1. Lincoln was the wisest ruler of this or any other age.
2. He had the firmness of the everlasting hills.
3. His love of justice and righteousness between man and man, and between nations guided him in all things.
4. His kindness of heart, and his sympathies for mankind were as an overflowing fountain.
5. Abraham Lincoln was raised up of God, and in a sense inspired for the place and work he fulfilled in the world.
“Perhaps the most striking illustration of superior wisdom and power as a ruler,” said the speaker, “was his reply to Mr. Seward’s proposition to declare war against France and Spain, and impliedly against England and Russia, only one month after Lincoln’s inauguration. The reply was complete; so was his mastery over the most astute and scholarly statesman and diplomatist of the age. While preparing that reply, the same night after receiving Mr. Seward’s wonderful proposals,—a reply which the best critics of the world have declared needed not another word, and would not have been complete with one word lacking,—he was overheard repeating to himself audibly over and over, ‘One war at a time, one war at a time, one war at a time.’”
The great Horace Greeley was wont to criticize Lincoln’s plan of conducting the war. He finally wanted to know “what were the purposes and aims of the President, anyway?” The following is Lincoln’s reply, showing that his sole purpose was to save the Union at whatever cost.
“If there be those who would not save the Union unless they could at the same time save slavery, I do not agree with them. If there be those who would not save the Union unless they could at the same time destroy slavery, I do not agree with them. My paramount object is to save the Union, and not either to save or destroy slavery. If I could save the Union without freeing any slave, I would do it. If I could save it by freeing all the slaves, I would do it, and if I could do it by freeing some and leaving others alone I would also do that. What I do about slavery and the colored race I do because I believe it helps to save the Union, and what I forbear I forbear because I do not believe it helps to save the Union. I shall do less whenever I shall believe that what I am doing hurts the cause, and I shall do more whenever I believe doing more will help the cause.”
When officious intermeddlers went to President Lincoln and demanded Gen. Grant’s removal from the command of the armies, charging that he was in the habit of getting drunk, Lincoln coolly asked them where he could get some of the brand of whisky that Grant was using; he wanted to supply it to his other generals. This remark of his silenced his callers, and he heard no more complaints about Grant getting drunk.
Mrs. Benjamin Price, of Baltimore, told, at a meeting of the Woman’s Literary Club of that city, two anecdotes of Abraham Lincoln. In one of them she said that her father-in-law had at one time been appointed to a government position in place of Mr. Addison, who was a most polished but notably plain-featured man. The two gentlemen went together to call upon President Lincoln, who received them cheerfully in the midst of the somewhat embarrassing operation of shaving. His face was a lather of soap, he extended a hand to each, and upon Mr. Addison enumerating the good qualities of his successor, and congratulating the President upon securing so eminent an officer, Mr. Lincoln exclaimed:
“Yes, Addison, I have no doubt Mr. Price is all that you say, but nothing can compensate me for the loss of you, for when you retire I shall be the homeliest man in the employment of the government.”
One summer morning, shortly before the close of the civil war, the not unusual sight in Washington of an old veteran hobbling along could have been seen on a shady path that led from the executive mansion to the war office. The old man was in pain, and the pale, sunken cheeks and vague, far-away stare in his eyes betokened a short-lived existence. He halted a moment and then slowly approached a tall gentleman who was walking along. “Good morning, sir. I am an old soldier and would like to ask your advice.”
The gentleman turned, and smiling kindly, invited the poor old veteran to a seat under a shady tree. There he listened to the man’s story of how he had fought for the Union and was severely wounded, incapacitating him for other work in life, and begged directions how to apply for back pay due him and a pension, offering his papers for examination.
The gentleman looked over the papers and then took out a card and wrote directions on it, also a few words to the pension bureau, desiring that speedy attention be given to the applicant, and handed it to him.
The old soldier looked at it, and with tears in his eyes, thanked the tall gentleman, who, with a sad look, bade him good luck and hurried up the walk. Slowly the old soldier read the card again, and then turned it over to read the name of the owner. More tears welled in his eyes when he knew whom he had addressed himself to, and his lips muttered: “I am glad I fought for him and the country, for he never forgets. God bless Abraham Lincoln!”
President Lincoln, the man who said and did so many kindly things, taught Seward how to write state papers. He was not only master of the situation in this country, but when England and France were about combining to recognize the Confederacy he so won the admiration of Lord Lyon, the British ambassador at Washington, that that official informed Lord Russell that he was in error when he sent instructions to prepare the government for the recognition of the South by England, and Lord Lyon afterwards resigned his office in consequence of the opposition to Lincoln. At that time there was a Russian fleet in New York harbor under sealed instructions, to be opened when France and England made their move, and the instructions were afterward found to be a command to the admiral to report to his excellency, President Lincoln.
At a cabinet meeting once the advisability of putting a legend on greenbacks similar to the In God We Trust legend on the silver coins was discussed, and the President was asked what his view was. He replied: “If you are going to put a legend on the greenbacks I would suggest that of Peter and Paul: ‘Silver and gold we have not, but what we have we’ll give you.’”
On another occasion when Mr. Lincoln was going to attend a political convention one of his rivals, a liveryman, provided him with a slow horse, hoping that he would not reach his destination in time. Mr. Lincoln got there, however, and when he returned with the horse he said: “You keep this horse for funerals, don’t you?” “Oh, no,” replied the liveryman. “Well, I’m glad of that, for if you did you’d never get a corpse to the grave in time for the resurrection.”
