Lincoln, the President, did not differ greatly from Lincoln the lawyer
and politician. In the latter capacity only had his old friends in
Illinois known him. For a long time after taking his seat they were
curious to know what change, if any, his exalted station had made in
him. He was no longer amid people who had seen him grow from the village
lawyer to the highest rank in the land, and whose hands he could grasp
in the confidence of a time-tried friendship; but now he was surrounded
by wealth, power, fashion, influence, by adroit politicians and artful
schemers of every sort. In the past his Illinois and particularly his
Springfield friends* had shared the anxiety and responsibility of
every step he had made; but now they were no longer to continue in the
partnership. Many of them wanted no office, but all of them felt great
interest as well as pride in his future. A few attempted to keep up a
correspondence with him, but his answers were tardy and irregular.
* Lincoln, even after his elevation to the Presidency,
always had an eye out for his friends, as the following
letters will abundantly prove:
"Executive Mansion, Washington, April 20, 1864.
"Calvin Truesdale, Esq.
"Postmaster, Rock Island, Ill.:
"Thomas J. Pickett, late agent of the Quartermaster's
Department for the Island of Rock Island, has been removed
or suspended from that position on a charge of having sold
timber and stone from the island for his private benefit.
Mr. Pickett is an old acquaintance and friend of mine, and I
will thank you, if you will, to set a day or days and place
on and at which to take testimony on the point. Notify Mr.
Pickett and one J. B. Danforth (who as I understand makes
the charge) to be present with their witnesses. Take the
testimony in writing offered by both sides, and report it in
full to me. Please do this for me.
"Yours truly,
"A. Lincoln."
The man Pickett was formerly the editor of a newspaper in
northern Illinois, and had, to use an expression of later
days, inaugurated in the columns of his paper Lincoln's boom
for the Presidency. When he afterwards fell under suspicion,
no one came to his rescue sooner than the President himself.
The following letter needs no explanation:
"Executive Mansion, Washington, August 27, 1862.
"Hon. Wash. Talcott.
"My Dear Sir:--I have determined to appoint you collector. I
now have a very special request to make of you, which is,
that you will make no war upon Mr. Washburne, who is also my
friend, and of longer standing than yourself. I will even be
obliged if you can do something for him if occasion
presents.
"Yours truly,
"A. Lincoln."
Mr. Talcott, to whom it was addressed, was furnished a
letter of introduction by the President, as follows:
"The Secretary of the Treasury and the Commissioner of
Internal Revenue will please see Mr. Talcott, one of the
best men there is, and, if any difference, one they would
like better than they do me.
"A. Lincoln."
August 18, 1862.
Because he did not appoint a goodly portion of his early associates
to comfortable offices, and did not interest himself in the welfare of
everyone whom he had known in Illinois, or met while on the circuit, the
erroneous impression grew that his elevation had turned his head. There
was no foundation for such an unwarranted conclusion. Lincoln had not
changed a particle. He was overrun with duties and weighted down with
cares; his surroundings were different and his friends were new, but
he himself was the same calm, just, and devoted friend as of yore. His
letters were few and brief, but they showed no lack of gratitude or
appreciation, as the following one to me will testify:
"Executive Mansion, February 3, 1862.
"Dear William:
"Yours of January 30th is just received. Do just as you say about the
money matters. As you well know, I have not time enough to write a
letter of respectable length. God bless you, says
"Your friend,
"A. Lincoln."*
* On February 19,1863, I received this despatch from Mr.
Lincoln:
"Would you accept a job of about a month's duration, at St
Louis, $5 a day and mileage. Answer.
"A. Lincoln."
