Such letters are very seldom written by the rulers of nations to the commanders of their armies. Confirming the obligation, and as a reward for the victories of Donelson, Vicksburg, and Chattanooga, the President recommended the revival of the rank of lieutenant-general, which had been conferred only upon Washington and Scott. His recommendation was adopted by Congress, Grant was called to Washington, and at a public reception at the White House on March 8, 1864, he met Lincoln for the first time. On the following day he was formally invested with his new rank and authority by the President in the presence of the Cabinet and several civil and military officials. It was not often that such formalities occurred at the capital of the simple republic. Lincoln was very much averse to formalities of all kinds. His democratic spirit led him to avoid parade, but here was an occasion which his political instincts taught him might be used to impress the country; hence the unusual ceremony was arranged.

General Grant did not reach Washington until the early evening of March 8, 1864, and the reception at the White House began at eight o'clock. A message from the White House notified him that the President desired his attendance if he was not too tired by his journey; so, immediately after his arrival he took a hasty supper, changed his travel-worn uniform for a fresh one, and, in company with an aide-de-camp, reached the White House about half-past nine o'clock. The cheers that greeted him as he was recognized by the crowd about the portico reached the President's ears, but that was the only announcement of the approach of the latest popular hero. General Grant took his place in line with the other guests and slowly passed through the corridor and anteroom to the door of the Blue Parlor where the President stood, with Mrs. Lincoln and the ladies of the Cabinet at his side, receiving his guests and shaking hands with them as they passed before him. He recognized Grant without an introduction, being familiar with his portraits, and these two remarkable men gazed into each other's eyes in an inquiring way for a moment, while the people watched them with absorbing interest. After exchanging the ordinary phrases of greeting, the President introduced General Grant to Mr. Seward, and the latter led him into the East Room, where he was received with cheer after cheer, and, blushing with embarrassment, was compelled to stand upon a sofa where people could see him, because he was so short of stature that he was hidden in the throng.

The President asked Grant to remain after the close of the reception, and they had a long conference. As Grant was leaving the White House the President explained to him the reasons for the formality that would be observed in presenting his commission as lieutenant-general on the following day.

"I shall make a very short speech to you," said he, "to which I desire that you should make a brief reply for an object; and that you may be properly prepared to do so I have written what I shall say, only four sentences in all, which I will read from my manuscript as an example which you may follow, and also read your reply, as you are perhaps not so much accustomed to public speaking as I am, and I therefore give you what I shall say so that you may consider it. There are two points that I would like to have you make in your answer: first, to say something which shall prevent or obviate any jealousy of you from any of the other generals in the service; and, second, something which shall put you on as good terms as possible with the Army of the Potomac. If you see any objection to this, be under no restraint whatever in expressing that objection to the Secretary of War."

General Grant and Mr. Stanton left the White House together. The next day, at one o'clock, in presence of the Cabinet, General Halleck, two members of Grant's staff, and the President's private secretary, the commission of lieutenant-general was formally delivered by the President. Mr. Lincoln said,—

"General Grant, the nation's appreciation of what you have done, and its reliance upon you for what remains to do in the existing great struggle, are now presented, with this commission constituting you Lieutenant-General in the army of the United States. With this high honor devolves upon you, also, a corresponding responsibility. As the country herein trusts you, so, under God, it will sustain you. I scarcely need to add that with what I here speak for the nation goes my own hearty personal concurrence."

The general had written his speech on half of a sheet of note-paper, in lead-pencil, but when he came to read it he was as embarrassed as Washington was when the House of Burgesses at Williamsburg tendered him its thanks after the Braddock campaign. He found his own writing very difficult to read, but what he said could hardly have been improved:

"Mr. President, I accept this commission with gratitude for the high honor conferred. With the aid of the noble armies that have fought on so many fields for our common country, it will be my earnest endeavor not to disappoint your expectation. I feel the full weight of the responsibilities now devolving on me, and I know that, if they are met, it will be due to those armies and, above all, to the favor of that Providence which leads both nations and men."

It will be observed that Grant did not comply with the request of the President, and his speech contains no reference to the subject to which the President alluded on the previous evening. Grant never offered an explanation and Lincoln never asked one. Some writers have advanced the theory that Secretary Stanton, who often differed from the President in regard to little matters, advised Grant not to refer to such delicate subjects, but it is more probable that, with his distrust of politicians and his fear of becoming complicated with them as McClellan and others had been, the wary warrior thought it wise to be entirely non-committal. Before leaving his head-quarters in the West, Grant had written Sherman, "I shall say very distinctly on my arrival there [Washington] that I shall accept no appointment which will require me to make that city my head-quarters," and Sherman had urged him to stand by that resolution: "Do not stay in Washington. Halleck is better qualified than you to stand the buffets of intrigue and politics."

After the presentation ceremonies the President and Grant retired together, and the latter inquired what was expected of him. Lincoln answered that he was expected to take Richmond; that every one who had tried it so far had failed, and he asked Grant point-blank if he thought he could do it. With the same directness and simplicity Grant answered that he could if he had the troops. The President assured him that he should have all the troops he needed and that he would not be interfered with in the management of the campaign. Grant himself says, "I did not communicate my plans to the President, nor did I to the Secretary of War, nor to General Halleck;" and the President wrote him that he neither knew nor wished to know his plan of operations, but wanted to tender his good wishes and promise every aid which the government could furnish. "If the results shall be less favorable than I hope and the government expects," he said, "the fault will not be the fault of the administration." Under those circumstances Grant assumed command of the army, and from that time President Lincoln felt himself relieved from the responsibility of planning and directing military movements.

