STORY OF MOTHER BICKERDYKE CONCLUDED---FOLLOWING THE FLAG IN THE ATLANTA CAMPAIGN---HER MOTHERLY MINISTRATIONS IN THE MIDST OF BATTLE---HER LIFE AND CAREER SINCE THE WAR.

Mother Bickerdyke makes an eloquent Speech---Disregards Sherman's Orders, and calls on him.---Obtains the Favor she seeks---Six Months in the Rear of Battles---Death of General McPherson---Sherman begins his March to the Sea---Mother Bickerdyke packs all Hospital Supplies, and sends to Nashville---Goes to meet Sherman with a Steamer loaded with Supplies, as he directed---They are not needed, and she cares for the Andersonville Prisoners---The War ends, and she returns to Louisville---Her Life since the War---The Government grants a pension to her---The Soldiers do not forget her---Her Effort to keep a Hotel in Kansas not a Success---Unsectarian, but Christian Her present Home.

OW for the first time, and the only time, Mother Bickerdyke broke down. The hardships through which she had passed, her labors, her fastings, her anxieties, had been sufficient to kill a dozen women. She was greatly reduced by them; and as soon as her place could be supplied by another matron, she came North, a mere shadow of her former self.

The same efforts were made to honor her as on a previous visit; but, as before, she put aside all invitations. She had rendered great service to the Wisconsin regiments in the Western army; and the people of Milwaukee, who were just then holding a fair for the relief of sick and wounded soldiers, would not be denied the pleasure of a visit from her. I accompanied her, for she refused to go anywhere to be lionized unless some one was with her, "to bear the brunt of the nonsense," as she phrased it. She was overwhelmed with attentions. The Milwaukee Chamber of Commerce had made an appropriation of twelve hundred dollars a month for hospital relief, to be continued until the end of the war. And she was invited to their handsome hall, to receive from them a formal expression of gratitude for her care of Wisconsin soldiers. Ladies were invited to occupy the gallery, which they packed to the utmost. A very felicitous address was made her by the President of the Board of Trade, in behalf of the state of Wisconsin, and she was eloquently thanked for her patriotic labors, and informed of the recent pledge of the Board. A reply was expected of her, which I feared she would decline to make; but she answered briefly, simply, and with great power.

"I am much obliged to you, gentlemen," she answered, "for the kind things you have said. I haven't done much, no more than I ought; neither have you. I am glad you are going to give twelve hundred dollars a month for the poor fellows in the hospitals; for it's no more than you ought to do, and it isn't half as much as the soldiers in the hospitals have given for you. Suppose, gentlemen, you had got to give to-night one thousand dollars or your right leg, would it take long to decide which to surrender? Two thousand dollars or your right arm; five thousand dollars or both your eyes; all that you are worth or your life?

But I have got eighteen hundred boys in my hospital at Chattanooga who have given one arm, and one leg, and some have given both; and yet they don't seem to think they have done a great deal for their country. And the graveyard behind the hospital, and the battle-field a little farther off, contain the bodies of thousands who have freely given their lives to save you and your homes and your country from ruin. Oh, gentlemen of Milwaukee, don't let us be telling of what we have given, and what we have done! We have done nothing, and given nothing, in comparison with them! And it's our duty to keep on giving and doing just as long as there's a soldier down South fighting or suffering for us."

It would not be easy to match the pathos and eloquence of this untutored speech.

As soon as she had regained health and strength, Mother Bickerdyke returned to her post. General Sherman was pouring supplies, provender, and ammunition into Chattanooga; for it was to be his base of supplies for the Atlanta campaign. He had issued an order absolutely forbidding agents of sanitary stores, or agents of any description, to go over the road from Nashville to Chattanooga. He alleged as the reason for this prohibition that he wished the entire ability of the railroad devoted to strictly active military operations. There was great distress in the hospitals below Nashville, in consequence of this stringent order, and uneasiness and anxiety at the North, because of its seemingly needless inhumanity. Mother Bickerdyke found Nashville full of worried agents, and of sanitary stores that were needed down the road, and spoiling for lack of transportation. Her pass from General Grant would take her to Chattanooga despite General Sherman's prohibition.

Before starting, her fertility of invention manifested itself in a characteristic act. Ambulances with mules in harness were being sent to various points, against the day of need. No barrels were allowed in these ambulances; but all the bags they could hold could be crowded in. Getting such help as she could muster, they, made bags, which were filled with dried apples, peaches, potatoes, and any other sanitary articles that could he sent in them as well as in barrels; and the ambulances went away packed with articles for the hospitals. Forty such left for Huntsville, Ala., thirty for Bridgeport, and several for other points. Then Mother Bickerdyke, despite remonstrance and opposition, took the next train for Chattanooga, and made her unexpected début at General Sherman's headquarters.

"Halloo! Why, how did you get down here?" asked one of the General's staff officers, as he saw her enter Sherman's headquarters.

"Came down in the cars, of course. There's no, other way of getting down here that I know of," replied the matter-of-fact woman. "I want to see General Sherman."

"He is in there, writing," said the officer, pointing to an inner room;. "but I guess he won't see you."

"Guess he will!" and she pushed into the apartment. "Good morning, General! I want to speak to you a moment. May I come in?"

"I should think you had got in!" answered the General, barely looking up, in great annoyance. "What's up now?"

"Why, General," said the earnest matron, in a perfect torrent of words, "we can't stand this last order of yours, nohow. You'll have to change it, as sure as you live. We can get along without any more nurses and agents, but the supplies we must have. The sick and wounded men need them, and you'll have to give permission to bring them down. The fact is, General, after a man is unable to carry a gun, and drops out of the lines, you don't trouble yourself about him, but turn him over to the hospitals, expecting the doctors and nurses to get him well and put back again into the service as soon as possible. But how are we going to make bricks without straw? Tell me that if you can."

"Well, I'm busy to-day, and cannot attend to you. I will see you some other time." But though Sherman kept on writing, and did not look up, Mother Bickerdyke saw a smile lurking in the corner of his mouth, and knew she would carry her point. So she persisted.

"No, General! Don't send me away until you've fixed this thing as it ought to be fixed. You had me assigned to your corps, and told me that you expected me to look after the nursing of the men who needed it. But I should like to know how I can do this if I don't have anything to work with? Have some sense about it now, General!"

There was a hearty laugh at this, and a little badinage ensued, which Mother Bickerdyke ended in her brusque way, with, "Well, I can't stand fooling here all day. Now, General, write an order for two cars a day to be sent down from the Sanitary Commission at Nashville, and I'll be satisfied." The order was written, and for weeks all the sanitary stores sent from Nashville to Chattanooga, and the posts along that road, were sent directly or indirectly through this mediation of Mother Bickerdyke.

When General Sherman was prepared to move on his Atlanta campaign, Mother Bickerdyke with Mrs. Porter accompanied the army on its bloody but victorious march. They were constantly in the immediate rear of the fighting, and made extraordinary exertions to keep the department of special relief at its very highest point of efficiency. In this they were aided by the Sanitary Commission, and by the army officers. It was not unwise for officers to reveal to Mrs. Bickerdyke enough of army plans to enable her to make preparation for coming emergencies, for she always proved a safe depository of secrets. Those who worked with her most constantly saw that she generally knew when to have prepared in the hospitals, huge kettles of coffee, soup, and mush; when to have rough beds made of pine and hemlock boughs with the large stems cut out, on which were spread blankets; when to order forward teams laden with supplies, following herself in close proximity in an ambulance. They attributed her promptness to intelligent foresight; but it was actual knowledge of coming events, in most cases.

I despair of giving any account of the work accomplished by Mrs. Bickerdyke and Mrs. Porter from April to November of 1864. What it is to "follow an army" when there is no fighting in progress, can only be understood by those who have experienced it. What it was to follow Sherman's army in that Atlanta campaign, when it fought every foot of the way, over rugged mountains, through deep, narrow ravines, through thick, primitive woods, across headlong rivers---to follow with only the one aim of ministering to the exhausted, the suffering, the wounded, the dying---with only a blanket and a pillow for a bed---the roar of artillery, the clash of arms, the cries of distress, and the shout of battle continually resounding---to live night and day in the midst of these horrors, in constant attendance upon the mangled and anguished soldiers brought to them from the rear, or taken to their extemporized hospitals,---this cannot be described.

As they were pushing along in their ambulance on one occasion, packed with battle-stores, they heard the distant sounds of a fierce cannonade---and knew that a battle was in progress ahead of them. On they went, the sounds becoming louder, clearer, and more distinct. Now it was mingled with the crash of musketry, the calls of half a hundred bugles, the thundered commands of officers leading their men to the conflict, the yells of the infuriated soldiers as they hurled themselves on their antagonists with the shock of an avalanche and sometimes, overtopping all, the awful cries of mortal agony, that came up from the battle-field, from men writhing in every form of ghastly wound. They were in the rear of the battle of Resaca. On one side were heaped the knapsacks, and other impedimenta, of which the men had stripped themselves for the fight---on the other the amputating tents of the surgeons, surrounded by an ever-increasing quantity of mangled and dissevered limbs. The field hospitals were in readiness for the wounded, who lay about under trees, and on the grass, awaiting their turn at the amputating table, or to have their wounds dressed.