His letters to others were of the same warm and generous tenor, but
yet the foolish notion prevailed that he had learned to disregard the
condition and claims of his Springfield friends. One of the latter who
visited Washington returned somewhat displeased because Mr. Lincoln
failed to inquire after the health and welfare of each one of his old
neighbors. The report spread that he cared nothing for his home or the
friends who had made him what he was. Those who entertained this opinion
of the man forgot that he was not exactly the property of Springfield
and Illinois, but the President of all the States in the Union.*
In this connection it may not be out of order to refer briefly to the
settlement by Mr. Lincoln of the claims his leading Illinois friends had
on him. As before observed his own election to the Presidency cancelled
Illinois as a factor in the cabinet problem, but in no wise disposed of
the friends whom the public expected and whom he himself intended
should be provided for. Of these latter the oldest and most zealous and
effective was David Davis.** It is not extravagance, taking their
long association together in mind, to say that Davis had done more for
Lincoln than any dozen other friends he had. Of course, after Lincoln
was securely installed in office, the people, especially in Illinois,
awaited his recognition of Davis. What was finally done is minutely told
in a letter by Leonard Swett, which it is proper here to insert:
* The following letter from a disappointed Illinois friend
will serve to illustrate the perplexities that beset Lincoln
in disposing of the claims of personal friendship. It was
written by a man of no inconsiderable reputation in
Illinois, where he at one time filled a State office:
"Lincoln is a singular man, and I must confess I never knew
him. He has for twenty years past used me as a plaything to
accomplish his own ends; but the moment he was elevated to
his proud position he seems all at once to have entirely
changed his whole nature and become altogether a new being.
He knows no one, and the road to his favor is always open to
his enemies, while the door is hermetically sealed to his
old friends."
** "I had done Lincoln many, many favors, had electioneered
for him, spent my money for him, worked and toiled for
him."--David Davis, statement, September 20, 1866.
"Chicago, Ill., August 29,1887.
"William H. Herndon.
"My Dear Sir:--Your inquiry in reference to the circumstances of the
appointment of David Davis as one of the Justices of the Supreme Court
reached me last evening. In reply I beg leave to recall the fact, that
in 1860 the politicians of Illinois were divided into three divisions,
which were represented in the Decatur convention by the votes on the
nomination for Governor. The largest vote was for Norman B. Judd, of
Chicago, his strength in the main being the northern part of the State.
I was next in order of strength, and Richard Yates the third, but
the divisions were not materially unequal. The result was Yates was
nominated, his strength being about Springfield and Jacksonville,
extending to Quincy on the west, and mine was at Bloomington and
vicinity and south and southeast.
"These divisions were kept up awhile after Mr. Lincoln's election, and
were considered in the distribution of Federal patronage. A vacancy in
the United States Senate occurred early in 1861 by the death of Stephen
A. Douglas, and Governor Yates appointed Oliver H. Browning, of Quincy,
to fill the vacancy. There was also a vacancy upon the Supreme Bench of
the United States to be filled from this general vicinity by Mr.
Lincoln in the early part of his administration, and Judge Davis,
of Bloomington, and Mr. Browning, of Quincy, were aspirants for the
position. Mr. Browning had the advantage that Lincoln was new in his
seat, and Senators were august personages; and, being in the Senate and
a most courteous and able gentleman, Mr. Browning succeeded in securing
nearly all the senatorial strength, and Mr. Lincoln was nearly swept off
his feet by the current of influence. Davis' supporters were the circuit
lawyers mainly in the eastern and central part of the State. These
lawyers were at home, and their presence was not a living force felt
constantly by the President at Washington.
"I was then living at Bloomington, and met Judge Davis every day. As
months elapsed we used to get word from Washington in reference to the
condition of things; finally, one day the word came that Lincoln had
said, 'I do not know what I may do when the time comes, but there
has never been a day when if I had to act I should not have appointed
Browning.' Judge Davis, General Orme, and myself held a consultation
in my law-office at Bloomington. We decided that the remark was too
Lincolnian to be mistaken and no man but he could have put the situation
so quaintly. We decided also that the appointment was gone, and sat
there glum over the situation. I finally broke the silence, saying
in substance, 'The appointment is gone and I am going to pack my
carpet-sack for Washington.' 'No, you are not,' said Davis. 'Yes, I am,'
was my reply. 'Lincoln is being swept off his feet by the influence of
these Senators, and I will have the luxury of one more talk with him
before he acts.'
