Personal Impressions of Mr. Lincoln.
By F. B. Carpenter
You ask me if I will not write out some incidents of my intercourse with Mr. LINCOLN, for The Independent. The absorbing interest with which everything relating to him is now read, and will be cherished, must be my excuse, if excuse is needed, for thus placing myself before the public. As you and my personal friends generally know, my relation to the late President was peculiar. Perhaps no one outside of his official family ever enjoyed such unusual opportunities for studying and knowing him. For six months of last year, I was an occupant of the White House, permitted, during the whole of this period, the freedom of his private office at almost all hours—engaged upon a work commemorating what he believed to be the greatest event of his life, and by far the most important of his administration; a work in which, as many will bear me witness, he felt and manifested the deepest interest; for the consummation and perfection of which he invited me to the White House. It is no exaggeration, then, to say, that my opportunities for seeing and knowing Mr. LINCOLN were almost unexampled. Many friends have often urged me to write out for publication, the incidents of these, to me, memorable six months. The obvious reasons which have hitherto stood in the way of this, may be said now to exist no longer, and I hope at an early day to be able to put in permanent form, many reminiscences which would at any time, in connection with the illustrious subject, have commanded popular interest, but which will now be invested with a sacredness which belongs only to the history of the world's martyrs. Many persons have formed their impressions of Mr. LINCOLN from the stories in circulation attributed to him, and, consequently, suppose him to have been habitually of a jocund, humorous disposition. This was a characteristic side of him, but it was merely the by-play of his nature. I believe that it was this happy faculty of throwing off care for the moment, that kept him alive under his heavy burdens; but any true discerner of character, looking into that worn and seamed face, would have said at once, 'He is a sad, if not a melancholy man.' It has been the business of my life, as you know, to study the human face, and I say now, as I have said repeatedly to friends, Mr. LINCOLN had the saddest face I ever painted! During some of the dark days of last spring and summer, I saw him at times when his care-worn, troubled appearance, was enough to bring tears of sympathy into the eyes of his most violent enemies. I recall particularly one day, when, having occasion to pass through the main hall of the domestic apartments, I found him all alone, pacing up and down a narrow passage, his hands behind him, his head bent forward upon his breast, heavy black rings under his eyes, showing sleepless nights—altogether such a picture of the effects of weighty cares and responsibilities as I never had seen. And yet he always had a kind word, and almost always a genial smile, and it was his way frequently to relieve himself at such times, by some harmless pleasantry. I recollect an instance told me by one of the most radical members of the last Congress. It was during the darkest days of '62. He called upon the President, early one morning, just after news of a disaster. It was a time of great anxiety if not despondency. Mr. LINCOLN commenced telling some trifling incident—which the Congressman was in no mood to hear. He rose to his feet, and said, "Mr. President, I did not come here this morning to hear stories; it is too serious a time." Instantly the smile disappeared from Mr. LINCOLN's face, who exclaimed, "A—, sit down! I respect you as an earnest, sincere man. You cannot be more anxious than I am constantly, and I say to you now, that were it not for this occasional vent, I should die!" A large number of those whom he saw every day, came with appeals to his feelings in reference to relatives and friends in confinement, and under sentence of death. It was a constant marvel to me, that with all his other cares and duties, he could give so much time and be so patient, with this multitude. I have known him to sit for hours, patiently listening to details of domestic troubles from poor people—much of which, of course, irrelevant—carefully sifting the facts, and manifesting as much anxiety to do exactly right as in matters of the gravest interest. Poorly clad people were more likely to get a good hearing than those who came in silks and velvets. No one was ever turned away from his door because of poverty. If he erred, it was sure to be on the side of mercy. It was one of his most painful tasks to confirm a sentence of death. I recollect the case of a somewhat noted rebel prisoner, who had been condemned to death, I believe as a spy. A strong application had been made to have his sentence commuted. While this was pending, he attempted to escape from confinement, and was shot by the sentinel on guard. Although he richly deserved death, Mr. LINCOLN told Judge Holt in my presence, that "it was a great relief to him that the man took his fate into his own hands." If the slightest occasion existed for showing clemency, he was sure to improve it. Judge Bates, in the same conversation referred to above, said that he had often told the President that "he was hardly fit to be intrusted with the pardoning power." "Why," said the Judge, "he can scarcely turn away from the application (if it touches his feelings) of a man, and the tears of a woman are sure to overcome him!" A touching instance of his kindness of heart occurred quite recently, and was told me incidentally by one of the servants. A poor woman from Philadelphia had been waiting, with a baby in her arms, for three days to see the President. Her husband had furnished a substitute for the army, but some time afterward was one day made intoxicated by some companions, and in this state induced to enlist. Soon after he reached the army he deserted, thinking that, as he had provided a substitute, the Government was not entitled to his services. Returning home, he was, of course, arrested, tried, convicted, and sentenced to be shot. The sentence was to be executed on Saturday. On Monday, his wife left her home with her baby to endeavor to see the President. Said old Daniel: "She had been waiting here three days, and there was no chance for her to get in. Late in the afternoon of the third day, the President was going through the back passage to his private rooms, to get a cup of tea or take some rest." (This passage-way has lately been constructed, and shuts the person passing, entirely out of view of the occupants of the ante-room.) "On his way through he heard the little baby cry. He instantly went back to his office and rang the bell. 