In a very short time both women were at work. Their portable kettles, with furnaces attached, were set up, their concentrated extract of beef was uncanned, and soon the fainting and famishing men were uttering their thanks for the great refreshment of a palatable soup. In the interim, they dressed wounds, took down memoranda of last messages to be sent North to friends, received and labelled dying gifts to be distributed East, West, and North, encouraged the desponding, and sped the parting soul to Heaven with a brief verse of hymn, a quotation from the words of Christ, or a fervent and tender prayer. This arduous but blessed work they continued at Kingston, Altoona, and Kenesaw Mountain, on to Atlanta.

Never were the services of women more needed; never were soldiers more grateful for their motherly ministrations. The Atlanta campaign was made a success, not alone by the consummate genius and skill of its great commander, but by downright, unflinching, courageous hard fighting, such as the world has never seen surpassed. The whole campaign must forever stand unsurpassed in the annals of history.

Nor were the enemy less daring and wondrously brave than the Union forces. "For half an hour the two armies fought face to face, each side of the same line of intrenchments, with the battle colors of the respective armies flying from the same works." At the battle of Atlanta, General McPherson was killed, an officer beloved by all, civilians, privates, and commanders. General Grant discovered his worth, and depended on him, long before the public had heard of him. He was very able in council, or on the field, and was as noble and pure-minded as he was able. When the tidings of his death reached General Sherman, he turned away from his staff officers, and burst into tears. Nor was General Grant less afflicted. Always reticent and undemonstrative, he walked away to his headquarters, where, for a long time, he was alone with his sorrow. With her usual thoughtfulness, Mother Bickerdyke took the blouse in which General McPherson met his death, and which was saturated with his blood, washed it, and then forwarded it to the bereaved mother of the dead officer.

After Sherman had taken possession of Atlanta , Mother Bickerdyke went there also, pursuing her unwearied work as the good Samaritan of the soldiers. Not until Sherman stood detached from his communications, with his whole force grouped about Atlanta, ready for his march to the sea, did she prepare for her departure. Then she superintended the packing and boxing of all the hospital supplies, saw them safely and securely on their way to Nashville, and left the doomed city. And then Atlanta was on fire; and, as she looked back, on her road northward, it was enveloped in smoke and flames, like a second Sodom and Gomorrah.

General Sherman had directed her to meet him when he reached the Atlantic coast, and to bring to his troops all the supplies that could be gathered. He gave her orders for transportation on his account to any desired extent. She was in Philadelphia, on the lookout for tidings from him, when he reached Savannah. With his orders, she had obtained a steamboat from the quartermaster; and then she called on the Christian Commission to fill it. Its president, George H. Stuart, did not hesitate to grant Mrs. Bickerdyke's request. The boat was loaded under his direction, with choice dried and canned fruits, clothing, crackers, butter, cheese, tea, sugar, condensed milk, tapioca, extract of beef, corn starch, lemons, oranges, tin cups for drinking, a span of mules, an ambulance for her own use,---everything, in short, suggested by knowledge and experience.

It steamed to Wilmington, S. C., carrying happy Mother Bickerdyke along. Here the Andersonville prisoners were first brought, and again the indefatigable woman set to work, regardless of Sherman and his soldiers, who were well enough without her; for they appeared at Savannah fat and hearty; and if ragged and dirty, the government was able to supply in full their demands for clothing and rations. But the poor Andersonville victims, who had been starved into idiocy and lunacy, now claimed her attention; and not until the last of these were buried, or were able to leave for the North, did she take her departure.

By this time Lee had capitulated, the war was ended, and the whole country was given up to a delirium of thankfulness. Then she followed the stream of blue-coats to Washington, finding daily more work to do than a dozen could perform. She had the great pleasure of witnessing the grand review of the troops at Washington, and then went West, laboring in the hospitals at Louisville and Nashville until they were closed.

While she was at Louisville, some troops left for a distant post in Texas, where scurvy was making sad havoc. As a quantity of anti-scorbutics could be forwarded to the sufferers in the care of these soldiers, Mrs. Bickerdyke decided it should be done. The vegetables could reach their destination without trans-shipment; the captain of the boat promised to delay the departure of the steamer until their arrival on the wharf. Under difficulties that would have thwarted any women less resolute than Mrs. Bickerdyke and Mrs. Porter, wagons were hired, the potatoes loaded, and started for the wharf, both ladies accompanying the shipment. The rain poured in torrents, the mud was almost impassable, and the drivers made slow time. When they reached the landing the boat was far out in the stream.

"It shall come back!" said indomitable Mother Bickerdyke; and, rising in the wagon, while the rain pelted both women piteously, she beckoned energetically to the boat to return. The captain saw her, and seemed to be considering. With yet more emphasis and authority, she waved renewed signals for a return. The boat slackened speed. Now, drivers, bystanders, and both women, by pantomime, that expressed entreaty and command, urged the boat to retrace its course. It rounded to, steamed back to the landing, and took the anti-scorbutics on board.

"I didn't think you could get them down here in this pouring rain, especially as it is Sunday!" explained the captain.

"Didn't think!" said Mother Bickerdyke. "Sakes alive! What did you suppose I meant when I told you they should be here at the time you appointed? I mean what I say, and I like to have folks do as they agree."

The next morning a caricature appeared in the shop windows of Louisville, representing a woman in a Shaker bonnet ordering a government steamer with a wave of her hand. A copy of it found its way to the rooms of the Commission.

For a year after the war, Mother Bickerdyke served as house-keeper in the Chicago "Home of the Friendless," where the family averaged one hundred and fifty. Such house-keeping never was known there before. It seemed small business to her, however, and she became discontented and left. She pushed West into Kansas, which was fast filling up with returned soldiers, who were eager to locate the one hundred and sixty acres of land given them by government within the limits of that promising state. She pre-empted her claim with the "boys," taking care to secure it, so that eventually it would become the property of her sons.

Encouraged and aided by the Kansas Pacific Railroad Company, she opened a hotel at Salina, a town of about a thousand inhabitants at that time, lying on the Santa Fé route. Five trains daily passed to and fro through the town, while the "prairie schooners," as the emigrant wagons were called, maintained an almost unbroken procession westward past her doors. She called her house "The Salina Dining-Hall "; but everybody else called it "The Bickerdyke House." In her dining-room, where one hundred and ten persons could be comfortably seated, one was always certain of an excellent meal, well cooked and well served, while the neatness of the whole establishment was proverbial. There were thirty-three sleeping rooms in the house, plainly furnished, but glorified by wonderful cleanliness. When she could pay for the property she was to become its owner. Were Mother Bickerdyke the excellent financier that she is nurse and house-keeper, she would now be in possession of a comfortable home and of a valuable piece of property. It is not often that one woman combines in herself all excellent, or even necessary qualities; and Mother Bickerdyke's hotel passed out of her hands through her lack of financial skill.

When Kansas was ravaged by locusts, and the people were brought to the verge of starvation, she came East to solicit help for them. Carloads of food and clothing were forwarded to various reliable parties for distribution, at her suggestion, while she remained in the field, stimulating continued donations. She went to Washington to plead for seed for the farmers, which was granted in abundance, and only ceased her efforts when the needs of the destitute people were supplied.

She repeated this merciful work when the forest fires of Northern Michigan swept away millions of dollars worth of property, and caused the loss of hundreds of lives. The suffering and destitution of that section of country were inexpressible, and Mother Bickerdyke bent her energies again to the work of relief, distributing in person the supplies she collected. Her executive ability was called into requisition, as, with her customary ubiquity, she was here and there and everywhere, seeking to rebuild homes which had been destroyed, and to gather households dispersed by the merciless conflagration.

At present, she resides in San Francisco, where she has a position in the U. S. Mint. More than eighteen years ago, her friends began to petition Congress to grant her a pension. Their efforts were persistent and earnest, until, a year ago, they were crowned with success, and a monthly pension of $25 was given her. It was a niggardly and tardy recognition of her heroic services. If she had her deserts she would be handsomely provided for by Government. But the Grand Army Posts of the country do not forget her, and her friends will bear her on their hearts, through life.

Last summer she came to Massachusetts for a brief visit with her old friends. She arrived at my home at the close of a dismally rainy day, wet and exhausted. She had spent the day in Boston, searching for an old soldier from Illinois, who had served out three terms in the house of correction, for drunkenness, during the last ten years. I remonstrated. "My dear friend, why do you, at the age of seventy-three, waste yourself on such a worthless creature as B-----? " Turning to me with a flash of her blue eyes, she answered: "Mary Livermore, I have a commission from the Lord God Almighty to do all I can for every miserable creature who comes in my way. He's always sure of two friends---God and me!"