"I did go home, and two days thereafter, in the morning about seven
o'clock--for I knew Mr. Lincoln's habits well--was at the White House
and spent most of the forenoon with him. I tried to impress upon him
that he had been brought into prominence by the Circuit Court lawyers
of the old eighth Circuit, headed by Judge Davis. 'If,' I said. 'Judge
Davis, with his tact and force, had not lived, and all other things
had been as they were, I believe you would not now be sitting where you
are.' He replied gravely, 'Yes, that is so.' 'Now it is a common law
of mankind,' said I, 'that one raised into prominence is expected to
recognize the force that lifts him, or, if from a pinch, the force that
lets him out. The Czar Nicholas was once attacked by an assassin; a
kindly hand warded off the blow and saved his life. The Czar hunted out
the owner of that hand and strewed his pathway with flowers through
life. The Emperor Napoleon III. has hunted out everybody who even tossed
him a biscuit in his prison at Ham and has made him rich. Here is Judge
Davis, whom you know to be in every respect qualified for this position,
and you ought in justice to yourself and public expectation to give him
this place.' We had an earnest pleasant forenoon, and I thought I had
the best of the argument, and I think he thought so too.
"I left him and went to Willard's Hotel to think over the interview, and
there a new thought struck me. I therefore wrote a letter to Mr. Lincoln
and returned to the White House. Getting in, I read it to him and left
it with him. It was, in substance, that he might think if he gave Davis
this place the latter when he got to Washington would not give him any
peace until he gave me a place equally as good; that I recognized the
fact that he could not give this place to Davis, which would be charged
to the Bloomington faction in our State politics, and then give
me anything I would have and be just to the party there; that this
appointment, if made, should kill 'two birds with one stone;' that I
would accept it as one-half for me and one-half for the Judge; and that
thereafter, if I or any of my friends ever troubled him, he could draw
that letter as a plea in bar on that subject. As I read it Lincoln said,
'If you mean that among friends as it reads I will take it and make the
appointment.' He at once did as he said.
"He then made a request of the Judge after his appointment in reference
to a clerk in his circuit, and wrote him a notice of the appointment,
which Davis received the same afternoon I returned to Bloomington.
"Judge Davis was about fifteen years my senior. I had come to his
circuit at the age of twenty-four, and between him and Lincoln I had
grown up leaning in hours of weakness on their own great arms for
support. I was glad of the opportunity to put in the mite of my claims
upon Lincoln and give it to Davis, and have been glad I did it every day
since.
"An unknown number of people have almost every week since, speaking
perhaps extravagantly, asked me in a quasi-confidential manner, 'How
was it that you and Lincoln were so intimate and he never gave you
anything?' I have generally said, 'It seems to me that is my question,
and so long as I don't complain I do not see why you should.' I may
be pardoned also for saying that I have not considered every man not
holding an office out of place in life. I got my eyes open on this
subject before I got an office, and as in Washington I saw the
Congressman in decline I prayed that my latter end might not be like
his.
"Yours truly,
"Leonard Swett."