'Daniel,' said he, 'is there a woman with a baby in the ante-room?' I said there was, and if he would allow me to say it, I thought it was a case he ought to see; for it was a matter of life and death. Said he, 'Send her to me at once.' She went in, told her story, and the President pardoned her husband. As the woman came out from his presence, her eyes were lifted, and her lips moving in prayer, the tears streaming down her cheeks." Said Daniel: "I went up to her, and pulling her shawl, said, 'Madam, it was the baby that did it!'" Another touching incident occurred, I believe, the same week. A woman in a faded shawl and hood, somewhat advanced in life, at length was admitted, in her turn, to the President. Her husband and three sons, all she had in the world, enlisted. Her husband had been killed, and she had come to ask the President to release to her the oldest son. Being satisfied of the truthfulness of her story, he said, "Certainly, if her prop was taken away, she was justly entitled to one of her boys." He immediately wrote an order for the discharge of the young man. The poor woman thanked him very gratefully, and went away. On reaching the army, she found that this son had been in a recent engagement, was wounded, and taken to a hospital. She found the hospital, but the boy was dead, or died while she was there. The surgeon in charge made a memorandum of the facts upon the back of the President's order, and, almost broken-hearted, the poor woman found her way again into his presence. He was much affected by her appearance and story, and said, "I know what you wish me to do now, and I shall do it without your asking: I shall release to you your second178son." Upon this, he took up his pen and commenced writing the order. While he was writing, the poor woman stood by his side, the tears running down her face, and passed her hand softly over his head, stroking his rough hair, as I have seen a fond mother do to a son. By the time he had finished writing, his own heart and eyes were full. He handed her the paper, "Now," said he, "you have one and I one of the other two left; that is no more than right." She took the paper, and reverently placing her hand again upon his head, the tears still upon her cheeks, said, "The Lord bless you Mr. President. May you live a thousand years, and may you always be the head of this great nation!" I could multiply these instances—for they were of constant occurrence—but my limits warn me to close. No more sincere tears have fallen during the past week, than those shed by the humble and obscure in every part of the country, who had been, in various ways, in contact with that great heart. And many a poor boy—led into error, if not crime, but pardoned in his great compassion, feels to-day that in his death he has lost more than a father. Surely "THE MEMORY OF THE JUST IS BLESSED!"—N. Y. Independent. THE foregoing facts and incidents were contributed by Mr. Carpenter to the N. Y. Independent. To these we may appropriately add the following, contributed by the same writer to the N. Y. Evening Post. MR. LINCOLN'S FAVORITE POEM.
To the Editors of the N. Y. Evening Post. I have been urged by several friends to send you the enclosed poem, written down by myself, from MR. LINCOLN'S lips; and although it may not be new to all of your readers, recent events give it a peculiar interest. The circumstances under which this copy was written are these: I was with the President alone one evening in his room, during the time I was painting my large picture at the White House, last year. He presently threw aside his pen and papers, and began to talk to me of Shakespeare. He sent little "Tad," his son, to the library to bring a copy of the plays, and then read to me several of his favorite passages, showing genuine appreciation of the great poet. Relapsing into a sadder strain, he laid the book aside, and leaning back in his chair, said: "There is a poem which has been a great favorite with me for years, which was first shown to me when a young man by a friend, and which I afterward saw and cut from a newspaper, and learned by heart. I would," he continued, "give a great deal to know who wrote it, but I have never been able to ascertain." Then, half closing his eyes, he repeated to me the lines which I enclose to you. Greatly pleased and interested, I told him I would like, if ever an opportunity occurred, to write them down from his lips. He said he would some time try to give them to me. A few days afterward he asked me to accompany him to the temporary studio of Mr. Swayne, the sculptor, who was making a bust of him at the Treasury Department. While he was sitting for the bust, I was suddenly reminded of the poem, and said to him, that then would be a good time to dictate it to me. He complied, and sitting up on some books at his feet, as nearly as I can remember, I wrote the lines down, one by one, from his lips. Oh, why should the spirit of mortals be proud?
Like a swift fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passeth from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust, and together shall lie. The infant a mother attended and loved;
The mother that infant's affection who proved;
The husband, that mother and infant who blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne;
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap;
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep;
The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread. So the multitude goes, like the flower of the weed
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told. For we are the same our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen—
We drink the same stream and view the same sun—
And run the same course our fathers have run. The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking, our fathers would shrink;
To the life we are clinging they also would cling;
But it speeds from us all, like a bird on the wing. They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. They died; aye! they died: we things that are now,
That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
And make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road. Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
We mingle together in sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath;
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud—
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?