Mother Bickerdyke is of medium height, with brown hair, now well sprinkled with white, blue eyes, and a mouth of sweetness and firmness. When young, she must have possessed considerable beauty; for, after more than sixty years' incredible wear and tear of life, she is still a comely woman. Always cheerful, never discouraged, brave, indomitable, witty, shrewd, versatile, clear-headed, unique---she only needed early advantages to have made her a very remarkable woman. Sympathy with the oppressed and feeble, with little children, and with all who are in trouble, is a prominent characteristic of her nature. Although she is a member of the Congregationalist Church, yet in church matters, as in war times, she cuts red tape, and goes where she pleases. She communes now with Methodists, and now with Unitarians, just as she happens to "light on 'em," to use her own phraseology, and nobody can hinder. She is a practical Christian of the most genuine type.

To know the estimation in which she was held by the army, one needs to go West. Many of my engagements are with lecture committees of Grand Army posts in the West. And at the first convenient moment the old veterans look into my face with the inquiries, "How long since you saw Mother Bickerdyke?" or "Isn't it possible to get a pension for Mother Bickerdyke?" Immediately, the members of their households cluster about us, and for a few moments every heart beats faster and kindlier, as her deeds of unselfish heroism are chronicled, or the motherly tenderness of her life in the hospitals is discussed, for the hundredth time.

While this book was in press, I was called to Kansas, a state in which one hundred and eighty thousand soldiers are settled. While I was there, a Soldiers' Convention was held in Topeka, the capital city, which was very largely attended. Mother Bickerdyke came from San Francisco, the invited guest of the Convention, and, just as the veterans were entering on their deliberations, made her appearance in the rear of the house.

In an instant there was a joyful confusion in the neighborhood of the door, a rush, a subdued shout, a repressed cheer. The presiding officer called for order, and rapped vigorously with his gavel. But the hubbub increased, and spread towards the centre of the hall. Again the chairman sought to quell the disturbance, rapping forcibly, and uttering his commands in an authoritative voice: "Gentlemen in the rear of the house must come to order, and take their seats! It is impossible to transact business in this confusion!"

"Mother Bickerdyke is here!" shouted a chorus of voices in explanation, which announcement put an end to all thoughts of business, and brought every man to his feet, and sent a ringing cheer through the hail. All pressed towards the motherly woman, known by all soldiers in the West, many thousands of whom are indebted to. her for care, nursing, tenderness, and help, in the direst hours of their lives. Gray-haired and gray-bearded men took her in their arms and kissed her. Others wept over her. Men on crutches and men with empty coat-sleeves stood outside the surging crowd, with shining eyes, waiting their turn to greet their benefactress.

"Why, boys, how you behave!." was Mother Bickerdyke's characteristic exclamation, as, releasing herself from the smothering caresses and the strong imprisoning arms, she wiped away tears of memory and gladness. This raised a shout of laughter. "Oh, mother, your brown hair has grown white as snow," said one; "but I should know you by your speech, if I met you in Africa."

"I should know her by the tender eyes and the kind mouth," said another. "I shall never forget how good they looked to me after the battle of Resaca, where I lost my foot, and gave myself up to die, I was in such pain. I tell you, it seemed as if my own mother was doing for me, she was, so gentle. She looked down upon me, and encouraged me, and nursed me, as if I were her son." And he wiped his wet eyes with the back of his hand.

Had Mother Bickerdyke been a queen, she could not have been more royally welcomed. It seemed impossible for the men to pay her sufficient honor. They noted her increasing feebleness, her crippled hands, her snowy hair, her dimming eyes, and said to each other, "It isn't the result of old age; it is what she did for us during the war." Only that Mother Bickerdyke resolutely forbids it, they would surround her with luxury, and she would lack for no comfort, even if they impoverished themselves to obtain them. "The boys have all they can do to make a living for themselves and families," she says, " and they shall not be weighted with the care of me." And so, when the Convention was ended, and the men went back to their farms and shops and offices, she turned her face towards San Francisco, to take up again the burden of her lonely life.

While the Massachusetts State Prison at Charlestown was under the management of Warden Gideon Haynes, I was invited to address the prisoners. At the close of the informal talk, Mr. Haynes gave the convicts who desired to speak with me permission to remain in their seats when the rest marched to their cells. About a dozen accepted the invitation. Of these, three were solicitous to know something concerning Mother Bickerdyke. "Was she living?" "Had she a pension?" "What was her post-office address?" And as each one detailed the circumstances of his personal acquaintance with Mrs. Bickerdyke, I knew enough of his story to be true to believe the whole.

"Ah, if I had had a mother like her," said one, as we parted, "I shouldn't be here to-day. For she was a true mother to me not only nursing me, but advising me," Similar utterances were made by others.

MY REMINISCENCES OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN---EXPERIENCES IN THE "WIGWAM"---EXCITING SCENES---MY INTERVIEWS WITH THE PRESIDENT AT THE WHITE HOUSE.

Early Life of President Lincoln---My first Knowledge of him, in 1858---"The Battle of the Giants"---He is nominated in 1860 for the Presidency---My Experience in the "Wigwam" as a Reporter---The memorable Scenes attending the Nomination---My Visit to Washington in 1862---Gloomy Period of the War---Call on the President---his Depression---Discouraging Statements---Wholesale Desertions from the Army---"To undertake to fill up the Army is like shovelling Fleas!"---Mrs. Hoge and see the president alone---His Suffering during the War---He contributes the manuscript Proclamation of Emancipation to the Chicago Sanitary Fair---A Premium sent him as the largest Contributor.

ATURE is not lavish of great men, but distributes them charily through the centuries. Often she evolves them from the obscurity where they have slowly crystallized into force and clearness only when the crises appear for whose mastership they were ordained.

Like the stars of evening, they spring not into instantaneous being, but only appear after they have been slowly formed in dimness and mistiness, after long revolving, condensing, and gathering pale rays of light. Then they stand out on the brow of night, ever after to be the guide and admiration of men.

It was thus with President Lincoln, whose life was crowned with the glory of martyrdom. The discipline of poverty, and hard wrestling with nature in the blended timber and prairie country of the unsubdued West, matured him to a late but sturdy manhood. The softening culture of the schools was held aloof from him. The civic honors for which in early life he struggled eluded his pursuit, and crowned his rival. The golden stream of Pactolus flowed far away from his feet. And so Nature and circumstance shaped him vigorous, cool-headed warm-hearted, self-poised, strong-handed. A child-like simplicity remained in him, that ever proved more than a match for the subtleties of political tricksters. Transcendent honesty and clear-sighted goodness stood him in stead of genius and inspiration. For half a century his manhood was built up by gradual accretions of power, strength, and wisdom, and the qualities which inspire trust, and then the great epoch burst upon the country, for which Providence had been shaping him.

The nation was writhing in the agonies of disruption, and the fires of a gigantic civil war were smouldering in her bosom, when Mr. Lincoln took in hand the reins of government. Through Gethsemanes of agony he led the nation steadily, on its sanguinary way to freedom, till the goal was won. Then death claimed him. One moment he was charged with a nation's fate; the next---a shock, a dim, blank pause, and he beheld the King in His glory. One moment the noisy and capricious applause of the people surged around him; the next he heard the Heavenly Voice, "Well done, good and faithful servant!" The nation sobbed its farewell to him, but still reaches out to him in yearning love. It hoards its memories of him as priceless wealth. It exhumes from the past the minutiæ of his daily life, and laughs afresh at his rare humor, and weeps anew over the pathos and tragedy crowded into his history.

I well remember when I first heard of Mr. Lincoln, and the impression made upon me by the first words of his I ever heard. It was in 1858, a year or so after my removal to the West from New England. He had been put forward as a candidate for the seat of Hon. Stephen A. Douglas in the Illinois Senate; whose term of office was soon to expire, and who was himself a candidate for re-election. The two aspirants for the same position " stumped" the state, and met in joint debate at seven points of geographical importance. These debates created an intense interest; and everywhere the people flocked to hear them. To this day, that memorable and peculiar discussion is known in Illinois as "the battle of the giants."

Mr. Lincoln had been nominated for State Senator by the Republican Convention at Springfield, Ill., in June, 1858. He addressed the Convention on that occasion, and his speech constituted the platform of the great debate between Mr. Douglas and himself, at which time he made the following prophetic utterance, which has been so often quoted:--

"A house divided against itself cannot stand. I believe this government cannot endure permanently---one half slave and one half free. I do not expect the Union to be dissolved---I do not expect the house to fall. But I do expect that it will cease to be divided---it will become all one thing, or all the other." He seemed, even at that early date, to speak with prophetic prevision.

