“Then take Hank. He’s sick, and will die if he remains here,” and Louis darted into the hospital ward. Hank had a pair of pantaloons and shoes, but no coat or hat. Louis pulled off his, put them on Hank, and brought him out, weak and tottering. As Hank filed out the gate and once more breathed the air of freedom, Louis, hatless and coatless, took hold of the handles of his wheelbarrow and started for another load of wood.
Can mortal mind conceive of such an act? It cost him seven months of a living death, and all for a man with whom he was not even intimately acquainted.
And now for the other side of the picture. Ever since the close of the war, until a few months ago, when Hank died, these two men have lived right here in Wayne County, Hank with a home and family, Louis with neither; have met occasionally, but at no time did Hank ever refer to the act in Millen Prison that set him free and saved his life; never invited him to his home; never alluded to the past, or addressed his savior other than as a mere acquaintance. On his death-bed, however, he told the story, and asked his relatives if they ever had an opportunity, to befriend Louis for his sake. It was tardy acknowledgement of one of the noblest acts the world has ever known.
SOME OF LINCOLN’S JOKES.
President Lincoln has been made responsible for so many jokes, writes Ben. Perley Poore, that he reminds one of a noted Irish wit who, having been ruined by indorsing the notes of his friends, used to curse the day when he learned to write his name, as he had obtained such a reputation for willingness to oblige that he could not refuse. Mr. Lincoln might well have regretted ever having made a joke, for he was expected to say something funny on all occasions, and has been made answerable for all manner of jests, stories and repartee, as if he had combined all the elements of humor, commonplace heartlessness and coarseness, mingled with a passion for reviving the jokes of Joe Miller and the circus clowns. Yet he did say many excellent things. On one occasion Senator Wade came to him and said:
“I tell you, Mr. President, that unless a proposition for emancipation is adopted by the government, we will all go to the devil. At this very moment we are not over one mile from hell.”
“Perhaps not,” said Mr. Lincoln, “as I believe that is just about the distance from here to the Capitol, where you gentlemen are in session.”
On one occasion, at a reception, when the crowd of citizens and soldiers were surging through the salons of the White House, evidently controlled by the somewhat brusque Western element, a gentleman said to him:
“Mr. President, you must diminish the number of your friends, or Congress must enlarge this edifice.”
“Well,” promptly replied Mr. Lincoln, “I have no idea of diminishing the number of my friends; but the only question with me now is whether it will be best to have the building stretched or split.”