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Recollections of Abraham Lincoln 1847-1865

<h2>CHAPTER V.</h2> <h3>HIS SIMPLICITY.</h3> Political definitions have undergone some curious changes in this country since the beginning of the present century. In the year 1801, Thomas Jefferson was the first "republican" President of the United States, as the term was then defined. Sixty years later, Abraham Lincoln was hailed as our first Republican President. The Sage of Monticello was, indeed, the first to introduce at the Executive Mansion a genuine republican code of social and official etiquette. It was a wide departure from the ceremonial and showy observances for which Hamilton, his great rival, had so long contended, and which were peculiarly distasteful to the hardy freemen of the new Republic. Mr. Lincoln profoundly admired the Virginian. Nothing in the career or the policy of Jefferson was nearer his heart than the homely and healthful republicanism implied in the term "Jeffersonian simplicity." While Mr. Lincoln occupied the White House, his intercourse with his fellow-citizens was fashioned after the Jeffersonian idea. He believed that there should be the utmost freedom of intercourse between the people and their President. Jefferson had the truly republican idea[81] that he was the servant of the people, not their master. That was Lincoln's idea also. Jefferson welcomed to the White House the humble mechanic and the haughty aristocrat with the same unaffected cordiality. Mr. Lincoln did the same. "There is no smell of royalty about this establishment," was a jocular expression which I have heard Mr. Lincoln use many times; and it was thoroughly characteristic of the man. "Lincolnian simplicity" was, in fact, an improvement on the code of his illustrious predecessor. The doors of the White House were always open. Mr. Lincoln was always ready to greet visitors, no matter what their rank or calling,—to hear their complaints, their petitions, or their suggestions touching the conduct of public affairs. The ease with which he could be approached vastly increased his labor. It also led to many scenes at the White House that were strangely amusing and sometimes dramatic. Early in the year 1865, certain influential citizens of Missouri, then in Washington, held a meeting to consider the disturbed state of the border counties, and to formulate a plan for securing Executive interference in behalf of their oppressed fellow-citizens. They "where-ased" and "resolved" at great length, and finally appointed a committee charged with the duty of visiting Mr. Lincoln, of stating their grievances, and of demanding the removal of General Fisk and the appointment of Gen. John B. McPherson in his place. The committee consisted of an ex-governor and several able and earnest[82] gentlemen deeply impressed with the importance of their mission. They entered the White House with some trepidation. It was at a critical period of the war, and they supposed it would be difficult to get the ear of the President. Grant was on the march to Richmond, and Sherman's army was returning from the sea. The committee knew that Mr. Lincoln would be engaged in considering the momentous events then developing, and they were therefore greatly surprised to find the doors thrown open to them. They were cordially invited to enter Mr. Lincoln's office. The ex-governor took the floor in behalf of the oppressed Missourians. He first presented the case of a certain lieutenant, who was described as a very lonely Missourian, an orphan, his family and relatives having joined the Confederate army. Through evil reports and the machinations of enemies this orphan had got into trouble. Among other things the orator described the orphan's arrest, his trial and conviction on the charge of embezzling the money of the government; and he made a moving appeal to the President for a reopening of the case and the restoration of the abused man to his rank and pay in the army. The papers in the case were handed to Mr. Lincoln, and he was asked to examine them for himself. The bulky package looked formidable. Mr. Lincoln took it up and began reading aloud: "Whereas, conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman"—"Whereas,[83] without resentment the said lieutenant received a letter from a man named ——, stating that the President must be a negro;" and "Whereas, the said lieutenant corruptly received while an officer on duty, from a man in ——, the sum of forty dollars—" "Stop there!" exclaimed the lieutenant, who was at that moment behind the ex-governor's chair. "Why, Mr. Lincoln—beg pardon—Mr. President, it wa'n't but thirty dollars." "Yes," said the governor, "that charge, Mr. President, is clearly wrong. It was only thirty dollars, as we can prove." "Governor," said Mr. Lincoln, who was by this time thoroughly amused, but grave as a judge, "that reminds me of a man in Indiana, who was in a battle of words with a neighbor. One charged that the other's daughter had three illegitimate children. 