Mr. Lincoln lost the election, and Mr. Douglas won it. But the former gathered to himself the trust of all who hated slavery and loved freedom while the later forfeited their confidence forever. Mr. Lincoln prepared the way for his triumphant elevation to a higher post of honor--but Mr. Douglas took the initial steps towards a defeat that ended in death.

It was my good fortune to be present at the National Convention in Chicago, in 1860, which nominated Mr. Lincoln to the Presidency. It was held in an immense building erected for the occasion, and known as the "Wigwam." I had undertaken to report the proceedings for an editor friend, and a seat was assigned me near the platform, where the electors from the several states were seated, and where not one word could escape me. My place was in the midst of the great reportorial army collected from all parts of the country. I was fortunate above all women on that occasion, for the far-away gallery was assigned them, and they were strictly forbidden the enclosed and guarded lower floor, which was sacred to men exclusively. From the immensity of the "Wigwam," the proceedings could not be heard in the gallery, and seemed there like gigantic pantomime.

I have never understood the good luck that bestowed me among the reporters at that time, nor how I succeeded in retaining my position when the official attempt was made to remove me. Women reporters were then almost unheard of; and inconspicuous as I had endeavored to make myself by dressing in black, like my brethren of the press, the marshal of the day spied me, after the lower floor was densely packed with masculinity. In stentorian tones that rang through the building, while his extended arm and forefinger pointed me out, and made me the target for thousands of eyes, he ordered me to withdraw my profane womanhood from the sacred enclosure provided for men, and "go up higher," among the women. I rose mechanically to obey, but the crowd rendered this impossible. My husband beside me, reporting for his own paper, undertook to explain, but was not allowed. The reporters about me then took the matter into their own hands, and in a tumult of voices cavalierly bade me "Sit still! " and the marshal "Dry up!" A momentary battle of words was waged over my head, between my husband and the reporters, the police and the marshal, and then I was left in peace.

The unconventional West was new to me, and I was a good deal disturbed by this episode, which no one but myself seemed to remember ten minutes later.

I was well repaid for the annoyance, by being a near witness of the electric scenes which followed the nomination of Mr. Lincoln to the Presidency, on the third ballot. Who that saw the tumultuous rapture of that occasion could ever forget it! Men embraced each other, and fell on one another's neck, and wept out their repressed feeling. They threw their hats in air, and almost rent the roof with huzzahs. Thousands and thousands were packed in the streets outside, who stood patiently receiving accounts of the proceedings within, from reporters posted on the roof, listening at the numerous open skylights, and shouting them in detail to the crowd below. Sometimes, messengers ran from these reporters at the skylights to the eaves of the building, thence to vociferate to the remote but patiently waiting crowd outside what had just been said or done. They would then take up the subsiding chorus of shouts within, and re-echo them still more wildly, until they drowned the city's multitudinous roar, and were heard a mile away. The billows of this delirious joy surged around me, as I sat amid the swaying, rocking forms of men who had sprung to their feet and grasped each other by the hand, or had fallen into one another's arms, and were laughing, crying, and talking incoherently.

I confess I was not fully en rapport with the insanity of gladness raging around me. It seemed to me these demonstrations were made rather because the anti-slavery principle had triumphed, than because Mr. Lincoln himself was a special favorite. The great majority knew him only as a country lawyer, and not very distinguished at that. But they also knew that he was intensely hostile to human slavery, and had so avowed himself. "Is it certain that Mr. Lincoln is an uncompromising anti-slavery man?" I inquired of a Massachusetts reporter next me. "There is no humbug about it? Mr. Lincoln is not anti-slavery just now for the sake of getting votes, is he? Can you inform me?"

For answer, he took from his pocketbook a little fragment of newspaper, which contained this extract from his "Peoria, Ill., speech," made Oct. 16, 1854, and passed it to me with the simple query, "Do you think he can take the back track after saying that?" This is the quotation:

"Slavery is founded in the selfishness of man's nature---opposition to it, in the love of justice. These principles are in eternal antagonism; and when brought into collision as fiercely as slavery extension brings them, shocks and throes and convulsions must follow ceaselessly. Repeal the Missouri Compromise; repeal all compromises; repeal the Declaration of Independence; repeal all past history; you cannot repeal human nature. It will still be in the abundance of man's heart that slavery extension is wrong, and out of the abundance of the heart his mouth will continue to speak."

When the President-elect left his Illinois home for Washington, to confront an organized and ripened conspiracy against the life of the nation, as he journeyed from city to city, the whole country turned out to look upon the man it had chosen to be its leader.

On a raw February night in 1861, impelled by a like anxious curiosity, I went with the multitude and stood at the edge of an effervescing crowd---that had shouted itself hoarse, and was then gesticulating its frantic delight---that I might look in the rugged, homely face of our future President. Like many others on whose hearts the gradual disruption of the Union that dark winter lay like an agony of personal bereavement, I longed to read in the face of our leader the indications of wisdom and strength that would compel the people to anchor in him 'and feel safe. His simple, unaffected, but almost solemn words thrilled through and through the hearts of his listeners. Eager lookers-on like myself hung on the skirts of the mercurial crowd, and the comments that trembled from lip to lip indicated their anxiety. "He seems like an honest man!" "He is evidently impressed with the solemn responsibilities of the hour!" "Will he be equal to this tremendous emergency?"

"There is no spread-eagle nonsense about him that is one consolation!" "He has taken a big contract---God help him fulfil it!" "He is probably not much of a statesman, nor even a politician; but then he is a Northern man, an anti-slavery man, and he is honest and loyal, and perhaps we could not have done better than to elect 'old Abe' President!" These were the comments made around me, and I saw that all were feeling their way to an anchorage in him, although few found it until a later date.

In November, 1862, I found myself in Washington, whither I had been summoned to attend a council of women connected with the Sanitary Commission. It was a gloomy time all over the country. The heart of the people had grown sick with hope deferred; and the fruitless undertakings and timid, dawdling policy of General McClellan had perplexed and discouraged all loyalists, and strengthened and made bold all traitors. The army was always entrenched or entrenching. Its advance was forbidden by the autumnal rains, and. the policy of its commanding general, whatever that might have been. The rebel army was in front, and every day a new crop of rumors was harvested in reference to its purpose. One hour, "Washington was safe!" and "All was quiet on the Potomac!" The next, "The rebels were marching on to Washington!" "They were blocking our river communications!" They were threatening to overwhelm our forces!" or, "They had already taken our position!" Despondency sat on every face.

"I wonder whether McClellan means to do anything!" said Mr. Lincoln one day to a friend. "I should like to borrow the army of him for a day or two."

Those of the women who had come from the loyal and sanguine Northwest, listened in undisguised amazement to the pen-mouthed secession of more than one half the people we met; for in the Northwest it was hardly safe to talk treason openly; and, despite the discouragements of the military situation in the East, the people bated not one jot of their confidence in the ultimate restoration of the Union, without the loss of a single state. Our hearts died within us; and when the Woman's Council adjourned, we were glad to accept an invitation to call on the President in a body. The President had appointed an early hour for our reception.

I shall never forget the shock which his presence gave us. Not more ghastly or rigid was his dead face, as he lay in his coffin, than on that never-to-be-forgotten night. His introverted look and his half-staggering gait were like those of a man walking in sleep. He seemed literally bending under the weight of his burdens. A deeper gloom rested on his face than on that of any person I had ever seen. He took us each by the hand mechanically, in an awkward, absent way, until my friend Mrs. Hoge, of Chicago, and myself were introduced, when the name of the city of our residence appeared to catch his attention, and he sat down between us.

"So you are from Chicago!" he said, familiarly; you are not scared by Washington mud, then; for you can beat us all to pieces in that." And then he asked about the weather we had had during the fall, the health of the city, and other matters of local interest, as one to whom the Northwest was home, and dear. It was explained to him that we were all with the Sanitary Commission, and that we had called, before separating to our widely divergent homes, to obtain from him some word of encouragement---something to cheer and stimulate. "I have no word of encouragement to give!" was his sad and blunt reply. "The military situation is far from bright; and the country knows it as well as I do." There was no attempt at question or answer; but a momentary deep and painful silence settled on his auditors.

"The fact is," he continued after a pause, "the people haven't yet made up their minds that we are at war with the South. They haven't buckled down to the determination to fight this war through; for they have got the idea into their heads that we are going to get out of this fix, somehow, by strategy! That's the word strategy! General McClellan thinks he is going to whip the rebels by strategy; and the army has got the same notion. They have no idea that the war is to be carried on and put through by hard, tough fighting, that will hurt somebody; and no headway is going to be made while this delusion lasts."

Some one ventured to remonstrate against this, and reminded the President how hundreds of thousands had rushed to arms at the call of the country; how bravely the army and navy had fought at Forts Henry and Donelson, Pea Ridge, Shiloh, and New Orleans; and how gloriously they had triumphed.