After making an inspection of the army, Grant returned to Washington, had another conference with President Lincoln, established his head-quarters at Culpeper, and prepared for active operations. On April 30, 1864, the President sent him the following candid letter:

"Not expecting to see you again before the spring campaign opens, I wish to express in this way my entire satisfaction with what you have done up to this time, so far as I understand it. The particulars of your plan I neither know nor seek to know. You are vigilant and self-reliant; and, pleased with this, I wish not to obtrude any constraints or restraints upon you. While I am very anxious that any great disaster or capture of our men in great numbers shall be avoided, I know these points are less likely to escape your attention than they would be mine. If there is anything wanting which is within my power to give, do not fail to let me know it. And now, with a brave army and a just cause, may God sustain you."

Grant's immediate reply confessed the groundlessness of his apprehensions:

"From my first entrance into the volunteer service of the country to the present day, I have never had cause of complaint—have never expressed or implied a complaint against the administration, or the Secretary of War, for throwing any embarrassment in the way of my vigorously prosecuting what appeared to me my duty. Indeed, since the promotion which placed me in command of all the armies, and in view of the great responsibility and importance of success, I have been astonished at the readiness with which everything asked for has been yielded, without even an explanation being asked. Should my success be less than I desire and expect, the least I can say is, the fault is not with you."

In his reminiscences, General Grant says, "Just after receiving my commission as lieutenant-general, the President called me aside to speak to me privately. After a brief reference to the military situation, he said he thought he could illustrate what he wanted to say by a story, which he related as follows: 'At one time there was a great war among the animals, and one side had great difficulty in getting a commander who had sufficient confidence in himself. Finally, they found a monkey, by the name of Jocko, who said that he thought he could command their army if his tail could be made a little longer. So they got more tail and spliced it on to his caudal appendage. He looked at it admiringly, and then thought he ought to have a little more still. This was added, and again he called for more. The splicing process was repeated many times, until they had coiled Jocko's tail around the room, filling all the space. Still he called for more tail, and, there being no other place to coil it, they began wrapping it around his shoulders. He continued his call for more, and they kept on winding the additional tail about him until its weight broke him down.' I saw the point, and, rising from my chair, replied, 'Mr. President, I will not call for more assistance unless I find it impossible to do with what I already have.'

"Upon one occasion," continued Grant, "when the President was at my head-quarters at City Point, I took him to see the work that had been done on the Dutch Gap Canal. After taking him around and showing him all the points of interest, explaining how, in blowing up one portion of the work that was being excavated, the explosion had thrown the material back into, and filled up, a part already completed, he turned to me and said, 'Grant, do you know what this reminds me of? Out in Springfield, Illinois, there was a blacksmith named ——. One day, when he did not have much to do, he took a piece of soft iron that had been in his shop for some time, and for which he had no special use, and, starting up his fire, began to heat it. When he got it hot he carried it to the anvil and began to hammer it, rather thinking he would weld it into an agricultural implement. He pounded away for some time until he got it fashioned into some shape, when he discovered that the iron would not hold out to complete the implement he had in mind. He then put it back into the forge, heated it up again, and recommenced hammering, with an ill-defined notion that he would make a claw hammer, but after a time he came to the conclusion that there was more iron there than was needed to form a hammer. Again he heated it, and thought he would make an axe. After hammering and welding it into shape, knocking the oxidized iron off in flakes, he concluded there was not enough of the iron left to make an axe that would be of any use. He was now getting tired and a little disgusted at the result of his various essays. So he filled his forge full of coal, and, after placing the iron in the centre of the heap, took the bellows and worked up a tremendous blast, bringing the iron to a white heat. Then with his tongs he lifted it from the bed of coals, and thrusting it into a tub of water near by, exclaimed with an oath, "Well, if I can't make anything else of you, I will make a fizzle, anyhow."'"

A friend once asked Lincoln whether the story was true that he had inquired where General Grant got his liquor, so that he might send a barrel to each of his other generals. Lincoln replied that the story originated in King George's time. When General Wolfe was accused of being mad, the King replied, "I wish he would bite some of my other generals."

At the dedication of the Lincoln monument at Springfield, October 15, 1874, General Grant said, "From March, 1864, to the day when the hand of the assassin opened a grave for Mr. Lincoln, then President of the United States, my personal relations with him were as close and intimate as the nature of our respective duties would permit. To know him personally was to love and respect him for his great qualities of heart and head and for his patience and patriotism. With all his disappointments from failures on the part of those to whom he had intrusted commands, and treachery on the part of those who had gained his confidence but to betray it, I never heard him utter a complaint, nor cast a censure, for bad conduct or bad faith. It was his nature to find excuses for his adversaries. In his death the nation lost its greatest hero; in his death the South lost its most just friend."