Before his departure for Washington, Mr. Lincoln had on several
occasions referred in my presence to the gravity of the national
questions that stared him in the face; yet from what he said I caught no
definite idea of what his intentions were. He told me he would rely upon
me to keep him informed of the situation about home, what his friends
were saying of him, and whether his course was meeting with their
approval. He suggested that I should write him frequently, and that
arrangements would be made with his private secretary, Mr. Nicolay, that
my letters should pass through the latter's hands unopened. This plan
was adhered to, and I have every reason now to believe that all my
letters to Lincoln, although they contained no great secrets of state,
passed unread into his hands. I was what the newspaper men would call
a "frequent contributor." I wrote oftener than he answered, sometimes
remitting him his share of old fees, sometimes dilating on national
affairs, but generally confining myself to local politics and news in
and around Springfield. I remember of writing him two copious letters,
one on the necessity of keeping up the draft, the other admonishing
him to hasten his Proclamation of Emancipation. In the latter I was
especially fervid, assuring, him if he emancipated the slaves, he could
"go down the other side of life filled with the consciousness of duty
well done, and along a pathway blazing with eternal glory." How my
rhetoric or sentiments struck him I never learned, for in the rush of
executive business he never responded to either of the letters. Late in
the summer of 1861, as elsewhere mentioned in these chapters, I made my
first and only visit to Washington while he was President. My mission
was intended to promote the prospects of a brother-in-law, Charles
W. Chatterton, who desired to lay claim to an office in the Bureau
of Indian Affairs. Mr. Lincoln accompanied me to the office of
the Commissioner of Indian Affairs,--William P. Dole of Paris,
Illinois,--told a good story, and made the request which secured the
coveted office--an Indian agency--in an amazingly short time. This
was one of the few favors I asked of Mr. Lincoln, and he granted it
"speedily--without delay; freely--without purchase; and fully--without
denial." I remained in Washington for several days after this, and,
notwithstanding the pressure of business, he made me spend a good
portion of the time at the White House. One thing he could scarcely
cease from referring to was the persistence of the office-seekers. They
slipped in, he said, through the half-opened doors of the Executive
Mansion; they dogged his steps if he walked; they edged their way
through the crowds and thrust their papers in his hands when he rode;*
and, taking it all in all, they well-nigh worried him to death.
* He said that one day, as he was passing down Pennsylvania
avenue, a man came running after him, hailed him, and thrust
a bundle of papers in his hands. It angered him not a
little, and he pitched the papers back, saying, "I'm not
going to open shop here."
He said that, if the Government passed through the Rebellion without
dismemberment, there was the strongest danger of its falling a prey
to the rapacity of the office-seeking class. "This human struggle and
scramble for office," were his words, "for a way to live without work,
will finally test the strength of our institutions." A good part of the
day during my stay I would spend with him in his office or waiting-room.
I saw the endless line of callers, and met the scores of dignitaries
one usually meets at the White House, even now; but nothing took place
worthy of special mention here. One day Horace Maynard and Andrew
Johnson, both senators from Tennessee, came in arm-in-arm. They declined
to sit down, but at once set to work to discuss with the President his
recent action in some case in which they were interested. Maynard seemed
very earnest in what he said. "Beware, Mr. President," he said, "and
do not go too fast. There is danger ahead," "I know that," responded
Lincoln, good-naturedly, "but I shall go just so fast and only so fast
as I think I'm right and the people are ready for the step." Hardly
half-a-dozen words followed, when the pair wheeled around and walked
away. The day following I left Washington for home. I separated from Mr.
Lincoln at the White House. He followed me to the rear portico, where I
entered the carriage to ride to the railroad depot. He grasped me warmly
by the hand and bade me a fervent "Good-bye." It was the last time I
ever saw him alive.
Mrs. Ninian Edwards, who, it will be remembered, was the sister of Mrs.
Lincoln, some time before her death furnished me an account of her visit
to Washington, some of the incidents of which are so characteristic
that I cannot refrain from giving them room here. This lady, without
endeavoring to suppress mention of her sister's many caprices and
eccentricities while mistress of the White House, remarked that, having
been often solicited by the Lincolns to visit them, she and her husband,
in answer to the cordial invitation, at last made the journey to
Washington, "One day while there," she relates, "in order to calm his
mind, to turn his attention away from business and cheer him up, I took
Mr. Lincoln down through the conservatory belonging to the Executive
Mansion, and showed him the world of flowers represented there. He
followed me patiently through. 'How beautiful these flowers are! how
gorgeous these roses! Here are exotics,' I exclaimed, in admiration,
'gathered from the remotest corners of the earth, and grand beyond
description.' A moody silence followed, broken finally by Mr. Lincoln
with this observation: 'Yes, this whole thing looks like spring; but do
you know I have never been in here before. I don't know why it is so,
but I never cared for flowers; I seem to have no taste, natural or
acquired, for such things.' I induced him one day," continued Mrs.
