As a result of this Mr. Blaine became very famous for his memory of names. But even if the story about the source of Blaine’s “memory” is untrue, Lincoln was probably ahead of him and, indeed, of any man in this country; he could remember every person he had ever seen in twenty years’ time. That was one of the things that became evident when I asked him how he could judge the visitors. In the majority of cases he had seen the man or heard of him in some connection, perhaps years before. He also said that he judged strangers by their names because when he heard their names he would think of other people he did know by that name, and he judged they might belong to that family and have the same traits.
He admitted that he was sometimes guided by the suggestion of Artemus Ward, who told him a story of a boys’ club in Boston which did not take in any members who were not Irish. A boy came along and asked to be admitted to the club, and the members asked, “Are you Irish?”
“Oh yes,” replied the boy, “I am Irish.”
“What is your name?”
“My name is Ikey Einstein.”
Lincoln, smiling, said, “The Irish boys kicked that boy out forthwith.”
He said, “Artemus Ward, when telling me that story, confirmed me in my view that a name does have something to do with the man. But,” Lincoln added, “if it is Smith, I have no way of getting at it.” Then he said, more seriously, that he had to be guided a great deal by an instinctive impression of the visitor as he came in the door.
“Seldom a person sits down at this table, or desk, but I have formed an opinion of the man’s disposition and traits, by an instinctive impression.”
He acknowledged that he could not always trust to this, but was generally guided by it and found he got along very well with it. Sometimes, however, he did make a mistake, as when on one occasion he had talked to a man for half an hour as though he was a hotel keeper, and found out afterward that he was a preacher.
Through all this conversation there had run an undercurrent of whimsicality, partly, no doubt, the conscious effort of a sorely tried mind to gain a few minutes’ respite from its pressing cares, but none the less showing a keen and deep-seated appreciation of the funny side of life. Only once did this humor forsake him, and that was when Lincoln spoke of Tad. The little boy had been playing quietly by himself all the time—apparently he was as much at home in the Cabinet Room as in any other part of the White House—and Lincoln told me Tad had been sick and that it worried him.