Mrs. Lincoln came to my apartments one day towards the close of the
summer of 1864, to consult me in relation to a dress. And here let me
remark, I never approved of ladies, attached to the Presidential
household, coming to my rooms. I always thought that it would be more
consistent with their dignity to send for me, and let me come to them,
instead of their coming to me. I may have peculiar notions about some
things, and this may be regarded as one of them. No matter, I have
recorded my opinion. I cannot forget the associations of my early life.
Well, Mrs. Lincoln came to my rooms, and, as usual, she had much to say
about the Presidential election.

After some conversation, she asked: "Lizzie, where do you think I will
be this time next summer?"

"Why, in the White House, of course."

"I cannot believe so. I have no hope of the re-election of Mr. Lincoln.
The canvass is a heated one, the people begin to murmur at the war, and
every vile charge is brought against my husband."

"No matter," I replied, "Mr. Lincoln will be re-elected. I am so
confident of it, that I am tempted to ask a favor of you."

"A favor! Well, if we remain in the White House I shall be able to do
you many favors. What is the special favor?"

"Simply this, Mrs. Lincoln--I should like for you to make me a present
of the right-hand glove that the President wears at the first public
reception after his second inaugural."

"You shall have it in welcome. It will be so filthy when he pulls it
off, I shall be tempted to take the tongs and put it in the fire. I
cannot imagine, Lizabeth, what you want with such a glove."

"I shall cherish it as a precious memento of the second inauguration of
the man who has done so much for my race. He has been a Jehovah to my
people--has lifted them out of bondage, and directed their footsteps
from darkness into light. I shall keep the glove, and hand it down to
posterity."

"You have some strange ideas, Lizabeth. Never mind, you shall have the
glove; that is, if Mr. Lincoln continues President after the 4th of
March next."

I held Mrs. Lincoln to her promise. That glove is now in my possession,
bearing the marks of the thousands of hands that grasped the honest hand
of Mr. Lincoln on that eventful night. Alas! it has become a prouder,
sadder memento than I ever dreamed--prior to making the request--it
would be.

In due time the election came off, and all of my predictions were
verified. The loyal States decided that Mr. Lincoln should continue at
the nation's helm. Autumn faded, winter dragged slowly by, and still the
country resounded with the clash of arms. The South was suffering, yet
suffering was borne with heroic determination, and the army continued to
present a bold, defiant front. With the first early breath of spring,
thousands of people gathered in Washington to witness the second
inauguration of Abraham Lincoln as President of the United States. It
was a stirring day in the National Capital, and one that will never fade
from the memory of those who witnessed the imposing ceremonies. The
morning was dark and gloomy; clouds hung like a pall in the sky, as if
portending some great disaster. But when the President stepped forward
to receive the oath of office, the clouds parted, and a ray of sunshine
streamed from the heavens to fall upon and gild his face. It is also
said that a brilliant star was seen at noon-day. It was the noon-day of
life with Mr. Lincoln, and the star, as viewed in the light of
subsequent events, was emblematic of a summons from on high. This was
Saturday, and on Monday evening I went to the White House to dress Mrs.
Lincoln for the first grand levee. While arranging Mrs. L.'s hair, the
President came in. It was the first time I had seen him since the
inauguration, and I went up to him, proffering my hand with words of
congratulation.

He grasped my outstretched hand warmly, and held it while he spoke:
"Thank you. Well, Madam Elizabeth"--he always called me Madam
Elizabeth--"I don't know whether I should feel thankful or not. The
position brings with it many trials. We do not know what we are destined
to pass through. But God will be with us all. I put my trust in God." He
dropped my hand, and with solemn face walked across the room and took
his seat on the sofa. Prior to this I had congratulated Mrs. Lincoln,
and she had answered with a sigh, "Thank you, Elizabeth; but now that we
have won the position, I almost wish it were otherwise. Poor Mr. Lincoln
is looking so broken-hearted, so completely worn out, I fear he will not
get through the next four years." Was it a presentiment that made her
take a sad view of the future? News from the front was never more
cheering. On every side the Confederates were losing ground, and the
lines of blue were advancing in triumph. As I would look out my window
almost every day, I could see the artillery going past on its way to the
open space of ground, to fire a salute in honor of some new victory.
From every point came glorious news of the success of the soldiers that
fought for the Union. And yet, in their private chamber, away from the
curious eyes of the world, the President and his wife wore sad, anxious
faces.