Edwards, "to walk to the Park north of the White House. He hadn't been
there, he said, for a year. On such occasions, when alone or in the
company of a close friend, and released from the restraint of his
official surroundings, he was wont to throw from his shoulders many a
burden. He was a man I loved and respected. He was a good man, an honest
and true one. Much of his seeming disregard, which has been tortured
into ingratitude, was due to his peculiar construction. His habits, like
himself, were odd and wholly irregular. He would move around in a
vague, abstracted way, as if unconscious of his own or any one
else's existence. He had no expressed fondness for anything, and ate
mechanically. I have seen him sit down at the table absorbed in thought,
and never, unless recalled to his senses, would he think of food. But,
however peculiar and secretive he may have seemed, he was anything but
cold. Beneath what the world saw lurked a nature as tender and poetic
as any I ever knew. The death of his son Willie, which occurred in
Washington, made a deep impression on him. It was the first death in
his family, save an infant who died a few days after its birth in
Springfield. On the evening we strolled through the Park he spoke of it
with deep feeling, and he frequently afterward referred to it. When I
announced my intention of leaving Washington he was much affected at the
news of my departure. We were strolling through the White House grounds,
when he begged me with tears in his eyes to remain longer. 'You have
such strong control and such an influence over Mary,' he contended,
'that when troubles come you can console me.' The picture of the man's
despair never faded from my vision. Long after my return to Springfield,
on reverting to the sad separation, my heart ached because I was unable
in my feeble way to lighten his burden."
In the summer of 1866 I wrote to Mrs. Lincoln, then in Chicago, asking
for a brief account of her own and her husband's life or mode of living
while at the White House. She responded as follows: *
* From MSS. in Author's possession.
"375 West Washington Street, Chicago, Ill., August 28, 1866.
"Hon. Wm. H. Herndon.
"My Dear Sir:--Owing to Robert's absence from Chicago your last letter
to him was only shown me last evening. The recollection of my beloved
husband's truly affectionate regard for you, and the knowledge of your
great love and reverence for the best man that ever lived, would of
itself cause you to be cherished with the sincerest regard by my sons
and myself. In my overwhelming bereavement those who loved my idolized
husband aside from disinterested motives are very precious to me and
mine. My grief has been so uncontrollable that, in consequence, I have
been obliged to bury myself in solitude, knowing that many whom I would
see could not fully enter into the state of my feelings. I have been
thinking for some time past I would like to see you and have a long
conversation. I wish to know if you will be in Springfield next
Wednesday week, September 4; if so, at ten o'clock in the morning you
will find me at the St. Nicholas Hotel. Please mention this visit to
Springfield to no one. It is a most sacred one, as you may suppose, to
visit the tomb which contains my all in life--my husband. If it will not
be convenient, or if business at the time specified should require your
absence, should you visit Chicago any day this week I will be pleased to
see you. I remain,
"Very truly,
"Mary Lincoln."
I met Mrs. Lincoln at the hotel in Springfield according to appointment.
Our interview was somewhat extended in range, but none the less
interesting. Her statement made at the time now lies before me. "My
husband intended," she said, "when he was through with his Presidential
term, to take me and our boys with him to Europe. After his return from
Europe he intended to cross the Rocky Mountains and go to California,
where the soldiers were to be digging out gold to pay the national debt.