'Now,' said the man whose family was so outrageously scandalized, 'that's a lie, and I can prove it, for she only has two.' This case is no better. Whether the amount was thirty dollars or thirty thousand dollars, the culpability is the same." Then, after reading a little further, he said: "I believe I will leave this case where it was left by the officers who tried it." The ex-governor next presented a very novel case. With the most solemn deliberation he began: "Mr. President, I want to call your attention to the case of Betsy Ann Dougherty,—a good woman. She lived in —— County, and did my washing for a long time. Her[84] husband went off and joined the rebel army, and I wish you would give her a protection paper." The solemnity of this appeal struck Mr. Lincoln as uncommonly ridiculous. The two men looked at each other,—the governor desperately in earnest, and the President masking his humor behind the gravest exterior. At last Mr. Lincoln asked with inimitable gravity, "Was Betsy Ann a good washerwoman?" "Oh, yes, sir; she was indeed." "Was your Betsy Ann an obliging woman?" "Yes, she was certainly very kind," responded the governor, soberly. "Could she do other things than wash?" continued Mr. Lincoln, with the same portentous gravity. "Oh, yes; she was very kind—very." "Where is Betsy Ann?" "She is now in New York, and wants to come back to Missouri; but she is afraid of banishment." "Is anybody meddling with her?" "No; but she is afraid to come back unless you will give her a protection paper." Thereupon Mr. Lincoln wrote on a visiting card the following:— <blockquote>Let Betsy Ann Dougherty alone as long as she behaves herself. A. Lincoln. </blockquote> He handed this card to her advocate, saying, "Give this to Betsy Ann." [85]"But, Mr. President, couldn't you write a few words to the officers that would insure her protection?" "No," said Mr. Lincoln, "officers have no time now to read letters. Tell Betsy Ann to put a string in this card and hang it round her neck. When the officers see this, they will keep their hands off your Betsy Ann." A critical observer of this ludicrous scene could not fail to see that Mr. Lincoln was seeking needed relaxation from overburdening cares, relief from the severe mental strain he was daily undergoing. By giving attention to mirth-provoking trifles along with matters of serious concern, he found needed diversion. We can never know how much the country profited by the humor-loving nature of this wonderful man. After patiently hearing all the Missouri committee had to say, and giving them the best assurances circumstances would allow, he dismissed them from his presence, enjoyed a hearty laugh, and then relapsed into his accustomed melancholy, contemplative mood, as if looking for something else,—looking for the end. He sat for a time at his desk thinking, then turning to me he said: "This case of our old friend, the governor, and his Betsy Ann, is a fair sample of the trifles I am constantly asked to give my attention to. I wish I had no more serious questions to deal with. If there were more Betsy Anns and fewer fellows like her husband, we should be better off. She seems to have laundered the governor to his full satisfaction, but I am sorry she didn't keep her husband washed cleaner." [86]Mr. Lincoln was by nature singularly merciful. The ease with which he could be reached by persons who might profit by his clemency gave rise to many notable scenes in the White House during the war. Mr. Wheeler tells of a young man who had been convicted by a military court of sleeping at his post,—a grave offence, for which he had been sentenced to death. He was but nineteen years of age, and the only son of a widowed mother. He had suffered greatly with homesickness, and overpowered at night with cold and watching, was overcome by sleep. He had always been an honest, faithful, temperate soldier. His comrades telegraphed his mother of his fate. She at once went to Orlando Kellogg, whose kind heart promptly responded to her request, and he left for Washington by the first train. He arrived in that city at midnight. The boy was to be executed on the afternoon of the next day. With the aid of his friend, Mr. Wheeler, he passed the military guard about the White House and reached the doorkeeper, who, when he knew Mr. Kellogg's errand, took him to Mr. Lincoln's sleeping-room. Arousing Mr. Lincoln, Mr. Kellogg made known the emergency in a few words. Without stopping to dress, the President went to another room and awakened a messenger. Then sitting down, still in undress, he wrote a telegram to the officer commanding at Yorktown to suspend the execution of the boy until further orders. The telegram was sent at once to the War Department, with directions to the messenger to remain until an answer was received.