“Liberty cannot long endure,” said Webster, “when the tendency is to concentrate wealth in the hands of a few.”
President Lincoln, in a message to Congress, said of this danger: “Monarchy itself is sometimes hinted at as a possible refuge from the power of the people. In my present position I could scarcely be justified were I to omit raising a warning voice against approaching despotism. There is one point to which I ask a brief attention. It is the effort to place capital on an equal footing with, if not above, labor in the structure of the government. Let them beware of surrendering a political power which they already have, and which if surrendered will surely be used to close the door of advancement against such as they, and to fix new disabilities and burdens upon them till all liberty shall be lost.”
One day in May, 1863, while the great war was raging between the North and South, President Lincoln paid a visit to one of the military hospitals, says an exchange. He had spoken many cheering words of sympathy to the wounded as he proceeded through the various wards, and now he was at the bedside of a Vermont boy of about sixteen years of age, who lay there mortally wounded.
Taking the dying boy’s thin, white hands in his own, the President said, in a tender tone:
“Well, my poor boy, what can I do for you?”
The young fellow looked up into the President’s kindly face and asked: “Won’t you write to my mother for me?”
“That I will,” answered Mr. Lincoln; and calling for a pen, ink and paper, he seated himself by the side of the bed and wrote from the boy’s dictation. It was a long letter, but the President betrayed no sign of weariness. When it was finished, he rose, saying:
“I will post this as soon as I get back to my office. Now is there anything else I can do for you?”
The boy looked up appealingly to the President.
“Won’t you stay with me?” he asked. “I do want to hold on to your hand.”
Mr. Lincoln at once perceived the lad’s meaning. The appeal was too strong for him to resist; so he sat down by his side and took hold of his hand. For two hours the President sat there patiently as though he had been the boy’s father.
When the end came he bent over and folded the thin hands over his breast. As he did so he burst into tears, and when, soon afterward, he left the hospital, they were still streaming down his cheeks.
President Lincoln appointed as consul to a South American country a young man from Ohio who was a dandy. A wag met the new appointee on his way to the White House to thank the President. He was dressed in the most extravagant style. The wag horrified him by telling him that the country to which he was assigned was noted chiefly for the bugs that abounded there and made life unbearable. “They’ll bore a hole clean through you before a week has passed,” was the comforting assurance of the wag as they parted at the White House steps. The new consul approached Lincoln with disappointment clearly written all over his face. Instead of joyously thanking the President, he told him the wag’s story of the bugs. “I am informed, Mr. President,” he said, “that the place is full of vermin and that they could eat me up in a week’s time.” “Well, young man,” replied Lincoln, “if that’s true all I’ve got to say is that if such a thing happened they would leave a mighty good suit of clothes behind.”
In his “Campaigning With Grant,” in the Century, Gen. Horace Porter told of Gen. Halleck’s fear of trouble from enforcing of the draft, and his desire that Grant should send troops to the Northern cities. Gen. Porter says:
On the evening of August 17 General Grant was sitting in front of his quarters, with several staff officers about him, when the telegraph operator came over from his tent and handed him a dispatch. He opened it, and as he proceeded with the reading of it his face became suffused with smiles. After he had finished it he broke into a hearty laugh. We were curious to know what could produce so much merriment in the general in the midst of the trying circumstances which surrounded him. He cast his eyes over the dispatch again, and then remarked: “The President has more nerve than any of his advisers. This is what he says after reading my reply to Halleck’s dispatch.” He then read aloud to us the following:
“I have seen your dispatch expressing your unwillingness to break your hold where we are. Neither am I willing. Hold on with a bulldog grip, and chew and choke as much as possible.
“A. LINCOLN.”
Mr. Edward Rosewater, editor of the Omaha Bee, said he believed Lincoln got relaxation by his story telling, and that the hearing of a good story gave him the mental rest that he so much needed during those brain-taxing days. These stories came out under the most trying circumstances and at the most solemn times. A striking instance of this was just after the battle of Fredericksburg. After the Union armies were defeated an official who had seen the battle hurried to Washington. He reached there about midnight and went directly to the White House. President Lincoln had not yet retired, and the man was at once received. Lincoln had already heard some reports of the battle. He was feeling very sad and rested his head upon his hands while the story was repeated to him. As the man saw his intense suffering he remarked:
“I wish, Mr. President, that I might be a messenger of good news instead of bad. I wish I could tell you how to conquer or to get rid of those rebellious States.”
At this President Lincoln looked up and a smile came across his face as he said: “That reminds me of two boys out in Illinois who took a short cut across an orchard. When they were in the middle of the field they saw a vicious dog bounding toward them. One of the boys was sly enough to climb a tree, but the other ran around the tree, with the dog following. He kept running until, by making smaller circles than it was possible for his pursuer to make, he gained upon the dog sufficiently to grasp his tail. He held on to the tail with a desperate grip until nearly exhausted, when he called to the boy up the tree to come down and help.
“What for?” said the boy.
“I want you to help me let this dog go.”
“Now,” concluded President Lincoln, “if I could only let the rebel States go it would be all right. But I am compelled to hold on to them and make them stay.”
Lincoln’s indebtedness, in consequence of the closing out of his general store at New Salem, was such that it took him many years to extinguish all. There was one man among his creditors who would not wait, but secured a judgment against Lincoln and his personal effects were levied upon. Among them was his surveying instrument on which he depended for his living. At the sale a farmer friend of Lincoln’s named James Short bought the horse and surveying instruments for $120 and generously turned them over to their former owner. This kindness deeply touched the future President of the United States, who, some years later, repaid with interest the money so kindly advanced by Mr. Short.