During his last days he and Senator Sumner became great friends, and
were closely attached to each other. They were down the river after
Richmond was taken--were full of joy and gladness at the thought of the
war being over. Up to 1864 Mr. Lincoln wanted to live in Springfield, and
if he died be buried there also; but after that and only a short time
before his death he changed his mind slightly, but never really settled
on any particular place. The last time I remember of his referring to
the matter he said he thought it would be good for himself and me to
spend a year or more travelling. As to his nature, he was the kindest
man, most tender husband, and loving father in the world. He gave us all
unbounded liberty, saying to me always when I asked for anything,
'You know what you want, go and get it,' and never asking if it were
necessary. He was very indulgent to his children. He never neglected
to praise them for any of their good acts. He often said, 'It is my
pleasure that my children are free and happy, and unrestrained by
parental tyranny. Love is the chain whereby to bind a child to its
parents.'
"My husband placed great reliance on my knowledge of human nature, often
telling me, when about to make some important appointment, that he had
no knowledge of men and their motives. It was his intention to remove
Seward as soon as peace with the South was declared. He greatly disliked
Andrew Johnson. Once the latter, when we were in company, followed
us around not a little. It displeased Mr. Lincoln so much he turned
abruptly and asked, loud enough to be heard by others, 'Why is this man
forever following me?' At another time, when we were down at City Point,
Johnson, still following us, was drunk. Mr. Lincoln in desperation
exclaimed, 'For God's sake don't ask Johnson to dine with us, Sumner,
who was along, joined in the request. Mr. Lincoln was mild in his
manners, but he was a terribly firm man when he set his foot down. None
of us, no man or woman, could rule him after he had once fully made up
his mind. I could always tell when in deciding anything he had reached
the ultimatum. At first he was very cheerful, then he lapsed into
thoughtfulness, bringing his lips together in a firm compression. When
these symptoms developed I fashioned myself accordingly, and so did all
others have to do sooner or later. When we first went to Washington
many thought Mr. Lincoln was weak, but he rose grandly with the
circumstances. I told him once of the assertion I had heard coming from
the friends of Seward, that the latter was the power behind the
throne; that he could rule him. He replied, 'I may not rule myself,
but certainly Seward shall not. The only ruler I have is my
conscience--following God in it--and these men will have to learn that
yet.'
"Some of the newspaper attacks on him gave him great pain. I sometimes
read them to him, but he would beg me to desist, saying, 'I have enough
to bear now, but yet I care nothing for them. If I'm right I'll live,
and if wrong I'll die anyhow; so let them fight at me unrestrained.' My
playful response would be, 'The way to learn is to hear both sides.' I
once assured him Chase and certain others who were scheming to supplant
him ought to be restrained in their evil designs. 'Do good to them
who hate you,' was his generous answer, 'and turn their ill-will into
friendship.'
"I often told Mr. Lincoln that God would not let any harm come of
him. We had passed through four long years--terrible and bloody
years--unscathed, and I believed we would be released from all danger.
He gradually grew into that belief himself, and the old gloomy notion
of his unavoidable taking-off was becoming dimmer as time passed away.
Cheerfulness merged into joyfulness. The skies cleared, the end of
the war rose dimly into view when the great blow came and shut him out
forever."
For a glimpse of Lincoln's habits while a resident of Washington and
an executive officer, there is no better authority than John Hay, who
served as one of his secretaries. In 1866, Mr. Hay, then a member of the
United States Legation in Paris, wrote me an interesting account,
which so faithfully delineates Lincoln in his public home that I cannot
refrain from quoting it entire. Although the letter was written in
answer to a list of questions I asked, and was prepared without any
attempt at arrangement, still it is none the less interesting. "Lincoln
went to bed ordinarily," it begins, "from ten to eleven o'clock, unless
he happened to be kept up by important news, in which case he would
frequently remain at the War Department till one or two. He rose early.
When he lived in the country at the Soldiers' Home he would be up and
dressed, eat his breakfast (which was extremely frugal, an egg, a piece
of toast, coffee, etc.), and ride into Washington, all before eight
o'clock. In the winter, at the White House, he was not quite so early.
