The day following the adjournment at Baltimore, various political organizations called to pay their respects to the President. First came the Convention Committee, embracing one from each State represented,—appointed to announce to him, formally, the nomination. Next came the Ohio delegation, with Menter’s Band, of Cincinnati. Following these were the representatives of the National Union League, to whom he said, in concluding his brief response:—
“I do not allow myself to suppose that either the Convention, or the League, have concluded to decide that I am either the greatest or the best man in America; but, rather, they have concluded that it is not best to swap horses while crossing the river, and have further concluded that I am not so poor a horse, but that they might make a botch of it in trying to swap!”
Another incident, which occurred in the course of the day, created considerable amusement. When the Philadelphia delegation was being presented, the chairman of that body, in introducing one of the members, said: “Mr. President, this is Mr. S——, of the Second District of our State,—a most active and earnest friend of yours and the cause. He has, among other things, been good enough to paint, and present to our League rooms, a most beautiful portrait of yourself.” Mr. Lincoln took the gentleman’s hand in his, and shaking it cordially, said with a merry voice,—“I presume, sir, in painting your beautiful portrait, you took your idea of me from my principles, and not from my person.”
Among the visitors, the same afternoon, were William Lloyd Garrison and Theodore Tilton. In the “Editorial Notes,” concerning the convention and nominations, in his newspaper, the New York “Independent,” the following week, Mr. Tilton wrote:—
“On his reception day, the President’s face wore an expression of satisfaction rather than elation. His reception of Mr. Garrison was an equal honor to host and guest. In alluding to our failure to find the old jail, he said,—‘Well, Mr. Garrison, when you first went to Baltimore you couldn’t get out; but the second time you couldn’t get in!’ When one of us mentioned the great enthusiasm at the convention, after Senator Morgan’s proposition to amend the Constitution, abolishing slavery, Mr. Lincoln instantly said,—‘It was I who suggested to Mr. Morgan that he should put that idea into his opening speech.’ This was the very best word he has said since the proclamation of freedom.”
LII.
I have alluded, on a previous page, to the public concerts of the Marine Band,—from the Washington Navy-yard,—given every Saturday afternoon, during the summer, on the grounds in front of the White House; which, on such occasions, were thronged with visitors. The Saturday following the nominations I invited my friend Cropsey, the landscape-painter, from New York,—who, with his wife, was spending a few days in the city,—to come up with Mrs. C. to the studio, which overlooked the pleasure-grounds, and presented a fine opportunity of enjoying both spectacle and music. The invitation was accepted, and the afternoon was devoted to my guests.
Towards the close of the concert the door suddenly opened, and the President came in, as he was in the habit of doing, alone. Mr. and Mrs. Cropsey had been presented to him in the course of the morning; and as he came forward, half hesitatingly, Mrs. C., who held a bunch of beautiful flowers in her hand, tripped forward playfully, and said: “Allow me, Mr. President, to present you with a bouquet!” The situation was momentarily embarrassing; and I was puzzled to know how “His Excellency” would get out of it. With no appearance of discomposure, he stooped down, took the flowers, and, looking from them into the sparkling eyes and radiant face of the lady, said, with a gallantry I was unprepared for,—“Really, madam, if you give them to me, and they are mine, I think I cannot possibly make so good a use of them as to present them to you, in return!” Chesterfield could not have extricated himself from the dilemma with more tact and address; and the incident, trifling in itself, may serve to illustrate that there existed in the ci-devant “rail-splitter” and “flat-boatman”—uncouth and half-civilized as many supposed him—the essential elements of the true gentleman.
I was always touched by the President’s manner of receiving the salute of the guard at the White House. Whenever he appeared in the portico, on his way to or from the War or Treasury Department, or on any excursion down the avenue, the first glimpse of him was, of course, the signal for the sentinel on duty to “present arms.” This was always acknowledged by Mr. Lincoln with a peculiar bow and touch of the hat, no matter how many times it might occur in the course of a day; and it always seemed to me as much a compliment to the devotion of the soldiers, on his part, as it was the sign of duty and deference on the part of the guard.
The Hon. Mr. Odell gave me a deeply interesting incident, which occurred in the winter of 1864, at one of the most crowded of the Presidential levees, illustrating very perfectly Mr. Lincoln’s true politeness and delicacy of feeling.