Thirty years later, while Lincoln was President, he heard that James Short was living in California. Financial reverses had overtaken him some years previously and he left his home near New Salem and emigrated with his family to the State on the Pacific Ocean. One day Mr. Short received a letter from Washington informing him that he had been appointed an Indian agent. It will thus be seen that Lincoln never forgot a benefactor.
Abraham Lincoln had a heart that was full of mercy; he could not bear to see even an animal suffer, and would not tolerate any wanton cruelty to animals. There are numerous instances of his mercifulness, but the following story will serve to show how kindly disposed the man was:
One day the major-general commanding the forces in and around Washington, came to the office of Mr. Dana with a spy whom one of his men had captured. Mr. Dana was assistant secretary of war. The officer informed Mr. Dana that the spy had been tried by court-martial and had been sentenced to death. He handed Mr. Dana the warrant for his execution, which was to take place at six o’clock the following morning. The warrant must be signed by the President, or in his absence by some officer with authority to sign it. President Lincoln was absent from Washington at that time and was not expected back before the afternoon of the next day. It therefore became necessary for Mr. Dana to sign the warrant for the execution of the spy, in accordance with the decision of the court. But President Lincoln got home at two o’clock in the early morning and on learning of the affair at once stopped the whole thing and thus spared the man’s life. It may be here stated that the law of nations in regard to the punishment of spies when captured is death.
When the Prince of Wales was betrothed to the Princess Alexandria, Queen Victoria sent a letter to every sovereign of Europe, and to President Lincoln, announcing the fact. The ambassador of England then at Washington was Lord Lyons, and he was a bachelor. He requested an audience with President Lincoln in order that he might present the important letter in person.
He called at the White House in company with Secretary Seward and addressed the President as follows:
“May it please your Excellency, I hold in my hand an autograph letter from my royal mistress, Queen Victoria, which I have been commanded to present to your Excellency. In it she informs your Excellency that her son, his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, is about to contract a matrimonial alliance with her Royal Highness the Princess Alexandria of Denmark.”
After the use of such diplomatic and high-sounding language one would naturally suppose Lincoln would require a few moments to collect his thoughts and reply in kind. Not so, however. His reply was short, simple and expressive, as follows:
“Lord Lyons, go thou and do likewise.”
A witness of the above incident said: “It is doubtful if an English ambassador was ever addressed in this manner before, and it would be interesting to learn what success he met with in putting the reply in diplomatic language, when he reported it to her Majesty.”—From Lincoln’s Stories, by J. B. McClure.
At the time when the Union soldiers were hunting for Jeff Davis, some one asked the President: “Mr. Lincoln, suppose they were to find Davis, and, in order to capture him, it was necessary to shoot him. Would you want them to do so?”
Mr. Lincoln said: “When I was a boy, a man lecturing on temperance stayed at our house over night. It was a cold, stormy night, and the man was quite chilled when he reached home after the meeting. He said if they would give him a hot lemonade he thought it would prevent his taking cold. Some one suggested that some spirits added would be beneficial. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you might put in some unbeknown to me!’”
On one occasion, exasperated at the discrepancy between the aggregate of troops forwarded to McClellan and the number the same general reported as having received, Lincoln exclaimed, “Sending men to that army is like shoveling fleas across a barnyard—half of them never get there.”
To a politician who had criticized his course he wrote, “Would you have me drop the war where it is, or would you prosecute it in future with elder stalk squirts charged with rosewater?”
When, on his first arrival in Washington as President, he found himself besieged by office seekers, while the war was breaking out, he said, “I feel like a man letting lodgings at one end of the house while the other end is on fire.”
The first corps of the army commanded by General Reynolds was once reviewed by the President on a beautiful plain at the north of Potomac Creek, about eight miles from Hooker’s headquarters. The party rode thither in an ambulance over a rough, corduroy road, and as they passed over some of the more difficult portions of the jolting way the ambulance driver, who sat well in front, occasionally let fly a volley of suppressed oaths at his wild team of six mules.
Finally, Mr. Lincoln, leaning forward, touched the man on the shoulder, and said:
“Excuse me, my friend, are you an Episcopalian?”
The man, greatly startled, looked around and replied:
“No, Mr. President; I am a Methodist.”
“Well,” said Lincoln, “I thought you must be an Episcopalian, because you swear just like Governor Seward, who is a church warden.”
A clergyman of some prominence was one day presented to Lincoln, who gave the visitor a chair and said, with an air of patient waiting:
“I am now ready to hear what you have to say.”
“Oh, bless you, sir,” replied the clergyman, “I have nothing special to say. I merely called to pay my respects.”
“My dear sir,” said the President, rising promptly, his face showing instant relief, and with both hands grasping that of his visitor; “I am very glad to see you, indeed. It is a relief to find a clergyman, or any other man, for that matter, who has nothing to say. I thought you had come to preach to me.”
Considering his own personality Lincoln was very indifferent. He was perfectly aware that many people talked about his “awkwardness” and homely personal appearance. Far from feeling hurt at the remarks occasionally flung at him he rather enjoyed them.
One day he was traveling in a train. He was addressed, without any formal introduction, by a stranger in the car, who said:
“Excuse me, sir, but I have an article in my possession which belongs to you.”