He admitted this, but returned to his first statement. "The people haven't made up their minds that we are at war, I tell you!" he repeated, with great positiveness. "They think there is a royal road to peace, and that General McClellan is to find it. The army has not settled down into the conviction that we are in a terrible war that has got to be fought out---no; and the officers haven't either. When you came to Washington, ladies, some two weeks ago, but very few soldiers came on the trains with you---that you will all remember. But when you go back you will find the trains and every conveyance crowded with them. You won't find a city on the route, a town, or a village, where soldiers and officers on furlough are not plenty as blackberries. There are whole regiments that have two thirds of their men absent---a great many by desertion, and a great many on leave granted by company officers, which is almost as bad. General McClellan is all the time calling for more troops, more troops; and they are sent to him; but the deserters and furloughed men outnumber the recruits. To fill up the army is like undertaking to shovel fleas. You take up a shovelful," suiting the word with an indescribably comical gesture; "but before you can dump them anywhere they are gone. It is like trying to ride a balky horse. You coax, and cheer, and spur, and lay on the whip; but you don't get ahead an inch---there you stick."

"Do you mean that our men desert?" we asked, incredulously; for in our glorifying of the soldiers we had not conceived of our men becoming deserters.

"That is just what I mean!" replied the President. "And the desertion of the army is just now the most serious evil we have to encounter. At the battle of Antietam, General McClellan had the names of about one hundred and eighty thousand men on the army rolls. Of these, seventy thousand were absent on leave---granted by company officers, which, as I said before, is almost as bad as desertion. For the men ought not to ask for furloughs with the enemy drawn up before them, nor ought the officers to grant them. About twenty thousand more were in hospital, or were detailed to other duties, leaving only some ninety thousand to give battle to the enemy. General McClellan went into the fight with this number. But in two hours after the battle commenced thirty thousand had straggled or deserted, and so the battle was fought with sixty thousand---and as the enemy had about the same number, it proved a drawn game. The rebel army had coiled itself up in such a position that if McClellan had only had the seventy thousand absentees, and the thirty thousand deserters, he could have surrounded Lee, captured the whole rebel army, and ended the war at a stroke without a battle.

"We have a Stragglers' Camp out here in Alexandria, in connection with the Convalescent Camp, and from that camp, in three months, General Butler has returned to their regiments seventy-five thousand deserters and stragglers who have been arrested and sent there. Don't you see that the country and the army fail to realize that we are engaged in one of the greatest wars the world has ever seen, and which can only be ended by hard fighting? General McClellan is responsible for the delusion that is untoning the whole army---that the South is to be conquered by strategy." [That very week, General McClellan had been removed from the command of the army, and General Burnside---of whom the President spoke most eulogistically---had been appointed in his place, but none of us knew it that night.]

"Is not death the penalty of desertion?" we inquired.

"Certainly it is."

And does it not lie with the President to enforce this penalty?"

"Yes."

"Why not enforce it, then? Before many soldiers had suffered death for desertion, this wholesale depletion of the arm would be ended."

"Oh, no, no!" replied the President, shaking his head ruefully: "that can't be done; it would be unmerciful, barbarous."

"But is it not more merciful to stop desertions, and to fill up the army, so that when a battle comes off it may be decisive, instead of being a drawn game, as you say Antietam was?"

"It might seem so. But if I should go to shooting men by scores for desertion, I should soon have such a hullabaloo about my ears as I haven't had yet, and I should deserve it. You can't order men shot by dozens or twenties. People won't stand it, and they ought not to stand it. No, we must change the condition of things in some other way. The army must be officered by fighting men. Misery loves company, you know," he added; "and it may give you some consolation to know that it is even worse with the rebel army than it is with ours. I receive their papers daily, and they are running over with complaints of the desertion of their soldiers. We are no worse off than they are, but better; and that is some comfort."

The conversation continued for an hour, the President talking all the while of the country and of the aspect of affairs in the most depressing manner. When we left him, we agreed among ourselves that it would not be wise to repeat the conversation, so as to have it get into the papers. For, in the then feverish state of the public mind, whatever was reported as coming from the President, no matter how or by whom reported, was eagerly seized upon. The influence of the talk upon ourselves was too dispiriting for us to wish to extend its effect. It cost those of us who belonged to the Northwest a night's sleep. The condition of the country, the unsatisfactory military aspect, the uneasiness of the people, the state of the army, all wore hues of midnight before our interview with the Chief Magistrate, and this had given them such additional gloom that we almost repented our visit to Washington.

The next day my friend Mrs. Hoge, and myself; had another interview with the President, on business entrusted to us. If we were shocked the night before at his haggard face, how much more were we pained when the broad light of day revealed the ravages which care, anxiety, and overwork had wrought. In our despondent condition it was difficult to control our feelings so as not to weep before him. Our unspoken thought ran thus: "Our national affairs must be in the very extremity of hopelessness if they thus prey on the mind and life of the President. The country has been slain by treason---he knows it, and that it cannot recover itself."

Our business ended, before we withdrew we made one more attempt to draw encouraging words from the reluctant head of the nation. "Mr. President," we said timidly," we find ourselves greatly depressed by the talk of last evening; you do not consider our national affairs hopeless, do you? Our country is not lost?"

"Oh, no!" he said, with great earnestness, "our affairs are by no means hopeless, for we have the right on our side. We did not want this war, and we tried to avoid it. We were forced into it; our cause is a just one, and now it has become the cause of freedom." (The Emancipation Proclamation had just been promulged.) "And let us also hope it is the cause of God, and then we may be sure it must ultimately triumph. But between that time and now there is an amount of agony and suffering and trial for the people that they do not look for, and are not prepared for."

No one can ever estimate the suffering endured by President Lincoln during the war. I saw him several times afterwards, and each time I was impressed anew with the look of pain and weariness stereotyped on his face. "He envied the soldier sleeping in his blanket on the Potomac," he would say, in his torture. And sometimes, when the woes of the country pressed most heavily on him, he envied the dead soldier sleeping in the cemetery.

"Whichever way this war ends," he said to a friend of mine, "I have the impression that I shall not last very long after it is over." After the dreadful repulse of our forces at Fredericksburg, when the slaughter was terrific, the agony of the President wrung from him the bitter cry, "Oh, if there is a man out of hell that suffers more than I do, I pity him!"

Mrs. Hoge and I accepted the morsel of hope given us by the President's last words, and went out together. Side by side we walked up Pennsylvania Avenue, quietly weeping behind our veils, neither trusting herself to speak to the other. But saddening as was this meeting with the President, it was not without its good effect on all of us. We were women, and could not fight for the country. But the instinct of patriotism within our hearts, which had lain dormant when our beloved land knew no danger, was now developed into a passion. We returned to our various homes, separated by thousands of miles, more inspired than ever to link ourselves with the hosts of freedom, who were yet to work better and more bravely than they knew.

The women of the Sanitary Commission set themselves to work in the different states of their residence, as their circumstances and localities demanded. We who belonged to the Northwest resolved on a Northwestern Soldiers' Fair, to obtain money for the purchase of comforts and necessaries for the sick and wounded of our army, and immediately began to plan for it. In the projection of this fair there was a double purpose. To obtain money was not its sole aim. We believed it would develop a grateful demonstration of the loyalty of the Northwest to our struggling country; that it would encourage the worn veterans of many a hard-fought field, and strengthen them, as they perilled their lives in defence of their native land; and that it would infuse into the scattered workers for our suffering soldiers an impetus that would last through the war.

The fair came off in about one year after our visit to the President, and yielded the then unprecedented sum of nearly one hundred thousand dollars. It required Herculean effort to conduct this first fair. At first, and for a long time, only two women and no men were interested in it; and this was enough with many to summarily condemn it. It remained throughout a woman's fair. Unlike the East, the West had then few competent and able people of leisure who could work continuously in an enterprise like this. A large fair, pecuniarily successful, had never been held in the West, and was not believed possible. And the public mind was so pre-occupied that it was next-to-impossible for us to get a hearing for our grand project. But we succeeded; and the fair came off at the appointed time, and was found to have accomplished vastly more than it contemplated.

It attracted the attention of the whole loyal North for weeks, and was the cynosure of all eyes and the theme of all tongues. That it rendered good service to the dear cause of the country was manifest; for disloyalists, from first to last, assailed both it and its managers, publicly and privately, in the most venomous manner. The most malignant falsehoods were put in circulation to its detriment, while the wholesale defamation of its managers, was so coarse and disgusting that it carried with it its own refutation. It was both bane and antidote in one. The spontaneous enthusiasm which the fair enkindled, its electric generosity, its moral earnestness, and its contagious patriotism glorified the occasion, and were of more worth to the country than the money which was raised. Other mammoth fairs, in other large cities, came off after this, largely modelled on its plan, and largely outdoing it in pecuniary results; but by none was its morale excelled.