These relations thus established were never disturbed. Grant was the first of all the generals in whom the President placed implicit confidence; he was the only one with whom he seemed to feel entirely at ease; and although their communications were frequent and voluminous, there was seldom a difference of opinion. They contain no complaint or reproach, but ring with mutual confidence and appreciation. Seldom have two men of such remarkable character and ability enjoyed such unruffled relations. Military history furnishes no similar instance. Each seemed to measure the other at his full stature and recognize his strength. There were many busybodies carrying tales and striving to excite suspicion and jealousy, but their faith could not be shaken or their confidence impaired. Lincoln's letters to Grant offer a striking contrast to those addressed to Burnside, Hooker, McClellan, and other commanders.

General Ambrose E. Burnside was selected to command the Army of the Potomac after McClellan was relieved November 5, 1862. He was a classmate and intimate friend of his predecessor, handsome, brave, generous, and as modest as McClellan was vain. He not only did not seek the honor, but declined it twice on the ground that he was not competent to command so large an army, but finally accepted the responsibility at the urgent wish of the President, and very soon demonstrated the mistake. His career was as unfortunate as it was brief, but his manly report of the unfortunate battle of Fredericksburg did him great credit, for he assumed all the responsibility for the failure and said nothing but praise of his men.

The President replied by a kind and sympathetic despatch after his failure at Fredericksburg, and fully appreciated his situation. "Although you were not successful," he said, "the attempt was not an error nor the failure other than accident. The courage with which you in an open field maintained the contest against an intrenched foe, and the consummate skill and success with which you crossed and recrossed the river in the face of the enemy, show that you possess all the qualities of a great army, which will yet give victory to the cause of the country and of popular government."

Burnside's confession of failure destroyed the confidence of the army in him, and Burnside realized it. "Doubtless," he said, "this difference of opinion between my general officers and myself results from a lack of confidence in me. In this case it is highly necessary that this army should be commanded by some other officer, to whom I will most cheerfully give way."

The President replied, "I deplore the want of concurrence with you in opinion by your general officers, but I do not see the remedy. Be cautious, and do not understand that the government or the country is driving you. I do not yet see how I could profit by changing the command of the Army of the Potomac, and if I did I would not wish to do it by accepting the resignation of your commission."

Nevertheless, it was futile for the President to pretend that Burnside's usefulness as commander of the army was not at an end, and the latter determined to bring about a crisis himself by recommending for dismissal from the army General Joseph Hooker for "unjust and unnecessary criticisms of the actions of his superior officer.... As unfit to hold an important commission during a crisis like the present when so much patience, charity, confidence, consideration, and patriotism are due from every soldier in the field." Burnside also prepared an order dismissing nine other generals, and with his usual frankness took them to Washington and asked the President's approval. As an alternative he tendered his own resignation. Lincoln realized that a commander who had lost the confidence of his army and the country at large could not restore it by punishing his critics, so, in the most kindly manner, he accepted Burnside's resignation and assigned General Hooker to command. The President was fully aware of Hooker's weakness, and that the latter's conduct and language concerning Burnside and himself had been not only indiscreet and insubordinate, but actually insulting. But he was willing to overlook all that and confer honor and responsibility upon him because he believed in his ability and patriotism, and knew that the soldiers held him in higher esteem than any other general in the East. But accompanying Hooker's commission was a letter which no man but Abraham Lincoln could have written without giving offence, and nothing from the pen of the President at that period of his life better indicates the complete self-control and self-confidence which possessed him.

"I have placed you at the head of the Army of the Potomac," he said. "Of course I have done this upon what appears to me sufficient reason, and yet I think it best for you to know that there are some things in regard to which I am not quite satisfied with you. I believe you to be a brave and skilful soldier, which, of course, I like. I also believe you do not mix politics with your profession, in which you are right. You have confidence in yourself, which is a valuable, if not an indispensable quality. You are ambitious, which, within reasonable bounds, does good rather than harm; but I think that during General Burnside's command of the army you have taken counsel of your ambition and thwarted him as much as you could, in which you did a great wrong to the country and to a most meritorious and honorable brother officer. I have heard, in such a way as to believe it, of your recently saying that both the army and the government needed a dictator. Of course it was not for this, but in spite of it, that I have given you the command. Only those generals who gain successes can set up dictators. What I now ask of you is military success, and I will risk the dictatorship. The government will support you to the utmost of its ability, which is neither more nor less than it has done and will do for all commanders. I much fear that the spirit which you have aided to infuse into the army, of criticising their commander and withholding confidence from him, will now turn upon you. I shall assist you as far as I can to put it down. Neither you nor Napoleon, if he were alive again, could get any good out of an army while such a spirit prevails in it; and now beware of rashness. Beware of rashness, but with energy and sleepless vigilance go forward and give us victories."

General Hooker received this rebuke and admonition in the spirit in which it was offered; he recognized its justice, and endeavored to restore himself in the President's estimation; but his first important movement was defeated by the enemy, and, although it was not so great a disaster as that of Burnside at Fredericksburg, the battle of Chancellorsville, in May, 1863, marked the darkest hour in the Civil War and inspired Lee and the Confederate authorities with confidence of the ultimate success of the rebellion. Mr. W. O. Stoddard, an inmate of the White House at that time, has given us the following picture:

"The darkest hour in the Civil War came in the first week of May, 1863, after the bloody battle of Chancellorsville. The country was weary of the long war, with its draining taxes of gold and blood. Discontent prevailed everywhere, and the opponents of the Lincoln administration were savage in their denunciation. More than a third of each day's mail already consisted of measureless denunciation; another large part was made up of piteous appeals for peace.