I finished dressing Mrs. Lincoln, and she took the President's arm and
went below. It was one of the largest receptions ever held in
Washington. Thousands crowded the halls and rooms of the White House,
eager to shake Mr. Lincoln by his hand, and receive a gracious smile
from his wife. The jam was terrible, and the enthusiasm great. The
President's hand was well shaken, and the next day, on visiting Mrs.
Lincoln, I received the soiled glove that Mr. Lincoln had worn on his
right hand that night.

Many colored people were in Washington, and large numbers had desired to
attend the levee, but orders were issued not to admit them. A gentleman,
a member of Congress, on his way to the White House, recognized Mr.
Frederick Douglass, the eloquent colored orator, on the outskirts of the
crowd.

"How do you do, Mr. Douglass? A fearful jam to-night. You are going in,
of course?"

"No--that is, no to your last question."

"Not going in to shake the President by the hand! Why, pray?"

"The best reason in the world. Strict orders have been issued not to
admit people of color."

"It is a shame, Mr. Douglass, that you should thus be placed under ban.
Never mind; wait here, and I will see what can be done."

The gentleman entered the White House, and working his way to the
President, asked permission to introduce Mr. Douglass to him.

"Certainly," said Mr. Lincoln. "Bring Mr. Douglass in, by all means. I
shall be glad to meet him."

The gentleman returned, and soon Mr. Douglass stood face to face with
the President. Mr. Lincoln pressed his hand warmly, saying: "Mr.
Douglass, I am glad to meet you. I have long admired your course, and I
value your opinions highly."

Mr. Douglass was very proud of the manner in which Mr. Lincoln received
him. On leaving the White House he came to a friend's house where a
reception was being held, and he related the incident with great
pleasure to myself and others.

On the Monday following the reception at the White House, everybody was
busy preparing for the grand inaugural ball to come off that night. I
was in Mrs. Lincoln's room the greater portion of the day. While
dressing her that night, the President came in, and I remarked to him
how much Mr. Douglass had been pleased on the night he was presented to
Mr. Lincoln. Mrs. L. at once turned to her husband with the inquiry,
"Father, why was not Mr. Douglass introduced to me?"

"I do not know. I thought he was presented."

"But he was not."

"It must have been an oversight then, mother; I am sorry you did not
meet him."

I finished dressing her for the ball, and accompanied her to the door.
She was dressed magnificently, and entered the ball-room leaning on the
arm of Senator Sumner, a gentleman that she very much admired. Mr.
Lincoln walked into the ball-room accompanied by two gentlemen. This
ball closed the season. It was the last time that the President and his
wife ever appeared in public.

Some days after, Mrs. Lincoln, with a party of friends, went to City
Point on a visit.

Mrs. Lincoln had returned to Washington prior to the 2d of April. On
Monday, April 3d, Mrs. Secretary Harlan came into my room with material
for a dress. While conversing with her, I saw artillery pass the window;
and as it was on its way to fire a salute, I inferred that good news had
been received at the War Department. My reception-room was on one side
of the street, and my work-room on the other side. Inquiring the cause
of the demonstration, we were told that Richmond had fallen. Mrs. Harlan
took one of my hands in each of her own, and we rejoiced together. I ran
across to my work-room, and on entering it, discovered that the girls in
my employ also had heard the good news. They were particularly elated,
as it was reported that the rebel capital had surrendered to colored
troops. I had promised my employees a holiday when Richmond should fall;
and now that Richmond had fallen, they reminded me of my promise.

I recrossed to my reception-room, and Mrs. Harlan told me that the good
news was enough for her--she could afford to wait for her dress, and to
give the girls a holiday and a treat, by all means. She returned to her
house, and I joined my girls in the joy of the long-promised holiday. We
wandered about the streets of the city with happy faces, and hearts
overflowing with joy. The clerks in the various departments also enjoyed
a holiday, and they improved it by getting gloriously fuddled. Towards
evening I saw S., and many other usually clear-headed men, in the
street, in a confused, uncertain state of mind.