[87] Getting uneasy at the seeming delay, Mr. Lincoln dressed, went to the Department, and remained until the receipt of his telegram was acknowledged. Then turning to Kellogg, with trembling voice he said, "Now you just telegraph that mother that her boy is safe, and I will go home and go to bed. I guess we shall all sleep better for this night's work." A somewhat similar proof of Mr. Lincoln's mercy is the story told of a very young man living in one of the southern counties of Kentucky, who had been enticed into the rebel army. After remaining with it in Tennessee a few months he became disgusted or weary, and managed to make his way back to his home. Soon after his arrival, some of the military stationed in the town heard of his return and arrested him as a rebel spy, and, after a military trial, he was condemned to be hanged. His family was overwhelmed with distress and horror. Mr. Lincoln was seen by one of his friends from Kentucky, who explained his errand and asked for mercy. "Oh, yes, I understand; some one has been crying, and worked upon your feelings, and you have come here to work on mine." His friend then went more into detail, and assured him of his belief in the truth of the story. After some deliberation, Mr. Lincoln, evidently scarcely more than half convinced, but still preferring to err on the side of mercy, replied: "If a man had more than one life, I think a little hanging would not hurt this one; but after he is once dead we cannot bring him back, no matter[88] how sorry we may be; so the boy shall be pardoned." And a reprieve was given on the spot. The following incident will illustrate another phase of Mr. Lincoln's character. A man who was then in jail at Newburyport, Mass., as a convicted slave-trader, and who had been fined one thousand dollars and sentenced to imprisonment for five years, petitioned for a pardon. The petition was accompanied by a letter to the Hon. John B. Alley, a member of Congress from Lynn, Mass. Mr. Alley presented the papers to the President, with a letter from the prisoner acknowledging his guilt and the justice of his sentence. He had served out the term of sentence of imprisonment, but was still held on account of the fine not being paid. Mr. Lincoln was much moved by the pathetic appeal. He then, after pausing some time, said to Mr. Alley: "My friend, this appeal is very touching to my feelings, and no one knows my weakness better than you. It is, if possible, to be too easily moved by appeals for mercy; and I must say that if this man had been guilty of the foulest murder that the arm of man could perpetrate, I might forgive him on such an appeal. But the man who could go to Africa and rob her of her children, and then sell them into interminable bondage, with no other motive than that which is furnished by dollars and cents, is so much worse than the most depraved murderer that he can never receive pardon at my hand. No, sir; he may stay in jail forever before he shall have liberty by any act of mine." [89]After the war had been fairly inaugurated, and several battles had been fought, a lady from Alexandria visited Mr. Lincoln, and importuned him to give an order for the release of a certain church in that place which had been seized and used as a hospital. He asked and was told the name of the church, and that there were but three or four wounded persons occupying it, and that the inhabitants wanted it to worship in. Mr. Lincoln asked her if she had applied to the post surgeon at Alexandria to give it up. She answered that she had, and that she could do nothing with him. "Well, madam," said he, "that is an end of it then. We put him there to attend to just such business, and it is reasonable to suppose that he knows better what should be done under the circumstances than I do." More for the purpose of testing the sentiments of this visitor than for any other reason, Mr. Lincoln said: "You say you live in Alexandria. How much would you be willing to subscribe towards building a hospital there?" She replied: "You may be aware, Mr. Lincoln, that our property has been very much embarrassed by the war, and I could not afford to give much for such a purpose." "Yes," said Mr. Lincoln, "and this war is not over yet; and I expect we shall have another fight soon, and that church may be very useful as a hospital in which to nurse our poor wounded soldiers. It is my candid opinion that God wants that church for our wounded fellows.[90] So, madam, you will excuse me. I can do nothing for you." Afterward, in speaking of this incident, Mr. Lincoln said that the lady as a representative of her class in Alexandria reminded him of the story of the young man who had an aged father and mother owning considerable property. The young man being an only son, and believing that the old people had lived out their usefulness, assassinated them both. He was accused, tried, and convicted of the murder. When the judge came to pass sentence upon him, and called upon him to give any reason he might have why the sentence of death should not be passed upon him, he with great promptness replied that he hoped the court would be lenient upon him because he was a poor orphan! Two ladies from Tennessee called at the White House one day, and begged Mr. Lincoln to release their husbands, who were rebel prisoners at Johnson's Island. One of the fair petitioners urged as a reason for the liberation of her husband that he was a very religious man; and she rang the changes on this pious plea ad nauseam. "Madam," said Mr. Lincoln, "you say your husband