From the first public announcement of this fair, President Lincoln took a lively interest in it. He bore testimony again and again to its moral influence, and inquired concerning its progress of every visitant from the Northwest that found his way to the White House. We wrote with much hesitation---for we never forgot how he was shouldering the woes and cares of the country----asking for some contribution from himself to our fair. The people of the Northwest were idolatrously attached to him; and we knew that any gift from him would be prized above all price. So we urged our petition as earnestly as we knew how, and enlisted Hon. Isaac N. Arnold, of Chicago, a personal friend of Mr. Lincoln, to second our prayers in person.

"Yes," said the President, "I must send something to that fair; but what?"

A happy thought came to Mr. Arnold. "Why not send the ladies the original manuscript Proclamation of Emancipation? They can make a good thing out of it."

The President wished to keep it himself, but finally consented; and it reached Chicago the day after the fair opened. On unlocking my post-office drawer that morning I found the precious document, and carried it triumphantly to Bryan Hall, one of the six halls occupied by the fair, where the package was opened. The manuscript of the Proclamation was accompanied by a characteristic letter, which I have given elsewhere.

Its receipt was announced to the immense throngs crowding the building, who welcomed it with deafening cheers. It was enclosed in an elegant black walnut frame, so arranged that it could be read entirely through the plate glass that protected it from touch, and hung where it could be seen and read by all.

At an early condition of the fair, before a furor in its behalf had been aroused, a patriotic gentleman of Chicago offered the premium of a fine gold watch to the largest single contributor to the fair. The donation of the manuscript Emancipation Proclamation entitled President Lincoln to this watch, which was elegant and valuable, and which, after being properly inscribed, was sent to him. He acknowledged its receipt, in a note written by his own hand. Since his death it is pleasant to know that this watch has fallen into the hands of his son, Robert Lincoln, our late Secretary of War, who holds it sacred as a memento of a touching incident in his father's history.

REMINISCENCES OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN CONTINUED--SCENES AT THE WHITE HOUSE---A WIFE'S SAD STORY AND AFFECTING PETITION---I INTERCEDE WITH THE PRESIDENT---HIS SYMPATHY AND MERCY.

The President refuses to pardon a Virginia Spy---Wife of the condemned Illinois Major---Her sad Story---She is too much broken down to plead for her Husband's Life---"Beg the President not to allow my husband to be shot! "---I tell her Story---The President's Sympathy---"These Cases kill me"---He had already commuted the Major's sentence---His Delight at the Discovery---"I know all about it now"---The grateful Woman fainted---She is told to go and visit her husband---The broken-hearted Wife goes away imploring Blessings on the President---Beautiful Reception of Miss Elizabeth Peabody---Touching Letter to Mrs. Bixby---Her five Sons were killed in Battle---Humorous Reply to his Advisers "Keep Silence, and we'll get you safe across."

HAD an opportunity during the war of witnessing the reception by the President of two applications for pardon, which met with widely different fates. The case of the first was this: A young man, belonging to a Virginia family of most treasonable character, remained in Washington when the rest of the household went with the Confederacy. Though he took no active part with the loyalists of the capital, he was so quiet and prudent as to allay their suspicions concerning him, and finally to gain their confidence. He opened a market and kept for sale the very best quality of meats, supplying many of the families of prominent officers of the government, and for a time the family at the White House. He even managed to obtain a sort of intimacy in some of these households, through the intrigues of disloyal servants. As afterwards appeared, he possessed himself of information that was valuable to the rebels, and which he imparted to them promptly and unreservedly.

When Lee moved up into Pennsylvania, in the summer of 1863, this young man was suddenly missing from his place of business, and another person was installed in his place. "He was unexpectedly called away by business," was assigned as the reason for his absence. In one of the cavalry fights, or skirmishes, which occurred almost daily in Maryland, or Southern Pennsylvania, during that June raid of Lee's army, the young man was taken prisoner by General Kilpatrick's men, near Winchester, in a "spirited brush" which they had with Stuart's cavalry.

I do not remember all the technicalities of the case, if indeed I ever knew them. But the young man was recognized, was proved to be a spy, and, but for the President's leniency, would have been hanged. Instead of the punishment of death, however, he was sentenced to twenty years' imprisonment. Immediately all the rebels of Washington were moving to his relief. Every wire was pulled that was supposed to have any power to open his prison door. Members of Congress were besought to intercede for him, and at last the President himself was besieged.

It was in the President's room, while waiting my turn for an interview, that I learned the above facts. Two persons were pleading in his behalf---a man and a woman---the latter elegant, beautiful, and with a certain air of culture, but the former having the look of a refined villain. It was a very plausible story as they told it. "Their truly loyal young kinsman had gone into Maryland to buy beeves for the Washington market---was 'gobbled up,' with his fine, fat kine, by Stuart, who confiscated his property and impressed its owner into his cavalry. And then, as if that were not calamity enough for one day, he was captured again by Kilpatrick, who, naturally enough, not understanding the circumstances, nor the patent loyalty of his prisoner, judged him by the company in which he was found, and supposed him to be a rebel like the rest."

The President listened impatiently and with a darkening face. "There is not a word of this true!" he burst in, abruptly and sternly, "and you know it as well as I do. He was a spy, he has been a spy, he ought to have been hanged as a spy. From the fuss you folks are making about him, who are none too loyal, I am convinced he was more valuable to the cause of the enemy than we have yet suspected. You are the third set of persons that has been to me to get him pardoned. Now I'll tell you what--- if any of you come bothering me any more about his being set at liberty, that will decide his fate. I will have him hanged, as he deserves to be. You ought to bless your stars that he got off with a whole neck; and if you don't want to see him hanged as high as Haman, don't you come to the again about him." The petitioners, as may be imagined, "stood not upon the order of their going, but went at once," and after their departure the President narrated the facts which I have given.

The other case was of a different character. I was in the ante-chamber of the President's room, one morning, waiting the exit of Secretary Stanton, who was holding an interview with Mr. Lincoln. Then, as my party was under the escort of a Senator, we were entitled to the next interview. A member of the Cabinet takes precedence of all who wish to enter the presence of the Chief Magistrate. A Senator ranks next, and goes in before any inferior personage. A member of the House is next in order, while persons unattended by any of these officials take their turn among those desiring an audience. As we were waiting the departure of the Secretary of War, who was making a long visit, I looked round upon the crowd who were biding their time to present their claims upon the President's attention.

Standing, sitting, walking, lounging, talking, with hats on, and generally with mouths full of tobacco, there were some fifty men in attendance, and, besides myself, only one woman. She was sitting in a corner of the ante-room, with her face to the wall. Thinking she had shrunk into this place from shamefacedness at being the only woman among so many men, I moved a little towards her to get a peep at her face. I was somewhat curious to look at a woman who feared to face such men as were congregated about her, for they were not of the first order. She was poor looking, shabbily but neatly dressed, middle-aged, sunburned, and careworn. Her hands were tightly clenching a handkerchief, which she held close against her breast, with the evident effort to master the emotion that was shaking her whole frame, and she was weeping. I saw by her manner that she was in trouble, and my. heart went out to her.

Putting my arm about her, I stooped and said as kindly as I could, "My poor woman, I am afraid you are in trouble; can I do anything to help you?" She turned a most imploring face towards me, and clutched my hand nervously. "Oh," said she, "I am in great trouble. My husband is to be shot, and if I cannot get him pardoned nobody can comfort me." A kindly appearing man stepped forward, a country neighbor of the poor woman, and told her story.

Her husband was major of an Illinois regiment, and had served two years in the army with honor and fidelity. His colonel, like too many of the same rank, was a hard man, and, when intoxicated, abusive, uncontrollable, and profane. He was, however, a good soldier, and, in the main, popular with his men. While under the influence of strong drink, he had come fiercely in collision with the major, and a most profane and angry altercation ensued in presence of half the regiment. Foul epithets were hurled back and forth until the colonel called the major a "coward," with numerous obscene and profane prefixes which cannot be repeated.

The major was a sober man, reticent, somewhat unpopular, very cool, and slow to anger; but this stung him. "Take that back, colonel!" he demanded, fiercely, drawing his revolver, "or you are a dead man." The colonel repeated the insult, even more offensively. Before the bystanders could interfere, the colonel fell dead by the major's hand. For this he was tried, convicted, sentenced to be shot, and was then lying in jail in Memphis, awaiting his death; he had written his wife a farewell letter, entreating her to be reconciled to the event---a brief epistle, which she gave me to read---full of tenderness for her, and accusation for himself, but evincing great manliness. The Judge-Advocate had also written her, urging her to go immediately to Washington, and in person ask the too-forgiving President to commute her sentence to imprisonment.

A sympathetic neighbor had accompanied her, and they had been in Washington twenty-four hours without having seen the President, simply from their modesty and ignorance of the most expeditious method of getting an audience with him. My expressions of sympathy broke the poor woman completely down. She could not stand, and she sobbed so hysterically that she could not talk. She had been unable to eat or sleep since she had heard her husband's sentence, and, as her townsman expressed it, it seemed as if " she would soon be in her coffin if the President did not take pity on her."