Mrs. Lincoln had invited me to accompany her to City Point. I went to
the White House, and told her that if she intended to return, I would
regard it as a privilege to go with her, as City Point was near
Petersburg, my old home. Mrs. L. said she designed returning, and would
be delighted to take me with her; so it was arranged that I should
accompany her.

A few days after we were on board the steamer, _en route_ for City
Point. Mrs. Lincoln was joined by Mrs. Secretary Harlan and daughter,
Senator Sumner, and several other gentlemen.

Prior to this, Mr. Lincoln had started for City Point, and before we
reached our destination he had visited Richmond, Petersburg, and other
points. We arrived on Friday, and Mrs. Lincoln was much disappointed
when she learned that the President had visited the late Confederate
capital, as she had greatly desired to be with him when he entered the
conquered stronghold. It was immediately arranged that the entire party
on board the River Queen should visit Richmond, and other points, with
the President. The next morning, after the arrangement was perfected, we
were steaming up James River--the river that so long had been
impassable, even to our gunboats. The air was balmy, and the banks of
the river were beautiful, and fragrant with the first sweet blossoms of
spring. For hours I stood on deck, breathing the pure air, and viewing
the landscape on either side of the majestically flowing river. Here
stretched fair fields, emblematic of peace--and here deserted camps and
frowning forts, speaking of the stern vicissitudes of war. Alas! how
many changes had taken place since my eye had wandered over the classic
fields of dear old Virginia! A birthplace is always dear, no matter
under what circumstances you were born, since it revives in memory the
golden hours of childhood, free from philosophy, and the warm kiss of a
mother. I wondered if I should catch a glimpse of a familiar face; I
wondered what had become of those I once knew; had they fallen in
battle, been scattered by the relentless tide of war, or were they still
living as they lived when last I saw them? I wondered, now that Richmond
had fallen, and Virginia been restored to the clustering stars of the
Union, if the people would come together in the bonds of peace; and as I
gazed and wondered, the River Queen rapidly carried us to our
destination.

The Presidential party were all curiosity on entering Richmond. They
drove about the streets of the city, and examined every object of
interest. The Capitol presented a desolate appearance--desks broken, and
papers scattered promiscuously in the hurried flight of the Confederate
Congress. I picked up a number of papers, and, by curious coincidence,
the resolution prohibiting all free colored people from entering the
State of Virginia. In the Senate chamber I sat in the chair that
Jefferson Davis sometimes occupied; also in the chair of the
Vice-President, Alexander H. Stephens. We paid a visit to the mansion
occupied by Mr. Davis and family during the war, and the ladies who
were in charge of it scowled darkly upon our party as we passed through
and inspected the different rooms. After a delightful visit we returned
to City Point.

That night, in the cabin of the River Queen, smiling faces gathered
around the dinner-table. One of the guests was a young officer attached
to the Sanitary Commission. He was seated near Mrs. Lincoln, and, by way
of pleasantry, remarked: "Mrs. Lincoln, you should have seen the
President the other day, on his triumphal entry into Richmond. He was
the cynosure of all eyes. The ladies kissed their hands to him, and
greeted him with the waving of handkerchiefs. He is quite a hero when
surrounded by pretty young ladies."

The young officer suddenly paused with a look of embarrassment. Mrs.
Lincoln turned to him with flashing eyes, with the remark that his
familiarity was offensive to her. Quite a scene followed, and I do not
think that the Captain who incurred Mrs. Lincoln's displeasure will ever
forget that memorable evening in the cabin of the River Queen, at City
Point.

Saturday morning the whole party decided to visit Petersburg, and I was
only too eager to accompany them.

When we arrived at the city, numbers crowded around the train, and a
little ragged negro boy ventured timidly into the car occupied by Mr.
Lincoln and immediate friends, and in replying to numerous questions,
used the word "tote."

"Tote," remarked Mr. Lincoln; "what do you mean by tote?"

"Why, massa, to tote um on your back."