is a religious man. Perhaps I am not a good judge of such matters, but in my opinion the religion that makes men rebel and fight against their government is not the genuine article; nor is the religion the right sort which reconciles them to the idea of eating their bread in the sweat of other men's faces. It is not the kind to get to heaven on." After another interview,[91] however, the order of release was made,—Mr. Lincoln remarking, with impressive solemnity, that he would expect the ladies to subdue the rebellious spirit of their husbands, and to that end he thought it would be well to reform their religion. "True patriotism," said he, "is better than the wrong kind of piety." This is in keeping with a significant remark made by him to a clergyman, in the early days of the war. "Let us have faith, Mr. President," said the minister, "that the Lord is on our side in this great struggle." Mr. Lincoln quietly answered: "I am not at all concerned about that, for I know that the Lord is always on the side of the right; but it is my constant anxiety and prayer that I and this nation may be on the Lord's side." Clergymen were always welcomed by Mr. Lincoln at the White House with the respectful courtesy due to their sacred calling. During the progress of the war, and especially in its earlier stages, he was visited almost daily by reverend gentlemen, sometimes as single visitors, but more frequently in delegations. He was a patient listener to the words of congratulation, counsel, admonition, exhortation, and sometimes reproof, which fell from the lips of his pious callers, and generally these interviews were entertaining and agreeable on both sides. It sometimes happened, however, that these visits were painfully embarrassing to the President. One delegation, for example, would urge with importunate zeal a strict observance of the Sabbath day by the army; others[92] would insist upon a speedy proclamation of emancipation; while some recounted the manifold errors of commanding generals, complained of the tardy action of the government in critical emergencies, and proposed sweeping changes of policy in the conduct of the war. There was scarcely a day when there were not several delegations of this kind to visit him, and a great deal of the President's valuable time was employed in this unimportant manner. One day he was asked by one of these self-constituted mentors, how many men the rebels had in the field? Mr. Lincoln promptly but seriously answered, "Twelve hundred thousand, according to the best authority." His listeners looked aghast. "Good heavens!" they exclaimed in astonishment. "Yes, sir; twelve hundred thousand, no doubt of it. You see, all of our generals when they get whipped say the enemy outnumbers them from three or five to one, and I must believe them. We have four hundred thousand men in the field, and three times four make twelve,—don't you see it? It is as plain to be seen as the nose on a man's face; and at the rate things are now going, with the great amount of speculation and the small crop of fighting, it will take a long time to overcome twelve hundred thousand rebels in arms. If they can get subsistence they have everything else, except a just cause. Yet it is said that 'thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just.' I am willing, however, to risk our advantage of thrice in justice against their thrice in numbers." On but one occasion that I can now recall was Mr.[93] Lincoln's habitual good humor visibly overtaxed by these well-meaning but impatient advisers. A committee of clergymen from the West called one day; and the spokesman, fired with uncontrollable zeal, poured forth a lecture which was fault-finding in tone from beginning to end. It was delivered with much energy, and the shortcomings of the Administration were rehearsed with painful directness. The reverend orator made some keen thrusts, which evoked hearty applause from other gentlemen of the committee. Mr. Lincoln's reply was a notable one. With unusual animation, he said: "Gentlemen, suppose all the property you possess were in gold, and you had placed it in the hands of Blondin to carry across the Niagara River on a rope. With slow, cautious, steady step he walks the rope, bearing your all. Would you shake the cable, and keep shouting to him, 'Blondin! stand up a little straighter! Blondin! stoop a little more; go a little faster; lean more to the south! Now lean a little more to the north!'—would that be your behavior in such an emergency? No; you would hold your breath, every one of you, as well as your tongues. You would keep your hands off until he was safe on the other side. This government, gentlemen, is carrying an immense weight; untold treasures are in its hands. The persons managing the ship of state in this storm are doing the best they can. Don't worry them with needless warnings and complaints. Keep silence, be patient, and we will get you safe across. Good day, gentlemen. I have other duties pressing upon me that must be attended to." [94]This incident made Mr. Lincoln a little shy of preachers for a time. "But the latch-string is out," said he, "and they have the right to come here and preach to me if they will go about it with some gentleness and moderation." He firmly believed that— <div class="poem"> "To speak his thoughts is every freeman's right, In peace and war, in council and in fight."