Senator Henderson of Missouri was to introduce my friends and myself to the notice of the President, and we entreated that he would also escort this poor woman, and give her an immediate opportunity to present her petition. He gladly consented. I sought to allay her agitation. "Now you must be calm," I said, "for in a minute or two you are to see the President, and it will be best for you to tell your own story."

"Won't you talk for me?" she entreated; "I am so tired I can't think, and I can't tell all my husband's story; do beg the President not to allow my husband to be shot." I put my arms about the poor creature, and pressed her to my heart as if she had been a sister; for never before or since have I seen a woman so broken down, or one who so awoke my sympathies.

"Don't fear!" I said; the President does not hang or shoot people when he ought; and he certainly will lighten your husband's sentence when he comes to hear all the facts. While her agitation was at he highest the door opened out into the ante-chamber, and Secretary Stanton came forth with a huge budget of important looking documents. Immediately Senator Henderson ushered us into the apartment the secretary had vacated, two of us leading the trembling wife between us, as if she were a child learning to walk.

The townsman of the woman was first introduced, who then led forth the wife of the condemned major, saying, "This woman, Mr. President, will tell you her story." But instead of telling her story she dropped tremblingly into a chair, only half alive; and, lifting her white face to the President's with a beseeching look, more eloquent than words, her colorless lips moved without emitting any sound. Seeing she was past speech, I spoke quickly in her behalf; stating her case, and urging her prayer for her husband's life with all the earnestness that I felt. All the while the hungry eyes of the woman were riveted on the President's face, and tearless sobs shook her frame. The chair she sat on touched mine, and, with her tremulousness, it beat a tattoo which made me nervous.

The President was troubled. "Oh, dear, dear?" he said, passing his hand over his face and through his hair. "These cases kill me! I wish I didn't have to hear about them? What shall I do? You make the laws," turning to members of Congress in the room," and then you come with heart-broken women and ask me to set them aside. You have decided that if a soldier raises his hand against his superior officer, as this man has done, he shall die! Then if I leave the laws to be executed, one of these distressing scenes occurs, which almost kills me."

Somebody ventured the remark that "this seemed a case where it was safe to incline to the side of mercy." "I feel that it is always safe," replied the President; "but you know that I am to-day in bad odor all over the country because I don't have as many persons put to death as the laws condemn." The attendant of the wife gave the President an abstract of the case, which had been furnished by the major's counsel, and which the President began gloomily to run over. Now and then he looked up pityingly at the speechless woman, whose white face and beseeching eyes still confronted him, expressive of an intensity of anguish that was almost frightful.

He had turned over some half-dozen pages of the abstract, when he suddenly dropped it, sprang forward in his chair, his face brightened almost into beauty, and he rubbed his hands together joyfully. "Oh," said he, "I know all about it now! I know all about it! This case came before me ten days ago, and I decided it then. The major's crime and sentence were forwarded to me privately, with a recommendation to mercy; and, without any solicitation, I have changed his sentence of death to two years' imprisonment in the penitentiary at Albany. Major has been a brave man, and a good man, and a good soldier, and he has had great provocations for a year. Your husband knows all about it before now," he said, addressing the wife; " and when you go back you must go by way of Albany, and see him. Tell him to bear his imprisonment like a man, and take a new start in the world when it is over."

The major's wife did not at first comprehend, but I explained to her. She attempted to rise, and made a motion as if she were going to kneel at the President's feet; but instead she only slid helplessly to the floor before him, and for a long time lay in a dead faint. The President was greatly moved. He helped raise her; and when she was taken from the room, he paced back and forth for a few moments before he could attend to other business. "Poor woman!" he said, "I don't believe she would have lived if her husband had been shot. What a heap of trouble this war has made!"

The expression of the President's face as it dawned upon him that he had already interposed between the major and death will never leave my memory. His swarthy, rugged, homely face was glorified by the delight of his soul, which shone out on his features. He delighted in mercy. It gave him positive happiness to confer a favor.

Once after, I had the pleasure of seeing those sad features light up. with holy feeling. It was at a public reception. General Hitchcock had led Miss Elizabeth Peabody, of Boston, to him, the sister-in-law of Hon. Horace Mann, and as such he introduced her. The President shook hands with her cordially, but evidently did not comprehend who she was, nor quite take in what General Hitchcock had said. Reluctantly, and as if she were not satisfied, Miss Peabody moved on with the general, to make way for others who sought the pleasure of an introduction. They had nearly passed from the room, when it could be seen from the quick light that flashed into the President's face that he had just comprehended what General Hitchcock had said, and who Miss Peabody was. Springing after them, he arrested their progress. "General," said he, "did I understand you to say that this lady is Hon. Horace Mann's sister?"

"Yes," said General Hitchcock, introducing the lady formally once more.

"Allow me to shake hands with you again, Miss Peabody!" said the President, offering both hands, and shaking hers warmly. "When I first came to Washington, Horace Mann was in the zenith of his power, and I was nobody. But he was very kind to me, and I shall never forget it. It gives me great pleasure to take one so near to him by the hand. I thank you for calling on me."

No painter has-ever put into the sad face of the President any hint of the beauty that could radiate and completely metamorphose his homely features, when his great soul shone out through them. No sculptor has ever liberated from the imprisoning marble the face that shone like an angel's when the depths of his large heart were reached. "No artist is successful," said Healy,---one of the most successful painters of portraits,---"who does not bring out on the canvas, or in the marble, the best there is in his subject, the loftiest ideal of Nature when she designed the man." If this be true, then neither painter nor sculptor has ever been successful with Mr. Lincoln's face.

President Lincoln had a genius for kindness and sympathy. He travelled out of his way to do good; and, overwhelmed with public affairs, he found time for many exquisite private ministrations. Has anything ever been penned more touching than the following letter, written by him to a mother whom the war had bereaved of five sons?

DEAR MADAM,---I have seen in the files of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant-General of Massachusetts that you are the mother of five sons who died gloriously on the field of battle. I feel how weak and comfortless must be any words of mine which should attempt to beguile you of the grief of a loss so overwhelming. But I cannot refrain from tendering to you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save. I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavement, and leave you only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the, solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom. Yours very sincerely and respectfully,

A. LINCOLN.
EXECUTIVE MANSION, WASHINGTON, Nov. 21, 1804.

Mrs. Bixby, to whom this letter was written, had a sick son in the hospital at that time, who had been severely wounded in one of Sheridan's battles.

And yet, to this quick and ready sympathy with suffering, which during the war made him "a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief," he joined an inexhaustible fund of humor that often did him good service. When I was in Washington at one time, people were telling this story of him, and laughing over it with infinite zest.

A delegation of civilians from the North called upon him to tender him some advice concerning the conduct of the war. He was tormented all. through his administration with visits from self-appointed and zealous censors and, advisers, in whom self-esteem supplanted wisdom, and who made up in presumption for what they lacked in knowledge and experience. They complained that he had gone too fast here, and too slow in another direction. He had not put the right man in the right place, the war was being protracted unbearably, and the people were weary of it. For every mistake, or failure, or shortcoming of the President they had a remedy in the form of advice as impracticable as it was impertinent. He heard them patiently to the end of a half hour, and then not only silenced their complaints, but charmed them into good nature with the following characteristic reply:-

"Gentlemen, suppose all the property you are worth was in gold, and you had put it into the hands of Blondin to carry across the Niagara River on a tight-rope. Would you shake the cable and keep shouting to him, 'Blondin, stand up a little straighter!' 'Blondin, stoop a little more!' 'Blondin, go a little faster!' 'Lean a little more to the North!' 'Bend over a little more to the South!' No, gentlemen, you would hold your breath as well as your tongues, and keep your hands off until he was over. The government is carrying an immense weight. Untold treasure is in its hands. It is doing the very best it can. Do not badger us. Keep silence, and we will get you safe across."

MY LAST INTERVIEW WITH PRESIDENT LINCOLN---SCENES AT HIS RECEPTIONS---HIS INEXHAUSTIBLE HUMOR---HIS ASSASSINATION---A NATION IN TEARS.

Chicago projects a second mammoth Sanitary Fair---Attendance of President and Mrs. Lincoln solicited---His comical Narration of his Experiences at the Philadelphia Fair---"I couldn't stand another big Fair"---A humorous Inducement---Both promise Attendance---Mrs. Lincoln's Reception---The President's Manner of Receiving---Crowds in Attendance--Love for Children---"Stop, my little Man"-" You expect to be President sometime"---An unexpected Reply---The Humble welcomed---Love universally manifested for him---The Remains of the martyred President are received in Chicago---The unfeigned Grief of the Northwest---The Body lies in State at the Court House---"All is well with him forever!"