“How is that?” Lincoln inquired, much surprised.
The stranger took a jackknife from his pocket.
“This knife,” said he, “was placed in my hands some years ago, with the injunction that I was to keep it until I found a man uglier than myself. I have carried it from that time to this. Allow me to say now, sir, that I think you are fairly entitled to the property.”
Lincoln related the above story to his friends again and again during his lifetime.—From Lincoln’s Stories, by J. B. McClure.
Lincoln had the following good story on President Tyler:
“During Mr. Tyler’s incumbency of the office he arranged to make an excursion in some direction and sent his son, ‘Bob,’ to arrange for a special train. It happened that the railroad superintendent was a strong Whig. As such he had no favors to bestow upon the President and informed Bob that the road did not run any special trains for the President.
“‘What,’ said Bob Tyler, ‘did you not furnish a special for the funeral of Gen. Harrison?’
“‘Yes,’ said the superintendent, ‘and if you’ll bring your father in that condition you shall have the best train on the road.’”
During the war an Austrian count applied to President Lincoln for a position in the army. He was introduced by the Austrian Minister, but as if fearing that his importance might not be duly appreciated, he proceeded to explain his nobility and high standing. With a merry twinkle in his eye, Mr. Lincoln laid his hand on the count’s shoulder and said:
“Never mind: you shall be treated with just as much consideration for all that.”
Abraham Lincoln once received a letter asking for a “sentiment” and his autograph. He replied: “Dear Madam: When you ask a stranger for that which is of interest only to yourself always inclose a stamp. Abraham Lincoln.”
It is not generally known that Abraham Lincoln sent a substitute to the war against the South, but such is a fact. During the earlier days of the war it seems to have been the desire of all prominent men in Washington to have a representative in the ranks, and Lincoln was no exception to the rule. At that time there was a minister named Staples in Washington, one of whose sons, then aged nineteen, had a desire to go to the front. Lincoln heard of him, and after a conference selected him as his representative, and he proved worthy, for he won honor on the field. He survived the war and finally died in Stroudsburg. The inscription on the stone over his grave reads as follows: “J. Summerfield Staples, a private of Company C, One Hundred and Seventy-sixth Regiment, P. V. Also a member of the Second regiment, D. C. Vols., as a substitute for Abraham Lincoln.”—Philadelphia Record.
A New York firm applied to Abraham Lincoln some years before he became President for information as to the financial standing of one of his neighbors. Mr. Lincoln replied:
“I am well acquainted with Mr. ——, and know his circumstances. First of all, he has a wife and baby; together they ought to be worth $50,000 to any man. Secondly, he has an office in which there is a table worth $1.50 and three chairs worth, say, $1. Last of all, there is in one corner a large rat hole, which will bear looking into. Respectfully, A. Lincoln.”
At a time when the war crisis was at its height one of those persons who were ever ready to give the President free advice on how to conduct the war, had just finished explaining an elaborate idea, when Mr. Lincoln remarked:
“That reminds me of a man in Illinois, who, in driving the hoops of a hogshead to ‘head it up,’ was much annoyed by the constant falling in of the top. At length a bright idea struck him of putting his little boy inside to hold it up. This he did. But when the job was completed there arose the more serious question, how to get the boy out of the hogshead. Your plan sounds feasible, but how are you to get the boy out?”
In the March “Ladies’ Home Journal” Stephen Fiske graphically recalls the excitement and apprehension and the condition of the country “When Lincoln Was First Inaugurated.” He tells the incidents of the memorable journey to the capitol, of Mr. Lincoln’s reception, and gives a rather grewsome picture of the inaugural ceremonies. “As I walked up to the capitol the wide, dusty streets were already crowded,” he writes; “regular troops were posted at intervals along Pennsylvania avenue. Sharpshooters were climbing over the roofs of the houses. A mounted officer at every corner was ready to report to General Scott the passage of the procession. Detectives in plain clothes squirmed through the masses of people. The policemen had been instructed to arrest for ‘disorderly conduct’ any person who called Mr. Lincoln an opprobrious name or uttered a disloyal sentiment. There was much suppressed excitement, and the prophetic word ‘assassination’ was in every mind.
“President Buchanan, whose term expired at noon, was engaged until half an hour later in signing the bills that had been hurriedly passed, but the congressional clock had been put back to legalize the transaction. At last he drove down to Willard’s, and the procession was formed. The President and President-elect rode in an open barouche; but this confidence in the people was more apparent than real. On the front seat were Senators Baker and Pearce; a guard of honor of the regular cavalry surrounded the carriage; beyond were mounted marshals four files deep. From the sidewalks no one could accurately distinguish Mr. Lincoln. Close behind marched regiments of regulars and marines, fully armed. It seemed more like escorting a prisoner to his doom than a President to his inauguration. Little cheering and no enthusiasm greeted the procession. Every now and then an arrest for ‘disorderly conduct’ was quickly and quietly made in the crowd. The sunshine was bright, but the whole affair was as gloomy as if Mr. Lincoln were riding through an enemy’s country—as, indeed, he was.”
Secretary Sherman says he never will forget his first meeting with a President. It was shortly after Lincoln’s inauguration, and he attended a public reception, fell into line, and awaited an hour or two for a chance to shake hands with the Great Emancipator.
