When the gaunt President shook my hand to thank me, he held it in a grip of iron, and when, to accentuate the compliment, meaning to give a little extra pressure, he put his left hand over his right, I felt as if my hand was shut in a waffle-iron and I should never straighten it out again.
"Music is not much in my line," said the President; "but when you sing you warble yourself into a man's heart. I'd like to hear you sing some more."
What other mild cracker could I fire off? Then I thought of that lovely song, "Mary Was a Lassie," which you like so much, so I sang that.
Mr. Lincoln said, "I think I might become a musician if I heard you often; but so far I only know two tunes."
"'Hail, Columbia'?" I asked. "You know that, I am sure!"
"Oh yes, I know that, for I have to stand up and take off my hat."
"And the other one?"
"The other one! Oh, the other one is the other when I don't stand up!" I am sorry not to have seen Mr. Lincoln again. There was something about him that was perfectly fascinating, but I think I have said this before.
NIAGARA, August, 1864.
DEAR AUNTY,—My last letter, written from Philadelphia, told you of my having made Mr. Lincoln's acquaintance. A few days after we left for Niagara, taking Rochester on our way. I had not seen Rochester since I was eleven years old, and mama and I both wanted to go there again.