</div> And from this republican idea he would suffer not the slightest departure while he was President. Soon after the affair just described, a man of remarkable appearance presented himself at the White House and requested an audience with Mr. Lincoln. He was a large, fleshy man, of a stern but homely countenance, and of a solemn and dignified carriage. He was dressed in a neatly-fitting swallow-tailed coat, ruffled shirt of faultless fabric, white cravat, and orange-colored gloves. An immense fob chain, to which was attached a huge topaz seal, swung from his watch-pocket, and he carried a large gold-headed cane. His whole appearance was that of a man of great intellect, of stern qualities, of strong piety, and of dignified uncomeliness. He looked in every way like a minister of the gospel, whose vigorous mind was bent on godly themes, and whose present purpose was to discourse to Mr. Lincoln on matters of grave import. "I am in for it now," thought the President. "This pious man means business. He is no common preacher. Evidently his gloomy mind is big with a scheme of no ordinary kind." [95]The ceremony of introduction was unusually formal, and the few words of conversation that followed were constrained. The good man spoke with great deliberation, as if feeling his way cautiously; but the evident restraint which his manner imposed upon Mr. Lincoln seemed not to please him. The sequel was amazing. Quitting his chair, the portly visitor extended his hand to Mr. Lincoln, saying as the latter rose and confronted him: "Well, Mr. President, I have no business with you, none whatever. I was at the Chicago convention as a friend of Mr. Seward. I have watched you narrowly ever since your inauguration, and I called merely to pay my respects. What I want to say is this: I think you are doing everything for the good of the country that is in the power of man to do. You are on the right track. As one of your constituents I now say to you, do in future as you damn please, and I will support you!" This was spoken with tremendous effect. "Why," said Mr. Lincoln in great astonishment, "I took you to be a preacher. I thought you had come here to tell me how to take Richmond," and he again grasped the hand of his strange visitor. Accurate and penetrating as Mr. Lincoln's judgment was concerning men, for once he had been wholly mistaken. The scene was comical in the extreme. The two men stood gazing at each other. A smile broke from the lips of the solemn wag and rippled over the wide expanse of his homely face like sunlight overspreading a continent, and Mr. Lincoln was convulsed with laughter. [96]"Sit down, my friend," said the President; "sit down. I am delighted to see you. Lunch with us to-day. Yes, you must stay and lunch with us, my friend, for I have not seen enough of you yet." The stranger did lunch with Mr. Lincoln that day. He was a man of rare and racy humor,—and the good cheer, the fun, the wit, the anecdotes and sparkling conversation that enlivened the scene was the work of two of the most original characters ever seen in the White House. Shortly after the election of Mr. Lincoln, I talked with him earnestly about the habits, manners, customs, and style of the people with whom he had now to associate, and the difference between his present surroundings and those of his Illinois life, and wherein his plain, practical, common-sense actions differed from the polite, graceful, and elegant bearing of the cultivated diplomat and cultured gentlemen of polite society. Thanks to his confidence in my friendship and his affectionate forbearance with me, he would listen to me with the most attentive interest, always evincing the strongest desire to correct anything in which he failed to be and appear like the people with whom he acted; for it was one of the cardinal traits of his character to be like, of, and for the people, whether in exalted or humble life. A New Hampshire lady having presented to him a soft felt hat of her own manufacture, he was at a loss what to do on his arrival in Washington, as the felt hat seemed unbecoming for a President-elect. He therefore[97] said to me: "Hill, this hat of mine won't do. It is a felt one, and I have been uncomfortable in it ever since we left Harrisburg. Give me that plug of yours, until you can go out in the city and buy one either for yourself or for me. I think your hat is about the style. I may have to do some trotting around soon, and if I can't feel natural with a different hat, I may at least look respectable in it." I went to a store near by and purchased a hat, and by the ironing process soon had it shaped to my satisfaction; and I must say that when Mr. Lincoln put it on, he looked more presentable and more like a President than I had ever seen him. He had very defective taste in the choice of hats, the item of dress that does more than any