“During this time,” says Mr. Sherman, “I was wondering what I should say and what Lincoln would do when we met. At last it came my turn to be presented. Lincoln looked at me a moment, extended his hand, and said: ‘You’re a pretty tall fellow, aren’t you? Stand up here with me, back to back, and let’s see which is the taller.’
“In another moment I was standing back to back with the greatest man of his age. Naturally I was quite abashed by this unexpected evidence of democracy.
“‘You’re from the West, aren’t you,’ inquired Lincoln.
“‘My home is in Ohio,’ I replied.
“‘I thought so,’ he said; ‘that’s the kind of men they raise out there.’”
A slight variation of the traditional sentry story is related by C. C. Buel, in the current Century. It was a cold, blusterous winter night. Says Mr. Buel:
“Mr. Lincoln emerged from the front door, his lank figure bent over as he drew tightly about his shoulders the shawl which he employed for such protection; for he was on his way to the War Department, at the west corner of the grounds, where in times of battle he was wont to get the midnight despatches from the field. As the blast struck him he thought of the numbness of the pacing sentry, and turning to him, said: ‘Young man, you’ve got a cold job to-night; step inside, and stand guard there.’
“‘My orders keep me out here,’ the soldier replied.
“‘Yes,’ said the President, in his argumentative tone; ‘but your duty can be performed just as well inside as out here, and you’ll oblige me by going in.’
“‘I have been stationed outside,’ the soldier answered, and resumed his beat.
“‘Hold on there!’ said Mr. Lincoln, as he turned back again; ‘it occurs to me that I am commander-in-chief of the army, and I order you to go inside.’”
It was during Lincoln’s second inauguration as President of the United States that he gave voice to these famous and oft-quoted words:
The above occur in the last paragraph in his second inaugural speech, delivered at Washington, D. C., March 4, 1865.
The following story illustrates the power of Mr. Lincoln’s memory of names and faces. When he was a comparatively young man and a candidate for the Illinois Legislature, he made a personal canvass of the district. While “swinging around the circle” he stopped one day and took dinner with a farmer in Sangamon county.
Years afterward, when Mr. Lincoln had become President, a soldier came to call on him at the White House. At the first glance the Chief Executive said: “Yes, I remember; you used to live on the Danville road. I took dinner with you when I was running for the Legislature. I recollect that we stood talking out at the barnyard gate, while I sharpened my jackknife.”
“Y-a-a-s,” drawled the soldier; “you did. But say, wherever did you put that whetstone? I looked for it a dozen times, but I never could find it after the day you used it. We allowed as how mabby you took it ’long with you.”
“No,” said Lincoln, looking serious and pushing away a lot of documents of state from the desk in front of him. “No, I put it on top of that gatepost—that high one.”
“Well!” exclaimed the visitor, “mabby you did. Couldn’t anybody else have put it there, and none of us ever thought of looking there for it.”
The soldier was then on his way home, and when he got there the first thing he did was to look for the whetstone. And sure enough, there it was, just where Lincoln had laid it fifteen years before. The honest fellow wrote a letter to the Chief Magistrate, telling him that the whetstone had been found, and would never be lost again.
We had been talking of the war, and the late Governor Curtin, of Pennsylvania, broke out suddenly and said:
“It was just after the battle of Fredericksburg. I had been down there and came up to Washington by the night boat. I arrived at the foot of Seventh street a little after midnight. Just as I landed a messenger met me, saying that the President wanted to see me at once at the White House. I took a carriage and went directly there. I sent in my card, and word came back that the President had retired, but that he requested me to come up to his bedroom. I found him in bed, and as I entered the room he reached out his hand, shook hands, and said:
“‘Well, Governor; so you have been down to the battle-field?’
“‘Battle-field? Slaughter-pen! It was a terrible slaughter, Mr. Lincoln.’ I was sorry in a moment, that I had said it, for he groaned, and began to wring his hands and took on with terrible agony of spirits. He sat up on the edge of the bed, and moaned and groaned in anguish. He walked the floor of the room, and uttered exclamations of grief, one after another, and I remember his saying over and over again: ‘What has God put me in this place for?’ I tried to comfort him, and could hardly forgive myself for not being more careful and considerate of his feelings.”
“Speaking of Lincoln’s birthday,” said Senator Palmer yesterday, “reminds me that the very last case Lincoln ever tried was one in which I, too, was engaged. It was in Springfield, in June, 1860, after Mr. Lincoln had received the Presidential nomination. Old David Baker, who had been a Senator in the early days, had sued the trustees of Shurtleff College, my alma mater, for expelling his grandson, a lad named Will Gilbert. Mr. Lincoln appeared for the prosecution. I was the college attorney. Mr. Lincoln came into court and the Judge said to him: ‘Mr. Lincoln, I’ll argue this case for you. You have too much on your hands already. You haven’t any case.’ And he explained the law and application.
“‘Well,’ said Mr. Lincoln, with a smile, ‘don’t you want to hear a speech from me?’
“‘No,’ said the Judge, and the last case Mr. Lincoln tried he—well, he didn’t try it at all.”
“The first time I met Mr. Lincoln was in 1839, when I went to Springfield to be admitted to the bar. He was already recognized as a Whig leader. He wore, I remember, a suit of linsey woolsey, that could not have been worth more than $8 even in those days. The last time I saw him was in February of 1865. I had come to Washington at the request of the Governor, to complain that Illinois had been credited with 18,000 too few troops. I saw Mr. Lincoln one afternoon, and he asked me to come again in the morning.