He did not sleep well, but spent a good while in bed. 'Tad' usually
slept with him. He would lie around the office until he fell asleep,
and Lincoln would shoulder him and take him off to bed. He pretended
to begin business at ten o'clock in the morning, but in reality the
ante-rooms and halls were full long before that hour--people anxious to
get the first axe ground. He was extremely unmethodical; it was a four
years' struggle on Nicolay's part and mine to get him to adopt some
systematic rules. He would break through every regulation as fast as
it was made. Anything that kept the people themselves away from him
he disapproved, although they nearly annoyed the life out of him by
unreasonable complaints and requests. He wrote very few letters, and did
not read one in fifty that he received. At first we tried to bring
them to his notice, but at last he gave the whole thing over to me, and
signed, without reading them, the letters I wrote in his name. He wrote
perhaps half-a-dozen a week himself--not more. Nicolay received members
of Congress and other visitors who had business with the Executive
office, communicated to the Senate and House the messages of the
President, and exercised a general supervision over the business. I
opened and read the letters, answered them, looked over the newspapers,
supervised the clerks who kept the records, and in Nicolay's absence
did his work also. When the President had any rather delicate matter to
manage at a distance from Washington he rarely wrote, but sent Nicolay
or me. The House remained full of people nearly all day. At noon the
President took a little lunch--a biscuit, a glass of milk in winter,
some fruit or grapes in summer. He dined between five and six, and
we went off to our dinner also. Before dinner was over, members and
Senators would come back and take up the whole evening. Sometimes,
though rarely, he shut himself up and would see no one. Sometimes he
would run away to a lecture, or concert, or theatre for the sake of a
little rest. He was very abstemious--ate less than any man I know. He
drank nothing but water, not from principle but because he did not
like wine or spirits. Once, in rather dark days early in the war, a
temperance committee came to him and said that the reason we did not win
was because our army drank so much whiskey as to bring the curse of
the Lord upon them. He said it was rather unfair on the part of the
aforesaid curse, as the other side drank more and worse whiskey than
ours did. He read very little. He scarcely ever looked into a newspaper
unless I called his attention to an article on some special subject. He
frequently said, 'I know more about it than any of them.' It is absurd
to call him a modest man. No great man was ever modest. It was his
intellectual arrogance and unconscious assumption of superiority that
men like Chase and Sumner never could forgive. I believe that Lincoln is
well understood by the people; but there is a patent-leather, kid-glove
set who know no more of him than an owl does of a comet blazing into his
blinking eyes.* Their estimates of him are in many causes disgraceful
exhibitions of ignorance and prejudice. Their effeminate natures
shrink instinctively from the contact of a great reality like Lincoln's
character. I consider Lincoln's republicanism incarnate--with all its
faults and all its virtues. As, in spite of some rudeness, republicanism
is the sole hope of a sick world, so Lincoln, with all his foibles, is
the greatest character since Christ."
* Bancroft's eulogy on Lincoln never pleased the latter's
lifelong friends--those who knew him so thoroughly and well.
February 16, 1866, David Davis, who had heard it, wrote me:
"You will see Mr. Bancroft's oration before this reaches
you. It is able, but Mr. Lincoln is in the background. His
analysis of Mr. Lincoln's character is superficial. It did
not please me. How did it satisfy you?" On the 22d he again
wrote: "Mr. Bancroft totally misconceived Mr. Lincoln's
character in applying 'unsteadiness' and confusion to it.
Mr. Lincoln grew more steady and resolute, and his ideas
were never confused. If there were any changes in him after
he got here they were for the better. I thought him always
master of his subject. He was a much more self-possessed man
than I thought. He thought for himself, which is a rare
quality nowadays. How could Bancroft know anything about
Lincoln except as he judged of him as the public do? He
never saw him, and is himself as cold as an icicle. I should
never have selected an old Democratic politician, and that
one from Massachusetts, to deliver an eulogy on Lincoln."
