of any attempt at his life
being made on the occasion of his inauguration. General Mather, on
his arrival in Washington, found General Scott confined to his room by
illness and unable to see visitors. On Mather calling a second time
and sending in his letter he was invited up to the sick man's chamber.
"Entering the room." related Mather in later years, "I found the old
warrior, grizzly and wrinkled, propped up in the bed by an embankment
of pillows behind his back. His hair and beard were considerably
disordered, the flesh seemed to lay in rolls across his warty face and
neck, and his breathing was not without great labor. In his hand he
still held Lincoln's letter. He was weak from long-continued illness,
and trembled very perceptibly. It was evident that the message from
Lincoln had wrought up the old veteran's feelings. 'General Mather,' he
said to me, in great agitation, 'present my compliments to Mr. Lincoln
when you return to Springfield, and tell him I expect him to come on to
Washington as soon as he is ready. Say to him that I'll look after those
Maryland and Virginia rangers myself; I'll plant cannon at both ends
of Pennsylvania avenue, and if any of them show their heads or raise a
finger I'll blow them to hell.' On my return to Springfield," concludes
Mather, "I hastened to assure Mr. Lincoln that, if Scott were alive on
the day of the inauguration, there need be no alarm lest the performance
be interrupted by any one. I felt certain the hero of Lundy's Lane would
give the matter the care and attention it deserved."
Having at last reached his destination in safety, Mr. Lincoln spent the
few days preceding his inauguration at Willard's Hotel, receiving an
uninterrupted stream of visitors and friends. In the few unoccupied
moments allotted him, he was carefully revising his inaugural address.
On the morning of the 4th of March he rode from his hotel with Mr.
Buchanan in an open barouche to the Capitol.
There, slightly pale and nervous, he was introduced to the assembled
multitude by his old friend Edward D. Baker, and in a fervid and
impressive manner delivered his address. At its conclusion the customary
oath was administered by the venerable Chief Justice Taney, and he was
now clothed with all the powers and privileges of Chief Magistrate of
the nation. He accompanied Mr. Buchanan to the White House, and here the
historic bachelor of Lancaster bade him farewell, bespeaking for him a
peaceful, prosperous, and successful administration.
One who witnessed the impressive scene left the following graphic
description of the inauguration and its principal incidents: "Near noon
I found myself a member of the motley crowd gathered about the side
entrance to Willard's Hotel. Soon an open barouche drove up, and the
only occupant stepped out. A large, heavy, awkward-moving man, far
advanced in years, short and thin gray hair, full face, plentifully
seamed and wrinkled, head curiously inclined to the left shoulder, a
low-crowned, broad-brimmed silk hat, an immense white cravat like a
poultice, thrusting the old-fashioned standing collar up to the ears,
dressed in black throughout, with swallow-tail coat not of the newest
style. It was President Buchanan, calling to take his successor to the
Capitol. In a few minutes he reappeared, with Mr. Lincoln on his arm;
the two took seats side-by-side, and the carriage rolled away, followed
by a rather disorderly and certainly not very imposing procession. I had
ample time to walk to the Capitol, and no difficulty in securing a place
where everything could be seen and heard to the best advantage. The
attendance at the inauguration was, they told me, unusually small,
many being kept away by anticipated disturbance, as it had been
rumored--truly, too--that General Scott himself was fearful of an
outbreak, and had made all possible military preparations to meet the
emergency. A square platform had been built out from the steps to the
eastern portico, with benches for distinguished spectators on three
sides. Douglas, the only one I recognized, sat at the extreme end of the
seat on the right of the narrow passage leading from the steps. There
was no delay, and the gaunt form of the President-elect was soon
visible, slowly making his way to the front. To me, at least, he was
completely metamorphosed--partly by his own fault, and partly through
the efforts of injudicious friends and ambitious tailors. He was raising
(to gratify a very young lady, it is said) a crop of whiskers, of the
blacking-brush variety, coarse, stiff, and ungraceful; and in so doing
spoiled, or at least seriously impaired, a face which, though never
handsome, had in its original state a peculiar power and pathos. On the
present occasion the whiskers were reinforced by brand-new clothes from
top to toe; black dress-coat, instead of the usual frock, black cloth or
satin vest, black pantaloons, and a glossy hat evidently just out of the
box. To cap the climax of novelty, he carried a huge ebony cane, with a
gold head the size of an egg. In these, to him, strange habiliments,
he looked so miserably uncomfortable that I could not help pitying
him. Reaching the platform, his discomfort was visibly increased by not
knowing what to do with hat and cane; and so he stood there, the target
for ten thousand eyes, holding cane in one hand and hat in the other,
the very picture of helpless embarrassment. After some hesitation he
pushed the cane into a corner of the railing, but could not find a place
for the hat except on the floor, where I could see he did not like to
risk it. Douglas, who fully took in the situation, came to rescue of his
old friend and rival, and held the precious hat until the owner needed
it again; a service which, if predicted two years before, would probably
have astonished him. The oath of office was administered by Chief
Justice Taney, whose black robes, attenuated figure, and cadaverous
countenance reminded me of a galvanized corpse. Then the President came
forward, and read his inaugural address in a clear and distinct voice.
It was attentively listened to by all, but the closest listener was
Douglas, who leaned forward as if to catch every word, nodding his head
emphatically at those passages which most pleased him. There was some
applause, not very much nor very enthusiastic. I must not forget to
mention the presence of a Mephistopheles in the person of Senator
Wigfall, of Texas, who stood with folded arms leaning against the
doorway of the Capitol, looking down upon the crowd and the ceremony
with a contemptuous air, which sufficiently indicated his opinion of the
whole performance. To him the Southern Confederacy was already an
accomplished fact. He lived to see it the saddest of fictions."