“Next morning I sat in the ante-room while several officers were relieved. At length I was told to enter the President’s room. Mr. Lincoln was in the hands of the barber.
“‘Come in, Palmer,’ he called out, ‘come in. You’re home folks. I can shave before you. I couldn’t before those others, and I have to do it some time.’
“We chatted about various matters, and at length I said:
“‘Well, Mr. Lincoln, if anybody had told me that in a great crisis like this the people were going out to a little one-horse town and pick out a one-horse lawyer for President I wouldn’t have believed it.’
“Mr. Lincoln whirled about in his chair, his face white with lather, a towel under his chin. At first I thought he was angry. Sweeping the barber away he leaned forward, and placing one hand on my knee said:
“‘Neither would I. But it was a time when a man with a policy would have been fatal to the country. I have never had a policy. I have simply tried to do what seemed best each day, as each day came.’
“Lincoln was not an eloquent man. He was a strong lawyer, and an ingenious one. His stronghold was his ability to reason logically and clearly. He was a very self-contained man, and not easily excited. I remember the night when the news of his election was received at Springfield. The patriotic ladies of the town were serving a lunch in an upper room opposite the capitol. Mr. Lincoln was there, and read the returns as they were brought to him. The returns from New York decided the day. Mr. Lincoln stood up and read the telegram. He was the calmest man in the room. When he had finished he said, simply, ‘Well I must go and tell my wife.’”
Lincoln was an orator as well as a statesman and many of his speeches will go down in history through all time. In his second inaugural address he made use of the following striking expressions:
“On the occasion corresponding to this four years ago all thoughts were anxiously directed to an impending civil war. Both parties deprecated war, but one of them would make war rather than let the Nation survive, and the other would accept war rather than let it perish; and the war came. Both read the same Bible and pray to the same God, and each invokes His aid against the other. It may seem strange that any men should dare to ask a just God’s assistance in wringing their bread from the sweat of other men’s faces; but let us judge not, that we be not judged. The prayer of both could not be answered. That of another has been answered fully. With malice towards none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right, let us finish the work we are in, to bind up the Nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and his orphans, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and a lasting peace among ourselves and with all Nations.”
Eloquent, is it not? Beautiful, is it not? And yet there is not a word in it that a child could not understand. Lincoln’s English was like himself, simple, forcible, direct, natural, eloquent, full of heart-throbs. As his unadorned language still stirs the heart of every American like the roll of a drum, and as beside it the tinsels, and flowers, and gewgaws of polished speech are but as pulseless marble, so the rugged nature of America’s greatest man looms above all lesser public men, the spotless, genius-crowned Shasta of our National history.
This story well illustrates Lincoln’s humanity of character which found expression in his famous words of “charity for all, and malice toward none.” It appears that Mr. Shrigley, of Philadelphia, a Universalist, had been nominated for hospital chaplain. A protesting delegation went to Washington to see President Lincoln on the subject. The following was the interview:
“We have called, Mr. President, to confer with you in regard to the appointment of Mr. Shrigley, of Philadelphia, as hospital chaplain.”
The President responded: “Oh, yes, gentlemen. I have sent his name to the Senate, and he will no doubt be confirmed at an early date.”
One of the young men replied: “We have not come to ask for the appointment, but to solicit you to withdraw the nomination.”
“Ah!” said Lincoln, “that alters the case; but on what grounds do you wish the nomination withdrawn?”
The answer was: “Mr. Shrigley is not sound in his theological opinions.”
The President inquired: “On what question is the gentleman unsound?”
Response: “He does not believe in endless punishment; not only so, sir, but he believes that even the rebels themselves will be finally saved.”
“Is that so?” inquired the President.
The members of the committee responded, “Yes, yes.”
“Well, gentlemen, if that be so, and there is any way under Heaven whereby the rebels can be saved, then, for God’s sake and their sakes, let the man be appointed.”
It is almost needless to add that Mr. Shrigley was appointed, and served until the close of the war.
At a banquet given in his honor on Washington’s birthday, in New York, February 22, 1897, the eloquent and gifted Chauncey M. Depew made the following comparison between America’s two greatest heroes:
“This February, for the first time, both Washington’s and Lincoln’s birthdays have been made legal holidays. Never since the creation of man were two human beings so unlike, so nearly the extremes of opposition to each other, as Washington and Lincoln. The one an aristocrat by birth, by breeding, and association, the other in every sense and by every surrounding a democrat. As the richest man in America, a large slave-holder, the possessor of an enormous landed estate, and the leader and representative of the property, the culture, and the colleges of the colonial period, Washington stood for the conservation and preservation of law and order.
“And yet millionaire, slaveholder and aristocrat, in its best sense, that he was, as he lived, so at any time he would have died for the immortal principle put by the Puritans in their charter, adopted in the cabin of the Mayflower, reënacted in the Declaration of Independence, of the equality of all men before the law and of the equal opportunity for all to rise. Lincoln, on the other hand, was born in a cabin, among that class known as poor whites in slaveholding times, who held no position and whose condition was so helpless as to paralyze ambition and effort. His situation so far as his surroundings were concerned had considerable mental but little moral improvement by the removal to Indiana and subsequently to Illinois.