other for the improvement of one's personal appearance. After the hat reform, I think Mr. Lincoln still suffered much annoyance from the tyranny of fashion in the matter of gloves. His hat for years served the double purpose of an ornamental head-gear and a kind of office or receptacle for his private papers and memoranda. But the necessity to wear gloves he regarded as an affliction, a violation of the statute against "cruelty to animals." Many amusing stories could be told of Mr. Lincoln and his gloves. At about the time of his third reception he had on a tight-fitting pair of white kids, which he had with difficulty got on. He saw approaching in the distance an old Illinois friend named Simpson, whom he welcomed with a genuine Sangamon County[98] shake, which resulted in bursting his white-kid glove with an audible sound. Then raising his brawny hand up before him, looking at it with an indescribable expression, he said,—while the whole procession was checked, witnessing this scene,—"Well, my old friend, this is a general bustification. You and I were never intended to wear these things. If they were stronger they might do well enough to keep out the cold, but they are a failure to shake hands with between old friends like us. Stand aside, Captain, and I'll see you shortly." The procession then advanced. Simpson stood aside, and after the unwelcome pageantry was terminated, he rejoined his old Illinois friend in familiar intercourse. Mr. Lincoln was always delighted to see his Western friends, and always gave them a cordial welcome; and when the proprieties justified it, he met them on the old familiar footing, entertaining them with anecdotes in unrestrained, free-and-easy conversation. He never spoke of himself as President,—always referred to his office as "this place;" would often say to an old friend, "Call me Lincoln: 'Mr. President' is entirely too formal for us." Shortly after the first inauguration, an old and respected friend accompanied by his wife visited Washington, and as a matter of course paid their respects to the President and his family, having been on intimate social terms with them for many years. It was proposed that at a certain time Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln should call at the hotel where they were stopping and[99] take them out for a ride in the Presidential carriage,—a gorgeous and grandly caparisoned coach, the like of which the visitors had seldom seen before that time. As close as the intimacy was, the two men had never seen each other with gloves on in their lives, except as a protection from the cold. Both gentlemen, realizing the propriety of their use in the changed condition of things, discussed the matter with their respective wives, who decided that gloves were the proper things. Mr. Lincoln reluctantly yielded to this decree, and placed his in his pocket, to be used or not according to circumstances. On arriving at the hotel he found his friend, who doubtless had yielded to his wife's persuasion, gloved in the most approved style. The friend, taking in the situation, was hardly seated in the carriage when he began to take off the clinging kids; and at the same time Mr. Lincoln began to draw his on,—seeing which they both burst into a hearty laugh, when Mr. Lincoln exclaimed, "Oh, why should the spirit of mortals be proud?" Then he added, "I suppose it is polite to wear these things, but it is positively uncomfortable for me to do so. Let us put them in our pockets; that is the best place for them, and we shall be able to act more like folks in our bare hands." After this the ride was as enjoyable as any one they had ever taken in early days in a lumber wagon over the prairies of Illinois. An instance showing that the deserving low-born commanded Mr. Lincoln's respect and consideration as well as the high-born and distinguished, may be found in[100] what he said on one occasion to an Austrian count during the rebellion. The Austrian minister to this government introduced to the President a count, subject of the Austrian government, who was desirous of obtaining a position in the American army. Being introduced by the accredited minister of Austria, he required no further recommendation to secure the appointment; but fearing that his importance might not be fully appreciated by the republican President, the count was particular in impressing the fact upon him that he bore that title, and that his family was ancient and highly respectable. Mr. Lincoln listened with attention, until this unnecessary commendation was mentioned; then, with a merry twinkle in his eye, he tapped the aristocratic sprig of hereditary nobility on the shoulder in the most fatherly way, as if the gentleman had made a confession of some unfortunate circumstance connected with his lineage, for which he was in no way responsible, saying, "Never mind, you shall be treated with just as much consideration for all that. I will see to it that your bearing a title sha'n't hurt you." <hr style="width: 65%;" /> [101] <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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