L.
A day or two previous to the meeting of the Republican Convention, the President read me his letter to the “Owen Lovejoy Monument Association,”—lately written, and not then published,—in which he expressed his appreciation of Mr. Lovejoy in nearly the same language I had heard him use on a former occasion. “Throughout my heavy and perplexing responsibilities here,” ran the letter, “to the day of his death, it would scarcely wrong any other to say he was my most generous friend. Let him have the marble monument, along with the well assured and more enduring one in the hearts of those who love liberty unselfishly for all men.” A noble tribute, in fitly chosen words!
The evening following the reading of this letter, he said that Mrs. Lincoln and he had promised half an hour to a sort of “artist” who wished to “exhibit” before them in the red-room below. “What kind of an artist?” I inquired. “Oh, not in your line,” he answered; “I think he is a sort of mountebank, or comic lecturer, or something of the kind.” On my way to my own room, I met in the passage the well-known “Jeems Pipes of Pipesville,”—otherwise Stephen Massett,—whom I at once conjectured to be the individual the President had referred to. The two rooms communicating by double doors, I could not well avoid overhearing a portion of the performance, or more properly lecture, which I think was announced by the title of “Drifting About.” Comic imitations of various characters were given, among others that of a stammering man, which appeared greatly to amuse Mr. Lincoln. I could only now and then catch a word of the burlesque, but the voice and ringing laugh of the President were perfectly distinguishable. When the “lecture” ceased, Mr. Lincoln said, “I want to offer a suggestion. I once knew a man who invariably ‘whistled’ with his stammering,” and he then gave an imitation. “Now,” he continued, “if you could get in a touch of nature like that it would be irresistibly ludicrous.” “Pipes” applauded the amendment, rehearsing it several times, until he had mastered it to the President’s satisfaction; and I dare say the innovation became a part of all subsequent performances.
About this period numerous delegations from various religious bodies and associations thronged the White House. Among the number none met so cordial a reception as that of the “Christian Commission,” composed of volunteer clergymen who had just returned from the Wilderness battleground. In the brief address by the chairman of the occasion, he stated that the group before the President embraced those who had been first on the field to offer aid and refreshments to the wounded of that terrible series of battles. In reply Mr. Lincoln expressed his appreciation of the self-denying services rendered by the Commission, in feeling terms. He concluded his response in these words: “And I desire also to add to what I have said, that there is one association whose object and motives I have never heard in any degree impugned or questioned; and that is the ‘Christian Commission.’ And in ‘these days of villany,’ as Shakspeare says, that is a record, gentlemen, of which you may justly be proud!” Upon the conclusion of the “ceremony,” he added, in a conversational tone, “I believe, however, it is old ‘Jack Falstaff’ who talks about ‘villany,’ though of course Shakspeare is responsible.”
After the customary hand-shaking, which followed, several gentlemen came forward and asked the President for his autograph. One of them gave his name as “Cruikshank.” “That reminds me,” said Mr. Lincoln, “of what I used to be called when a young man—‘long-shanks.’” Hereupon the rest of the party, emboldened by the success of the few, crowded around the desk, and the President good naturedly wrote his name for each; the scene suggesting forcibly to my mind a country schoolmaster’s weekly distribution of “tickets” among his pupils.
LI.
The “Baltimore Convention,” which renominated Mr. Lincoln, was convened June 7, 1864. It created comparatively little excitement in Washington or elsewhere, as the action of the various State legislatures and local mass meetings had prepared the public mind for the result.
Toward evening of the 8th,—the day the nominations were made,—Major Hay and myself were alone with the President in his office. He did not seem in any degree exhilarated by the action of the convention; on the contrary, his manner was subdued, if not sad. Upon the lighting of the gas, he told us how he had that afternoon received the news of the nomination for Vice-President before he heard of his own. It appeared that the despatch announcing his renomination had been sent to his office from the War Department while he was at lunch. Afterward, without going back to the official chamber, he proceeded to the War Department. While there, the telegram came in announcing the nomination of Johnson. “What!” said he to the operator, “do they nominate a Vice-President before they do a President?” “Why!” rejoined the astonished official, “have you not heard of your own nomination? It was sent to the White House two hours ago.” “It is all right,” was the reply; “I shall probably find it on my return.”
Laughing pleasantly over this incident, he said, soon afterward,—“A very singular occurrence took place the day I was nominated at Chicago, four years ago, of which I am reminded to-night. In the afternoon of the day, returning home from down town, I went up-stairs to Mrs. Lincoln’s sitting-room. Feeling somewhat tired, I lay down upon a couch in the room, directly opposite a bureau upon which was a looking-glass. As I reclined, my eye fell upon the glass, and I saw distinctly two images of myself, exactly alike, except that one was a little paler than the other. I arose, and lay down again, with the same result. It made me quite uncomfortable for a few moments, but some friends coming in, the matter passed out of my mind. The next day, while walking in the street, I was suddenly reminded of the circumstance, and the disagreeable sensation produced by it returned. I had never seen anything of the kind before, and did not know what to make of it. I determined to go home and place myself in the same position, and if the same effect was produced, I would make up my mind that it was the natural result of some principle of refraction or optics which I did not understand, and dismiss it. I tried the experiment, with a like result; and, as I had said to myself, accounting for it on some principle unknown to me, it ceased to trouble me. But,” said he, “some time ago, I tried to produce the same effect here, by arranging a glass and couch in the same position, without success.” He did not say, at this time, that either he or Mrs. Lincoln attached any omen to the phenomenon; neither did he say that the double reflection was seen while he was walking about the room. On the contrary, it was only visible in a certain position and at a certain angle; and therefore, he thought, could be accounted for upon scientific principles.[7]
A little later in the evening, the Hon. Mr. Kelley, of Philadelphia, came in. As he sat down, he took a letter out of his pocket, saying: “Mr. President, while on a visit home, a week or two ago, I took up a number of the “Anti-Slavery Standard,” in which there happened to be a communication from Mrs. Caroline H. Dall, of Boston, giving her views of the Fremont movement, and the situation generally; so admirable in its tone and spirit, that I could not resist the inclination to write to the author, expressing the interest with which I had read the article. The result was a reply, which I hold in my hand, which seems to me so just and able a statement of your position, from the stand-point of a true woman, that I have brought it up to read to you.” Mr. Lincoln nodded assent, and listened pensively to the eloquent tones of the Congressman’s voice, who entered into the spirit of the letter with his whole heart,—affirming, as it did, unwavering confidence in the President; the sincerity of his anti-slavery convictions and purposes; and appreciation of the difficulties which had environed him,—presenting, in this respect, a marked contrast to the letters and speeches of many of the so-called radicals. Mr. Lincoln said but little, as Judge Kelley concluded; but one or two expressions, and the manner accompanying them, showed that the sentiments of the writer of the letter were gratefully appreciated.