HEN the second mammoth Sanitary Fair was planned in Chicago, my friend Mrs. Hoge and myself were again despatched to Washington, New York, Philadelphia, Boston, and other cities, to seek attractions for it; and this time to solicit the attendance of President and Mrs. Lincoln, Generals Grant and Sherman, with their wives, and other notables.

Once more, and for the last time, we were admitted to the well-known audience-chamber, and to an interview with the good President. He was already apprised of this second fair, and told us laughingly, as we entered the room, that "he supposed he knew what we had come for. This time, ladies,---I understand you have come for me." We confessed that no less an ambition was ours than to secure the President of the United States for our fair, and that this alone had drawn us to Washington. He said that he had been to one of these big fairs, and he didn't know as he wanted to go to another. He gave a most laughable account of his visit to the Philadelphia fair.

"Why," said he, "I was nearly pulled to pieces before I reached Philadelphia. The train stopped at every station on the route, and at many places where there were no stations, only people; and my hand was nearly wrung off before I reached the fair. Then from the depot for two miles it was a solid mass of people blocking the way. Everywhere there were people shouting and cheering; and they would reach into the carriage and shake hands, and hold on, until I was afraid they would be killed, or I pulled from the carriage. When we reached the fair it was worse yet. The police tried to open a way through the crowds for me, but they had to give it up; and I didn't know as I was going to get in at all. The people were everywhere; and, if they saw me starting for a place, they rushed there first, and stood shouting, hurrahing, and trying to shake hands. By and by the Committee had worried me along to a side door, which they suddenly opened, pushed me in, and then turned the key; and that gave me a chance to lunch, shake myself, and draw a long breath. That was the only quiet moment I had; for all the time I was in Philadelphia I was crowded, and jostled, and pulled about, and cheered, and serenaded, until I was more used up than I ever remember to have been in my life. I don't believe I could stand another big fair."

"But," we said, "there is no escape from this fair, Mr. Lincoln, and this will probably be the last of them. The Northwest won't listen to your declining; and the ladies of Chicago are circulating a letter of invitation to you, which will have ten thousand signatures of women alone. The whole Northwest proposes to come to Chicago to see you; and the desire is so general and urgent that you must not feel like declining."

"Ten thousand women! What do you suppose my wife will say at ten thousand women coming after me?"

"Oh, the invitation includes her; and we have already seen Mrs. Lincoln and ascertained that she would like to come."

"She would? Well, I Suppose that settles the matter, then. I know the people of the Northwest would like to see me, and I want to see them; and, if state duties do not absolutely forbid,---and I hope by that time they will not,---I will try to take a brief tour West at the time of your fair and visit it. I dread it, though."

"We have talked the whole matter over," said Mrs. Hoge; "and the people of Chicago will give you a season of absolute rest when you come. We will put you, except at certain times, where people cannot reach you with their endless shaking hands and making speeches." (Were the words prophetic? This was but five weeks before his assassination.)

"Why, what are you going to do with me? Where do you propose to put me?"

"We will charter a boat to take you out on Lake Michigan for a trip to Mackinaw, where the affectionate desire of the crowd to shake hands with you cannot be realized."

He rubbed his hands together in a pleased manner, outstretched at arm's length, as he was accustomed to do when specially delighted, and laughed heartily.

"I will come," said he; "I will come! The trip on Lake Michigan will fetch me; you may expect me."

In the afternoon we attended Mrs. Lincoln's reception, at which the President also received calls. We went early, purposely for a private interview with Mrs. Lincoln, when we saw both together. The President playfully accused her of "conspiring to get him into another big fair like that at Philadelphia, when they were both nearly suffocated." She did not deny the charge, but begged that the letter of invitation from the ladies of Chicago might be sent to her to present to her husband. "I told you my wife would be looking after those women!" said the President, with a drollery of tone and gesture.

As the crowds began to throng the lofty, spacious apartments, we passed out and took a stand at one side, where we could watch the steady influx of callers, and the President's reception of them. Some entered the room indifferently, and gazed at him vacantly as if he were a part of the furniture, or gave him simply a mechanical nod of the head. These he allowed to pass with a slight bow in return, as they halted. Others met him with a warm grasp of the hand, a look of genuine friendliness, or grateful recognition, or tearful tenderness, and then the President's look and manner answered their expression entirely. To the lowly, to the humble, the timid colored man or woman, he bent in special kindliness. As soldiers swung themselves past him painfully on crutches, or dangled an empty coatsleeve at their side, or walked feebly, wan and emaciated from recent sickness in the hospitals, his face took on a look of exquisite tenderness, and brightened into that peculiar beauty which I have often heard mentioned, but never seen depicted.

Not a child was allowed to pass him without a word of kindness. A beautiful bright boy about the size and age of the beloved son he had buried, gazed up reverently at the President, but was going by without speaking.

"Stop, my little man!" said Mr. Lincoln, "aren't you going to speak to me?" The little fellow laid his hand in that of the President, and colored with embarrassment. "You are older than my Tad, I guess."

"I am thirteen, sir!" replied the lad.

"And you go to school, I suppose, and study geography, arithmetic, and history, and all that. One of these days you mean to be President, don't you, and to stand here where I am, shaking hands with everybody?"

"No, sir, I hope not!" replied the boy vehemently; "I never want to be President."

"You may well say that---you may well say you hope not," answered the President; "you have spoken more wisely than you know." And taking the boy's hands in his, he looked lovingly and long in his face.

A poorly dressed, humpbacked woman approached, whose face had that rare spiritual beauty often seen in connection with this deformity. Her lustrous eyes looked up almost adoringly to the Chief Magistrate, but in her humility she forbore to offer her hand. Low bowed the President to her short stature, with that heavenly look in his face, of which I have before spoken, and he said something kindly in low tones to the poor cripple, that called a warm flush of gratitude to her face. It was impossible not to love the President. Awkward, homely, ungraceful, he yet found his way to all hearts, and was the recipient of more affection than any man of the nation.

In the midst of all the attractions of that 'afternoon, there was but one object of interest. And he was the tall, dark, sad, wan man, who stood in the middle of the room, now kindling with interest in those who accosted him, now sinking back in deep thoughtfulness, unmindful of the procession that filed before him, as if occupied with the grave affairs that for four years had rested on his heart and mind. I walked through the magnificent suite of rooms belonging to the Executive Mansion, all thrown open. Everywhere rare and beautiful flowers were exhaling their sweetness---the exquisite strains of the Marine Band were floating in the air---throngs of distinguished and titled people moved though the apartments---and yet the homely President was the nucleus around which all interest and affection clustered. "God bless him!" was the utterance which I heard over and over again, as I loitered an hour or two in the crowd. And if ever a sincere prayer went from my own heart, it was that which trembled on all lips, "God bless the good President "

Once more I saw the President---and then in Chicago, which opened its arms to receive the hallowed remains of the martyred leader. For two weeks the city had been shrouded in its grief as in a pall. The people of the great metropolis, with tens of thousands from the farm's and workshops of the Northwest, went forth to receive the illustrious dead, mingling their tears with the sad wailing of dirges that pulsed through the streets, with the solemn tolling of bells, and the heavy booming of minute guns.

There was none of the hum of business; none of the rush and whirl and hot haste that characterize Chicago,---but closed stores, silent streets, and sadness resting on all faces. Flags bound with crape floated mournfully at half-mast. Black draperies shrouded the buildings. All talk was low and brief. Many wept as they walked, and on the breast or arm of all were mourning badges. All nationalities, creeds, and sects were ranged along the route to be taken by the funeral cortège, or stood amid the solemn pageantry and funereal splendor of the great procession.

At the appointed hour the train arrived at its destination, bearing the corpse of the man whom the West loved and delighted to honor. A gun announced its arrival to the solemn crowd. The same order of arrangements was observed as had been planned for the President's reception at the fair, only how heavily shadowed by the atmosphere of death! The sacred remains were removed to the funeral car prepared to receive them, and then they moved sadly and slowly to the Court House, where they lay in state to receive the last visits of affection. Minute guns boomed steadily; bells tolled unceasingly; sad dirges wailed their lamentations; muffled drums beat continuously, and the tears of the people fell as the cortége filed past. As the hallowed dust passed, the stricken throngs uncovered, while audible sobs burst from the bereaved lookers-on.

Not thus had Chicago hoped to receive the beloved President. A month later, and the great Northwest would have prepared for him a brilliant welcome. Then with great shouts rending the air, with salvos of artillery, with thrilling strains of triumphant music, with songs and ovations from old and young, from children and maidens, with flowers and costly gifts, and with overflowing hearts, it had hoped to testify the almost idolatrous love it bore him. God ordered otherwise, and translated him beyond our poor praises---above our earthly offerings.

"Oh, friend! if thought and sense avail not,
To know thee as thou art
That all is well with thee forever,
I trust the instincts of my heart!"