“Anywhere in the Old World a man born amidst such environments and teachings, and possessed of unconquerable energy and ambition and the greatest powers of eloquence and constructive statesmanship, would have been a Socialist and the leader of a social revolt. He might have been an Anarchist. His one ambition would have been to break the crust above him and shatter it to pieces. He would see otherwise no opportunity for himself and his fellows in social or political or professional life. But Lincoln attained from the log cabin of the poor white in the wilderness the same position which Washington reached from his palatial mansion and baronial estate on the Potomac; he made the same fight unselfishly, patriotically, and grandly for the preservation of the republic that Washington had done for its creation and foundation. Widely as they are separated, these two heroes of the two great crises of our national life stand together in representing the solvent powers, the inspiring processes, and the hopeful opportunities of American liberty.”
A stair-carpenter happened to see a picture of the martyred President. Instantly the tones of his voice softened, his eyes grew moist with tears, and the whole expression of his face changed.
Then he told us his “story of Lincoln.” He had been shot through the lungs when on picket in ’63, and was in the hospital at Fortress Monroe.
For weeks he had been lying there, till he had grown dreadfully homesick, and felt as if the only thing that could cure him was to get home to Maryland.
One morning Lincoln visited the hospital, and as he was passing around, pausing before each cot to speak a word of cheer to each wounded soldier, this one made up his mind that if he gave him a chance, he would make known his wants.
At last his turn came.
“You seem very comfortable, my friend,” Lincoln said.
“Not so comfortable as I should be if I could get home to Maryland,” was the reply.
“What is your name?”
“S. Stover, Co. H, 2d Maryland Volunteers,” was promptly answered, and Lincoln passed on.
In just three days came an order from the President to transfer Private Stover, Co. H, 2d Md. Vols., by water to the hospital at Annapolis.
“I was surprised myself,” he said; “for I had watched him as long as he was in sight, and when I saw him go through the door without writing down my name and company, I gave up all hope of seeing my Maryland again.
“And it has always been a mystery to me that a man with so much to think of should keep in mind the name, regiment and company of a private soldier.”
As he turned away to conceal the tears he could not keep back, it was plain how large a place the thoughtful kindness of that great man had won in the heart of the poor, homesick, wounded soldier.
It was President Lincoln’s intense love for his fellow men that led him to disapprove of the findings of court-martial, whenever there was a possible excuse, particularly in the cases of soldiers charged with desertion, with having fallen asleep at a post of duty, or with other offenses.
Secretary Stanton always insisted upon the strictest discipline in the army and frequently urged that derelict soldiers receive the severest punishment of military law and custom, but Lincoln rarely took any advice on such matters. He had meditated deeply on that subject and consulted his own judgment in disposing of cases of that kind that came before him.
The late Joseph Holt, who recently died at Washington, was judge advocate general of the army during the whole period of the war and it became his duty to report many cases of alleged cowardice of soldiers as well as other offenses. President Lincoln carefully read every line of the charges against such men, and as soon as he saw the slightest chance to excuse the poor fellow, a gleam of satisfaction would pass over his serious face. Then folding the papers together he placed them in a pigeon hole of his desk, and with his big eyes looking into those of the judge advocate standing before him, he would say:
“Holt, we will let those soldiers go. Order them set free.”
It was after the battle of Chancellorsville that charges were brought against several men for failing to march with their regiments into the fight at a time when they were most needed. The charge of desertion was made.
When Secretary Stanton heard of these cases he commanded Judge Holt to present the charges against the men to the President in the strongest possible terms.
“We need stronger discipline in the army,” said the stern secretary of war to the judge advocate. “The time has come when the President must yield to our opinion.”
Judge Holt was himself one of the ablest lawyers of his day, and had won fame as a forensic orator long before the war.
“In presenting these cases,” said he to the writer a few months before his death, “in obedience to the wish of the secretary of war, I used all the legal acumen at my command. One morning, with my papers all ready (and I was deeply in earnest in the matter), I proceeded to the White House; and, as I entered his private office, the President looked up with his long, sad face, saying:
“‘Ah! Holt, what have you there?’
“‘I have some important cases for your careful consideration, Mr. President, with documentary evidence sufficient to condemn every man.’
“He took the papers and read them carefully, stopping at times to reflect, then read on until he finished. There was no change in his countenance this time, unless that it grew more sad and his expression more serious. I had covered the cases in question with strong and convincing argument and evidence. He finally raised his eyes from the last paper and gazed intently through the window at some object across the Potomac. Then, rising from his chair, with the papers all folded together, he placed them in a pigeon hole already filled with similar documents. With his tall, gaunt form facing me, he spoke, in deep, sad tones, that would have touched the heart of the sternest officer of the army:
“‘Holt (it was his custom to mention only the last name), you acknowledge those men have a previous record for bravery. It is not the first time they have faced danger; and they shall not be shot for this one offense.’
“I then thought it was my duty as the head of my department of military justice to make further argument. For I knew Stanton would nearly explode with rage when he heard of the President’s decision. I began to speak and Lincoln sat down again, giving me his closest attention. Then, rising from his chair and riveting his eyes upon me, he said:
“‘Holt, were you ever in battle?’
“‘I have never been.’
“‘Did Stanton ever march in the first line, to be shot at by an enemy like those men did?’
“‘I think not, Mr. President.’
“‘Well, I tried it in the Black Hawk war, and I remember one time I grew awful weak in the knees when I heard the bullets whistle around me and saw the enemy in front of me. How my legs carried me forward I cannot now tell, for I thought every minute that I would sink to the ground. The men against whom those charges have been made probably were not able to march into battle. Who knows that they were able? I am opposed to having soldiers shot for not facing danger when it is not known that their legs would carry them into danger. Send this dispatch ordering them to be set free.’ And they were set free that day.”
