His home life was a pleasant one. I often visited at his home, and so far as my observation went, I do not hesitate to say that not the slightest credence should be given to the many false stories that have from time to time appeared, manufactured largely by those who desired to write something new and sensational concerning the life of President Lincoln in his home, and concerning Mrs. Lincoln.

Mr. Lincoln was regarded generally as an ungainly man, and so he was; and yet on occasions he appeared to me to be superior in dignity and nobility to almost any other man whom I have ever seen. I was present when the committee from the National Convention, that gave his first nomination for President, came to Springfield to notify him of his nomination. He stood in the rear of a double parlor in his home, and as the Hon. George F. Ashmun, president of the convention, presented the members of the delegation one by one to him, I thought that he looked what he was—the superior of any man present. Many of the eminent men composing that delegation had believed that Lincoln was some sort of a monster. I stood among them after they had met him and listened to their comments. The lofty character, the towering strength, the majesty of the man had made a great impression upon them. They had come expecting to see a freak; they discovered one of the princes of men.

In this connection, I must be permitted to refer to another occasion. It so happened that I was in Washington when the President's son Willie died. The funeral ceremony took place in the East Room of the White House, in the presence of the President and his cabinet and a few other friends. When the ceremony was about concluded and President Lincoln stood by the bier of his dead boy, with tear- drops falling from his face, surrounded by Seward, Chase, Bates, and others, I thought I never beheld a nobler-looking man. He was at that time truly, as he appeared, a man of sorrow, acquainted with grief, possessing the power and responsibilities of a President of a great Nation, yet with quivering lips and face bedewed with tears, from personal sorrow.

The morning that Abraham Lincoln left his home in Springfield never to return is not to be forgotten. It was early on the morning of the eleventh of February, dark and gloomy, with a light snow falling. There was a large crowd of his neighbors and friends at the station to bid him good-bye. He held a sort of impromptu reception in the little railroad station. There was no noisy demonstration. As I recollect it now, it was a solemn leave-taking. Just before the train pulled out, Mr. Lincoln appeared on the rear platform of his car. Every head was bared, as if to receive a benediction, as he uttered his farewell address:

"My Friends: No one not in my situation can appreciate my feeling of sadness at this parting. To this place, and the kindness of these people, I owe everything. Here I have lived a quarter of a century, and have passed from a young to an old man. Here my children have been born and one is buried. I now leave, not knowing when or whether ever I may return, with a task before me greater than that which rested upon Washington. Without the assistance of that Divine Being who ever attended him, I cannot succeed; with that assistance, I cannot fail. Trusting in Him, who can go with me, and remain with you, and be everywhere for good, let us confidently hope that all will yet be well. To His care commending you, as I hope in your prayers you will commend me, I bid you an affectionate farewell."

I was not present at the first inauguration of President Lincoln, but I visited Washington many times during the years that he was President, and, knowing him as well as I did, and having known both Nicolay and Hay, his secretaries, in Springfield, I naturally spent much time around the executive offices. I had many conversations with him during the early years of the war. He had no military education, but he soon demonstrated that he was in fact the real commander-in-chief. He liked General McClellan, and stuck to him until McClellan had demonstrated his absolute inefficiency for command. McClellan was a great organizer. He made the Army of the Potomac the most perfect fighting machine, I might almost say, that was ever known in military history. But there he stopped. He could organize, but he could not and did not, despite the urging and the anxiety of Mr. Lincoln, push forward his army to victory. I knew something of Mr. Lincoln's anxiety at the failure of McClellan to inaugurate an aggressive campaign.

The late O. M. Hatch of Illinois told me of a rather interesting incident which occurred on one occasion when the President, accompanied by Mr. Hatch, visited McClellan's army a few days prior to the battle of Antietam in September, 1862. They spent the night in a tent, and, rising very early, at the President's suggestion they took a walk before sunrise about the great camp, inspecting the field, the artillery, the quarters, and all the appurtenances of the army. Lincoln was in a pensive mood, and scarcely a word was spoken. Finally, just as the sun was rising, they reached a commanding point; the President stopped, placed his left hand upon Mr. Hatch's shoulder, and slowly waving his right in the direction of the great city of tents, seriously inquired: "Mr. Hatch, what is all this before us?"

"Why, Mr. President," was the surprised reply, "this is General
McClellan's army."

"No, Mr. Hatch, no," returned Lincoln soberly, "this is General
McClellan's body-guard."

It will be understood what these utterances signified: they expressed perfectly the prevailing belief that McClellan had failed to appreciate the purpose for which that magnificent fighting machine had been created.