"There were callers at the White House. Members of the Senate and House came with gloomy faces; the members of the Cabinet came to consult or condole. The house was like a funeral, and those who entered or left it trod softly for fear they might wake the dead.

"That night the last visitors in Lincoln's room were Stanton and Halleck, and the President was left alone. Not another soul except the one secretary busy with the mail in his room across the hall. The ticking of a clock would have been noticeable; but another sound came that was almost as regular and as ceaseless. It was the tread of the President's feet as he strode slowly back and forth across his chamber. That ceaseless march so accustomed the ear to it that when, a little after twelve, there was a break of several minutes, the sudden silence made one put down his letters and listen.

"The President may have been at his table writing, or he may—no man knows or can guess; but at the end of the minutes, long or short, the tramp began again. Two o'clock and he was walking yet, and when, a little after three, the secretary's task was done and he slipped noiselessly out, he turned at the head of the stairs for a moment. It was so—the last sound he heard as he went down was the footfall in Lincoln's room.

"The young man was there again before eight o'clock. The President's room was open. There sat Lincoln eating his breakfast alone. He had not been out of his room; but there was a kind of cheery, hopeful morning light on his face. He had watched all night, but beside his cup of coffee lay his instructions to General Hooker to push forward. There was a decisive battle won that night in that long vigil with disaster and despair. Only a few weeks later the Army of the Potomac fought it over again as desperately—and they won it—at Gettysburg."

From the time when Hooker took command the President kept closer watch than ever upon the movements of the Army of the Potomac, and his directions were given with greater detail than before. He had no confidence in Hooker's ability to plan, although he felt that he was a good fighter.

Early in June, 1863, Hooker reported his opinion that Lee intended to move on Washington, and asked orders to attack the Confederate rear. To this Lincoln answered in quaint satire, "In case you find Lee coming north of the Rappahannock I would by no means cross to the south of it. If he should leave a rear force at Fredericksburg, tempting you to fall upon it, it would fight you in entrenchments and have you at a disadvantage, while his main force would in some way be getting an advantage of you northward. In one word, I would not take any risk of being entangled upon the river, like an ox would jump half over a fence and be liable to be torn by dogs front and rear, without a fair chance to gore one way or kick the other."

To illustrate how dependent was the commander of the Army of the Potomac upon Lincoln I give another despatch, sent by the President to Hooker when the latter proposed to make a dash upon Richmond while Lee was moving his army westward towards the Shenandoah Valley.

"If left to me, I would not go south of the Rappahannock upon Lee's moving north of it. If you had Richmond invested to-day, you would not be able to take it in twenty days; meanwhile your communications, and with them your army, would be ruined. I think Lee's army, and not Richmond, is your true objective point. If he comes towards the upper Potomac, follow on his flank and on his inside track, shortening your lines while he lengthens his. Fight him, too, when opportunity offers. If he stays where he is, fret him and fret him."

A few days later Lincoln telegraphed Hooker, "If the head of Lee's army is at Martinsburg and the tail of it on the plank road between Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, the animal must be very slim somewhere. Could you not break him?" But Hooker made no attempt to do so, and merely followed Lee northward through Virginia and Maryland into Pennsylvania, keeping on the "inside track," as Mr. Lincoln suggested, between the Confederate army and Washington. Before the battle of Gettysburg, which ended the most aggressive campaign of the Confederates, a long-standing feud between Hooker and Halleck became so acute that the President saw that one or the other of them must be relieved. Hooker, in a fit of irritation because Halleck had declined to comply with some unimportant request, asked to be relieved from the command, and the President selected George G. Meade to succeed him. A few days later the battle of Gettysburg was fought. The vain ambition of Lee and Davis to raise the Confederate flag over Independence Hall and establish the head-quarters of the Confederate government in Philadelphia was dissipated and Lee fell back, leaving two thousand six hundred killed, twelve thousand wounded, and five thousand prisoners.

Lincoln's military instincts taught him that the war could be practically ended there if the advantages gained at Gettysburg were properly utilized, and so implored Meade to renew his attack. But Meade held back, Lee escaped, and for once the President lost his patience. In the intensity of his disappointment he wrote Meade as follows:

"You fought and beat the enemy at Gettysburg, and, of course, his loss was as great as yours. He retreated, and you did not, as it seemed to me, pressingly pursue him; but a flood in the river detained him till, by slow degrees, you were again upon him. You had at least twenty thousand veteran troops directly with you and as many more raw ones within supporting distance, all in addition to those who fought with you at Gettysburg, while it was not possible that he had received a single recruit, and yet you stood and let the flood run down, bridges be built, and the enemy move away at his leisure, without attacking him. Again, my dear general, I do not believe you appreciate the magnitude of the misfortune involved in Lee's escape. He was within your easy grasp, and to have closed upon him would, in connection with our other late successes, have ended the war. As it is, the war will be prolonged indefinitely. If you could not safely attack Lee last Monday, how can you possibly do so south of the river, when you can take with you very few more than two-thirds of the force you then had in hand? I would be unreasonable to expect, and I do not expect (that) you can now effect much. Your golden opportunity is gone, and I am distressed immeasurably because of it."