In 1863 Mr. Lincoln was informed one morning that among the visitors
in the ante-room of the White House was a man who claimed to be his
relative. He walked out and was surprised to find his boyhood friend
and cousin, Dennis Hanks. The latter had come to see his distinguished
relative on a rather strange mission. A number of persons living in
Coles County, in Illinois, offended at the presence and conduct of a
few soldiers who were at home from the war on furlough at the town of
Charleston, had brought about a riot, in which encounter several of the
latter had been killed. Several of the civilian participants who had
acted as leaders in the strife had been arrested and sent to Fort
McHenry or some other place of confinement equally as far from their
homes. The leading lawyers and politicians of central Illinois were
appealed to, but they and all others who had tried their hands had been
signally unsuccessful in their efforts to secure the release of the
prisoners. Meanwhile some one of a sentimental turn had conceived
the idea of sending garrulous old Dennis Hanks to Washington, fondly
believing that his relationship to the President might in this last
extremity be of some avail. The novelty of the project secured its
adoption by the prisoners' friends, and Dennis, arrayed in a suit of
new clothes, set out for the national capital. I have heard him describe
this visit very minutely. How his appearance in Washington and his
mission struck Mr. Lincoln can only be imagined. The President, after
listening to him and learning the purpose of his visit, retired to
an adjoining room and returned with an extremely large roll of papers
labelled, "The Charleston Riot Case," which he carefully untied and
gravely directed his now diplomatic cousin to read. Subsequently, and as
if to continue the joke, he sent him down to confer with the Secretary
of War. He soon returned from the latter's office with the report that
the head of the War Department could not be found; and it was well
enough that he did not meet that abrupt and oftentimes demonstrative
official. In the course of time, however, the latter happened in at the
Executive Mansion, and there, in the presence of Dennis, the President
sought to reopen the now noted Charleston case. Adopting Mr. Hanks'
version, the Secretary, with his characteristic plainness of speech,
referring to the prisoners, declared that "every d-d one of them should
be hung." Even the humane and kindly enquiry of the President, "If these
men should return home and become good citizens, who would be hurt?"
failed to convince the distinguished Secretary that the public good
could be promoted by so doing. The President not feeling willing to
override the judgment of his War Secretary in this instance, further
consideration of the case ceased, and his cousin returned to his home in
Illinois with his mission unaccomplished.*
* The subsequent history of these riot cases I believe is
that the prisoners were returned to Illinois to be tried in
the State courts there; and that by successive changes of
venue and continuances the cases were finally worn out.
Dennis retained a rather unfavorable impression of Mr. Stanton, whom he
described as a "frisky little Yankee with a short coat-tail." "I asked
Abe," he said to me once, "why he didn't kick him out. I told him he was
too fresh altogether."
Lincoln's answer was, "If I did, Dennis, it would be difficult to find
another man to fill his place." The President's cousin * sat in the
office during the endless interviews that take place between the head of
the nation and the latter's loyal subjects. He saw modesty and obscurity
mingling with the arrogance of pride and distinction. One day an
attractive and handsomely dressed woman called to procure the release
from prison of a relative in whom she professed the deepest interest.
She was a good talker, and her winning ways seemed to be making a deep
impression on the President. After listening to her story he wrote a few
lines on a card, enclosing it in an envelope and directing her to take
it to the Secretary of War. Before sealing it he showed it to Dennis. It
read: "This woman, dear Stanton, is a little smarter than she looks to
be." She had, woman-like, evidently overstated her case. Before night
another woman called, more humble in appearance, more plainly clad.
It was the old story. Father and son both in the army, the former in
prison. Could not the latter be discharged from the army and sent home
to help his mother? A few strokes of the pen, a gentle nod of the head,
and the little woman, her eyes filling with tears and expressing a
grateful acknowledgment her tongue could not utter, passed out.
* During this visit Mr. Lincoln presented Dennis with a
silver watch, which the latter still retains as a memento
alike of the donor and his trip to Washington.