The Lincoln apotheosis is much more satisfactory than the Napoleon apotheosis. Lincoln is not only our own, but a greater, purer, sweeter, really stronger man than Napoleon. It is a good thing to bring out the little-known portraits of Lincoln. What a marvelous face! It is full of strength—with just enough of the big child in it to kindle love and sympathy. Has anyone ever noticed the way in which Lincoln’s face is cast on the lines of the North American Indian? We have never heard that Lincoln had Indian blood in him; but take any of his good, beardless portraits, with front or nearly front view; add to it a shock of straight hair parted in the middle and falling down, either straight or in two braids, on the shoulders; add a feather to it; clothe the body in a blanket and let it take an Indian stoop; and no one would question that the man was an aborigine. The face has the gravity of the Indian countenance, but not the impassiveness that we read about; but Indian faces, after all, are seldom impassive. The face of Lincoln, who was not an Indian, has more of the aborigine in it than of that other great President, Benito Juarez, who was an Indian.
The raid made by the Confederate general, J. E. B. Stuart, in June, 1862, around the Union army commanded by General McClellan, caused great anxiety in Washington. One of its results was the interruption of communication between the capital and the army of the Potomac. What this portended no one could affirm. That it suggested the gravest possibilities was felt by all.
While this feeling was dominating all circles, several gentlemen, myself among them, called on President Lincoln in order to be definitely advised about the condition of affairs as understood by him.
To our question: “Mr. President, have you any news from the army?” he sadly replied: “Not one word; we can get no communication with it. I do not know that we have an army; it may have been destroyed or captured, though I cannot so believe, for it was a splendid army. But the most I can do now is to hope that serious disaster has not befallen it.”
This led to a somewhat protracted conversation relative to the general condition of our affairs. It was useless to talk about the Army of the Potomac; for we knew nothing concerning its condition or position at that moment. The conversation therefore took a wide range and touched upon the subject of slavery, about which much was said.
The President did not participate in this conversation. He was an attentive listener, but gave no sign of approval or disapproval of the views which were expressed. At length one of the active participants remarked:
“Slavery must be stricken down wherever it exists in this country. It is right that it should be. It is a crime against justice and humanity. We have tolerated it too long. It brought war upon us. I believe that Providence is not unmindful of the struggle in which this nation is engaged. If we do not do right I believe God will let us go our own way to our ruin. But, if we do right, I believe He will lead us safely out of this wilderness, crown our arms with victory, and restore our now dissevered Union.”
I observed President Lincoln closely while this earnest opinion and expression of religious faith was being uttered. I saw that it affected him deeply, and anticipated, from the play of his features and the sparkle of his eyes, that he would not let the occasion pass without making some definite response to it. I was not mistaken. Mr. Lincoln had been sitting in his chair, in a kind of weary and despondent attitude while the conversation progressed. At the conclusion of the remarks I have quoted, he at once arose and stood at his extreme height. Pausing a moment, his right arm outstretched towards the gentleman who had just ceased speaking, his face aglow like the face of a prophet, Mr. Lincoln gave deliberate and emphatic utterance to the religious faith which sustained him in the great trial to which he and the country were subjected. He said: “My faith is greater than yours. I not only believe that Providence is not unmindful of the struggle in which this nation is engaged; that if we do not do right God will let us go our own way to our ruin; and that if we do right He will lead us safely out of this wilderness, crown our arms with victory, and restore our dissevered union, as you have expressed your belief; but I also believe that He will compel us to do right in order that He may do these things, not so much because we desire them as that they accord with His plans of dealing with this nation, in the midst of which He means to establish justice. I think He means that we shall do more than we have yet done in furtherance of His plans, and He will open the way for our doing it. I have felt His hand upon me in great trials and submitted to His guidance, and I trust that as He shall further open the way I will be ready to walk therein, relying on His help and trusting in His goodness and wisdom.”—From “Some Memories of Lincoln,” by ex-Senator James F. Wilson, in North American Review.
The very last words Lincoln delivered on the afternoon before the assassination—last of those great utterances that for six or seven years electrified and enlightened half the world—were a message of suggestion and encouragement to the miners of the Rockies. Schuyler Colfax was going thither and was paying his final call at the White House. Lincoln said to him:
“Mr. Colfax, I want you to take a message from me to the miners whom you visit. I have very large ideas of the mineral wealth of our nation. I believe it is practically inexhaustible. It abounds all over the western country, from the Rocky mountains to the Pacific, and its development has scarcely commenced. During the war, when we were adding a couple of million dollars every day to our national debt, I did not care about encouraging the increase in the volume of our precious metals; we had the country to save first. But now that the rebellion is overthrown, and we know pretty nearly the amount of our national debt, the more gold and silver we mine, we make the payment of that debt so much easier. Now, I am going to encourage that in every possible way. We shall have hundreds of thousands of disbanded soldiers, and many have feared that their return home in such great numbers might paralyze industry by furnishing suddenly a greater supply of labor than there will be a demand for. I am going to try to attract them to the hidden wealth of our mountain ranges, where there is room enough for all. Immigration, which even the war has not stopped, will land upon our shores hundreds of thousands more from over-crowded Europe. I intend to point them to the gold and silver that wait for them in the West. Tell the miners for me, that I shall promote their interests to the best of my ability, because their prosperity is the prosperity of the nation; and we shall prove in a few years that we are indeed the treasury of the world.”