Before the mails left that night Lincoln's wrath was spent, his amiability was restored, and this letter was never sent.

It is impossible in the limits of this volume to relate the details of the war, but from the detached incidents that have been given, and the narrative of his relations with Scott, McClellan, Frémont, Grant, and other generals referred to in this chapter, the reader may form a clear and accurate conception of Abraham Lincoln's military genius and the unselfish and often ill-advised consideration with which he invariably treated his commanders. During the last year of the war the right men seem to have found the right places, and in all the voluminous correspondence of the President from the White House and the War Department with Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, and Thomas there appears to have been a perfect understanding and complete unity of opinion and purpose between them. He allowed them greater liberty than other commanders had enjoyed, evidently because they had his confidence to a higher degree; he never was compelled to repeat the entreaties, admonitions, and rebukes with which the pages of his correspondence during the earlier part of the war were filled. His relations with Sherman cannot better be defined than by the following brief letter:

"My dear General Sherman: Many, many thanks for your Christmas gift, the capture of Savannah. When you were about leaving Atlanta for the Atlantic coast I was anxious, if not fearful; but feeling that you were the better judge, and remembering that 'nothing risked, nothing gained,' I did not interfere. Now, the undertaking being a success, the honor is all yours, for I believe none of us went farther than to acquiesce. And taking the work of General Thomas into the count, as it should be taken, it is, indeed, a great success. Not only does it afford the obvious and immediate military advantages, but in showing to the world that your army could be divided, putting the stronger part to an important new service, and yet leaving enough to vanquish the old opposing force of the whole—Hood's army—it brings those who sat in darkness to see a great light. But what next? I suppose it will be safe if I leave General Grant and yourself to decide. Please make my grateful acknowledgments to your whole army, officers and men."

Lincoln's relations with Sheridan were limited. They never met but twice, and there was very little correspondence between them, the most notable being the laconic despatch after Sheridan's fight with Ewell at Sailor's Creek, near the Appomattox. That was one of the last blows struck at the Confederacy, and Sheridan, realizing the situation, made a hasty report, ending with the words,—

"If the thing is pressed I think Lee will surrender."

Grant forwarded the despatch to President Lincoln, who instantly replied,—

"Let the thing be pressed."

When he had read the telegram describing Sheridan's last fight with Early in the Shenandoah Valley, he remarked that he once knew a man who loaded a piece of punk with powder, lighted it, clapped it inside a biscuit, and tossed it to a savage dog that was snarling at him. In an instant the dog snapped it up and swallowed it. Presently the fire touched the powder and away went the dog, his head in one place, a leg here and another there, and the different parts scattered all over the country. "And," said the man, "as for the dog, as a dog, I was never able to find him." "And that," remarked the President, "is very much the condition of Early's army, as an army."

President Lincoln's appearance in Richmond after the Confederacy fell to pieces was one of the most dramatic scenes in all history because of its extreme simplicity and the entire absence of rejoicing or parade. There was no triumphant entrance, as the world might have expected when a conqueror occupies the capital of the conquered. Never before or since has an event of such transcendent significance occurred with so little ostentation or ceremony. Lincoln was at City Point, the head-quarters of General Grant, and was lodged upon a little steamer called the "River Queen" when he heard of the capture of Richmond and the fire that consumed a large part of that city. The same day he went up the river without escort of any kind, landed at a wharf near Libby Prison, found a guide among the colored people that were hanging around the place, and walked a mile or more to the centre of the city. The loafers at the wharf soon identified the President and surrounded him, striving to touch the hem of his garment. To protect the President and open a passage for him, Admiral Porter called sailors from his boat, who marched in front and behind him to the town. Lincoln did not realize the danger that surrounded him; he did not remember that he was in the midst of a community with whom he was still at war, or that they held him responsible for the sorrows they had suffered, the distress they had endured, and the destruction of their property. But, although within an hour from the time he landed every man, woman, and child knew of his presence, not a hand was lifted against him, not an unkind word was said; and, after visiting the head-quarters of General Weitzel, who was in command of the Union troops, the Capitol of the State which had been the seat of the Confederate government, the mansion which Jefferson Davis had occupied, Libby Prison, where so many officers had starved and died, and holding two important interviews with John A. Campbell, the Confederate Secretary of War, who had remained in Richmond when the rest of the government fled, he went leisurely back to his boat, returned to the steamer, and sailed for Washington, where, only a few days later, surrounded by his loyal friends and in the midst of an ovation, he was stricken by the bullet of an assassin.

Lincoln's personal courage was demonstrated early in life. He never showed a sense of fear. He never refused a challenge for a trial of strength, nor avoided an adventure that was attended by danger; and while President he had no fear of assassination, although he had many warnings and was quite superstitious. He was accustomed to ridicule the anxiety of his friends, and when the threats of his enemies were repeated to him he changed the subject of conversation. Senator Sumner was one of those who believed that he was in continual danger of assassination, and frequently cautioned him about going out at night. When the Senator's anxiety was referred to by friends one evening, the President said, "Sumner declined to stand up with me, back to back, to see which was the tallest man, and made a fine speech about this being the time for uniting our fronts against the enemy and not our backs. But I guess he was afraid to measure, though he is a good piece of a man. I have never had much to do with bishops where I live, but, do you know? Sumner is my idea of a bishop."

In his reminiscences, General Butler says, "He was personally a very brave man and gave me the worst fright of my life. He came to my head-quarters and said,—

"'General, I should like to ride along your lines and see them, and see the boys and how they are situated in camp.'

"I said, 'Very well, we will go after breakfast.'

"I happened to have a very tall, easy-riding, pacing horse, and, as the President was rather long-legged, I tendered him the use of him while I rode beside him on a pony. He was dressed, as was his custom, in a black suit, a swallow-tail coat, and tall silk hat. As there rode on the other side of him at first Mr. Fox, the Secretary of the Navy, who was not more than five feet six inches in height, he stood out as a central figure of the group. Of course the staff-officers and orderly were behind. When we got to the line of intrenchment, from which the line of rebel pickets was not more than three hundred yards, he towered high above the works, and as we came to the several encampments the boys cheered him lustily. Of course the enemy's attention was wholly directed to this performance, and with the glass it could be plainly seen that the eyes of their officers were fastened upon Lincoln; and a personage riding down the lines cheered by the soldiers was a very unusual thing, so that the enemy must have known that he was there. Both Mr. Fox and myself said to him,—

"'Let us ride on the side next to the enemy, Mr. President. You are in fair rifle-shot of them, and they may open fire; and they must know you, being the only person not in uniform, and the cheering of the troops directs their attention to you.'

"'Oh, no,' he said, laughing; 'the commander-in-chief of the army must not show any cowardice in the presence of his soldiers, whatever he may feel.' And he insisted upon riding the whole six miles, which was about the length of my intrenchments, in that position, amusing himself at intervals, where there was nothing more attractive, in a sort of competitive examination of the commanding general in the science of engineering, much to the amusement of my engineer-in-chief, General Weitzel, who rode on my left, and who was kindly disposed to prompt me while the examination was going on, which attracted the attention of Mr. Lincoln, who said,—

"'Hold on, Weitzel, I can't beat you, but I think I can beat Butler.'

"In the later summer (1863)," continues General Butler, "I was invited by the President to ride with him in the evening out to the Soldiers' Home, some two miles, a portion of the way being quite lonely. He had no guard—not even an orderly on the box. I said to him,—

"'Is it known that you ride thus alone at night out to the Soldiers' Home?'

"'Oh, yes,' he answered, 'when business detains me until night. I do go out earlier, as a rule.'

"I said, 'I think you peril too much. We have passed a half-dozen places where a well-directed bullet might have taken you off.'

"'Oh,' he replied, 'assassination of public officers is not an American crime.'

"When he handed me the commission (as major-general), with some kindly words of compliment, I replied, 'I do not know whether I ought to accept this. I received my orders to prepare my brigade to march to Washington while trying a cause to a jury. I stated the fact to the court and asked that the case might be continued, which was at once consented to, and I left to come here the second morning after, my business in utter confusion.'

"He said, 'I guess we both wish we were back trying cases,' with a quizzical look upon his countenance.

"I said, 'Besides, Mr. President, you may not be aware that I was the Breckenridge candidate for Governor in my State in the last campaign, and did all I could to prevent your election.'

"'All the better,' said he; 'I hope your example will bring many of the same sort with you.'

"'But,' I answered, 'I do not know that I can support the measures of your administration, Mr. President.'

"'I do not care whether you do or not,' was his reply, 'if you will fight for the country.'

"'I will take the commission and loyally serve while I may, and bring it back to you when I can go with you no further.'

"'That is frank; but tell me wherein you think my administration wrong before you resign,' said he. 'Report to General Scott.'

"'Yes, Mr. President, the bounties which are now being paid to new recruits cause very large desertions. Men desert and go home, and get the bounties and enlist in other regiments.'

"'That is too true,' he replied, 'but how can we prevent it?'

"'By vigorously shooting every man who is caught as a deserter until it is found to be a dangerous business.'

"A saddened, weary look came over his face which I had never seen before, and he slowly replied,—

"'You may be right—probably are so; but, God help me! how can I have a butcher's day every Friday in the Army of the Potomac?'"

VII
HOW LINCOLN APPEARED IN THE WHITE HOUSE

There was very little social life in the White House during the Lincoln administration. The President gave a few State dinners each year, such as were required of his official position, held a few public receptions to gratify the curiosity of the Washington people and strangers in the city, and gave one ball which excited much criticism from the religious press and from unfriendly sources. It was represented as a heartless exhibition of frivolity in the midst of dying soldiers and a grief-stricken country, and some people even went so far as to declare the death of Willie Lincoln, about two weeks later, to be a judgment of God upon the President and Mrs. Lincoln for indulging in worldly amusements. These thoughtless writers did not know that during the reception, which was in honor of the diplomatic corps, the President and Mrs. Lincoln both slipped away from their guests to spend a moment at the bedside of their child, who was so ill that the postponement of the entertainment was proposed, but vetoed by the President. The death of this lad was the greatest sorrow that ever fell upon the President's heart.

There was little opportunity for home life at the White House because of the confusion and distraction caused by the war. The President's labors were unceasing. He seldom took exercise or indulged in amusements. Occasionally he attended the theatre when distinguished performers happened to be in Washington, and usually invited them to his box to express his thanks for the pleasure they had afforded him and to ask questions about the play. He was particularly fond of Shakespeare, and attended the presentation of his plays as frequently as his official cares would permit; he found great diversion in their study, and could repeat many passages that he learned from the first copy he had ever seen while yet a clerk in Denton Offutt's store at New Salem. He had his own theories regarding Shakespeare, and when a prominent actor or Shakespearian scholar came his way, invariably discussed with him the Shakespearian mysteries and the original construction of the plays, with which he was very familiar.

He found diversion in comedies, and used to enjoy clever farces as much as any child. He often took his children to performances at the theatre, and their presence doubled his own enjoyment. This was practically his only recreation, except reading Burns, Petroleum V. Nasby, Artemas Ward, Josh Billings, and other comic writers who appealed to his keen sense of the ridiculous and diverted his attention from the cares of state when they were wearing upon him. He was not fond of games, although he sometimes played backgammon with his boys. For a time he practised basket-ball for exercise, but did not enjoy it. He had little out-door life; it was limited to a daily drive to and from the Soldiers' Home or to some military camp. He enjoyed the saddle and was a good rider, although in the long-tailed coat and tall silk hat which he always wore he made a grotesque figure on horseback. He had no taste for hunting or fishing, never smoked, and was very temperate in his habits. He yearned for rest, although his physical strength and endurance were beyond comparison with those of other public men. His labors and sleepless nights would have broken down any other constitution, and he was often weary. One day, during an especially trying period, he lifted his tired eyes from his desk and remarked to his secretary,—

"I wish George Washington or some other old patriot were here to take my place for a while, so that I could have a little rest."

If Lincoln had accepted the advice of his secretaries and his associates he might have spared himself a great deal of labor and annoyance. But he never excused himself from callers in the busiest period of the war; even when hundreds of important duties were pressing upon him, he never denied an attentive ear and a cheerful word. He was a genuine democrat in his feelings and practices, and, regardless of public affairs, listened patiently and considerately to the humblest citizen who called at the White House. One day, when his anteroom was crowded with men and women seeking admission to his presence and he was unusually perplexed by official problems, a friend remarked,—

"Mr. President, you had better send that throng away. You are too tired to see any more people this afternoon. Have them sent away, for you will wear yourself out listening to them."

"They don't want much and they get very little," he replied. "Each one considers his business of great importance, and I must gratify them. I know how I would feel if I were in their place."

At the opening of the administration he was overwhelmed with persistent office-seekers, and so much of his time was occupied in listening to their demands and trying to gratify them that he felt that he was not attending to military affairs and matters of public policy as closely as he should. He compared himself to a man who was so busy letting rooms at one end of his house that he had no time to put out a fire that was destroying the other end. And when he was attacked with the varioloid in 1861 he said to his usher,—

"Tell all the office-seekers to come and see me, for now I have something that I can give them."

He had a remarkable capacity for work and for despatching business. Although deliberation was one of his strongest characteristics, he knew when to act and acted quickly. His brain was as tough and as healthy as his body. His appetite was always good and healthful. He ate sparingly of plain, wholesome food, but had no taste for rich dishes. He was temperate in every way except as concerned his labor, and in that he was tireless. He had the rare and valuable faculty of laying out work for others and being able to give instructions clearly and concisely. He loaded his Cabinet and his secretaries to the limit of their strength, but was always considerate and thoughtful of their comfort. Three of his secretaries lived with him in the White House and usually worked far into the night, and, even after their labors for the day had closed, Lincoln would often wander around barefooted and in his night-shirt, too wakeful to seek his own bed, and read poems from Burns, jokes from Artemas Ward, and the letters of Petroleum V. Nasby to the members of his household.

His sense of humor was his salvation. It was the safety-valve by which his heart was relieved. He was melancholy by nature and inclined to be morbid, and it was this keen enjoyment of the ridiculous that enabled him to endure with patience his official trials and anxiety.

One of the visitors in the early days of the administration says, "He walked into the corridor with us; and, as he bade us good-by and thanked —— for what he had told him, he again brightened up for a moment and asked him in an abrupt kind of way, laying his hand, as he spoke, with a queer but not uncivil familiarity on his shoulder,—

"'You haven't such a thing as a postmaster in your pocket, have you?'

"—— stared at him in astonishment, and I thought a little in alarm, as if he suspected a sudden attack of insanity. Then Mr. Lincoln went on,—

"'You see, it seems to me kind of unnatural that you shouldn't have at least a postmaster in your pocket. Everybody I've seen for days past has had foreign ministers and collectors and all kinds, and I thought you couldn't have got in here without having at least a postmaster get into your pocket.'"

His stories were usually suggested by the conversation or by the situation in which he was placed; but often, in the company of congenial friends, he used to sit back in his chair and indulge in what he called "a good old time;" spinning yarns of his early experiences, describing the characteristics of odd people he had known, and relating amusing incidents that occurred daily, even under the shadows and among the sorrows of war. This habit was the result of his early associations, when the corner store was the club of the frontiersman and the forum for intellectual combats as well as the stage for entertainments. There Lincoln shone as the most brilliant planet that ever illuminated the communities in which he lived, and there he developed the gift which was to afford him so much pleasure and so great relief from oppressing care. He was a poet by nature. He had a deep sentiment and a high appreciation of the beautiful in literature as well as in life. His soul overflowed with sympathy, and his great nature was so comprehensive that it could touch every phase of human interest and meet every class and clan; but he was a restless listener, and when in the mood for talking it was difficult to interrupt him.

Chauncey M. Depew, relating his recollections of Lincoln says that once, while he was at the White House, "the President threw himself on a lounge and rattled off story after story. It was his method of relief, without which he might have gone out of his mind, and certainly would not have been able to have accomplished anything like the amount of work which he did. It is the popular supposition that most of Mr. Lincoln's stories were original, but he said, 'I have originated but two stories in my life, but I tell tolerably well other people's stories.' Riding the circuit for many years, and stopping at country taverns where were gathered the lawyers, jurymen, witnesses, and clients, they would sit up all night narrating to each other their life adventures; and the things which happened to an original people, in a new country, surrounded by novel conditions, and told with the descriptive power and exaggeration which characterized such men, supplied him with an exhaustless fund of anecdote which could be made applicable for enforcing or refuting an argument better than all the invented stories of the world."

The humorous aspect of an appeal or an argument never failed to strike him, and he enjoyed turning the point as much as telling a story. Once, in the darkest days of the war, a delegation of prohibitionists came to him and insisted that the reason the North did not win was because the soldiers drank whiskey and thus brought down the curse of the Lord upon them. There was a mischievous twinkle in Lincoln's eye when he replied that he considered that very unfair on the part of the Lord, because the Southerners drank a great deal worse whiskey and a great deal more of it than the soldiers of the North.

After the internal revenue laws were enacted the United States marshals were often sued for false arrest, and Congress appropriated one hundred thousand dollars to pay the expenses of defending them. Previously the officials brought into court on such charges appealed to the Attorney-General to instruct the United States district attorneys to defend them; but when this appropriation was made, with one accord, they said that they would hire their own lawyers and applied for the cash; which reminded the President of a man in Illinois whose cabin was burned down, and, according to the kindly custom of early days in the West, his neighbors all contributed something to start him again. In this case they were so liberal that he soon found himself better off than he had been before the fire, and got proud. One day a neighbor brought him a bag of oats, but the fellow refused it with scorn. "No," said he, "I'm not taking oats now. I take nothing but money."

One day, just after Lincoln's second inauguration, a Massachusetts merchant, visiting Washington, noticed the great crowd of office-seekers waiting for an audience with the President, and decided that he, too, would like to see him. Writing his name on a card, he added the line, "Holds no office and wants none." The card was taken to President Lincoln, who, instantly jumping up, said to the attendant, "Show him up; he is a curiosity." Passing the long line of office-seekers, the merchant went up to the President, who said he was refreshed to meet a man who did not want an office, and urged his stay. A long and pleasant conversation followed.

Mrs. McCulloch went to the White House one Saturday afternoon to attend Mrs. Lincoln's reception, accompanied by Mrs. William P. Dole, whose husband was Commissioner of Indian Affairs. "There were crowds in and out of the White House," said Mrs. McCulloch, "and during the reception Mr. Lincoln slipped quietly into the room and stood back alone, looking on as the people passed through. I suggested to Mrs. Dole that we should go over and speak to him, which we did. Mr. Lincoln said, laughingly,—

"'I am always glad to see you, ladies, for I know you don't want anything.'

"I replied, 'But, Mr. President, I do want something; I want you to do something very much.'

"'Well, what is it?' he asked, adding, 'I hope it isn't anything I can't do.'

"'I want you to suppress the Chicago Times, because it does nothing but abuse the administration,' I replied.

"'Oh, tut, tut! We must not abridge the liberties of the press or the people. But never mind the Chicago Times. The administration can stand it if the Times can.'"

On a certain occasion the President was induced by a committee of gentlemen to examine a newly invented "repeating" gun, the peculiarity of which was that it prevented the escape of gas. After due inspection, he said,—

"Well, I believe this really does what it is represented to do. Now, have any of you heard of any machine or invention for preventing the escape of gas from newspaper establishments?"

However, Lincoln had great respect for the press. He was one day complaining of the injustice of Mr. Greeley's criticisms and the false light in which they put him before the country, when a friend, with great earnestness, suggested,—

"Why don't you publish the facts in every newspaper in the United States? The people will then understand your position and your vindication will be complete."

"Yes, all the newspapers will publish my letter, and so will Greeley," Lincoln replied. "The next day he will comment upon it, and keep it up, in that way, until at the end of three weeks I will be convicted out of my own mouth of all the things he charges against me. No man, whether he be private citizen or President of the United States, can successfully carry on a controversy with a great newspaper and escape destruction, unless he owns a newspaper equally great with a circulation in the same neighborhood."