"Very definite, my son; I presume when you tote a thing, you carry it.
By the way, Sumner," turning to the Senator, "what is the origin of
tote?"

"Its origin is said to be African. The Latin word _totum_, from _totus_,
means all--an entire body--the whole."

"But my young friend here did not mean an entire body, or anything of
the kind, when he said he would tote my things for me," interrupted the
President.

"Very true," continued the Senator. "He used the word tote in the
African sense, to carry, to bear. Tote in this sense is defined in our
standard dictionaries as a colloquial word of the Southern States, used
especially by the negroes."

"Then you regard the word as a good one?"

"Not elegant, certainly. For myself, I should prefer a better word; but
since it has been established by usage, I cannot refuse to recognize
it."

Thus the conversation proceeded in pleasant style.

Getting out of the car, the President and those with him went to visit
the forts and other scenes, while I wandered off by myself in search of
those whom I had known in other days. War, grim-visaged war, I soon
discovered had brought many changes to the city so well known to me in
the days of my youth. I found a number of old friends, but the greater
portion of the population were strange to me. The scenes suggested
painful memories, and I was not sorry to turn my back again upon the
city. A large, peculiarly shaped oak tree, I well remember, attracted
the particular attention of the President; it grew upon the outskirts of
Petersburg, and as he had discovered it on his first visit, a few days
previous to the second, he insisted that the party should go with him to
take a look at the isolated and magnificent specimen of the stately
grandeur of the forest. Every member of the party was only too willing
to accede to the President's request, and the visit to the oak was made,
and much enjoyed.

On our return to City Point from Petersburg the train moved slowly, and
the President, observing a terrapin basking in the warm sunshine on the
wayside, had the conductor stop the train, and one of the brakemen bring
the terrapin in to him. The movements of the ungainly little animal
seemed to delight him, and he amused himself with it until we reached
James River, where our steamer lay. Tad stood near, and joined in the
happy laugh with his father.

For a week the River Queen remained in James River, anchored the greater
portion of the time at City Point, and a pleasant and memorable week was
it to all on board. During the whole of this time a yacht lay in the
stream about a quarter of a mile distant, and its peculiar movements
attracted the attention of all on board. General Grant and Mrs. Grant
were on our steamer several times, and many distinguished officers of
the army also were entertained by the President and his party.

Mr. Lincoln, when not off on an excursion of any kind, lounged about
the boat, talking familiarly with every one that approached him.

The day before we started on our journey back to Washington, Mr. Lincoln
was engaged in reviewing the troops in camp. He returned to the boat in
the evening, with a tired, weary look.

"Mother," he said to his wife, "I have shaken so many hands to-day that
my arms ache tonight. I almost wish that I could go to bed now."

As the twilight shadows deepened the lamps were lighted, and the boat
was brilliantly illuminated; as it lay in the river, decked with
many-colored lights, it looked like an enchanted floating palace. A
military band was on board, and as the hours lengthened into night it
discoursed sweet music. Many officers came on board to say good-by, and
the scene was a brilliant one indeed. About 10 o'clock Mr. Lincoln was
called upon to make a speech. Rising to his feet, he said:

"You must excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. I am too tired to speak
to-night. On next Tuesday night I make a speech in Washington, at which
time you will learn all I have to say. And now, by way of parting from
the brave soldiers of our gallant army, I call upon the band to play
Dixie. It has always been a favorite of mine, and since we have captured
it, we have a perfect right to enjoy it." On taking his seat the band at
once struck up with Dixie, that sweet, inspiring air; and when the music
died away, there were clapping of hands and other manifestations of
applause.

At 11 o'clock the last good-by was spoken, the lights were taken down,
the River Queen rounded out into the water and we were on our way back
to Washington. We arrived at the Capital at 6 o'clock on Sunday evening,
where the party separated, each going to his and her own home. This was
one of the most delightful trips of my life, and I always revert to it
with feelings of genuine pleasure.

CHAPTER XI

THE ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN

I had never heard Mr. Lincoln make a public speech, and, knowing the man
so well, was very anxious to hear him. On the morning of the Tuesday
after our return from City Point, Mrs. Lincoln came to my apartments,
and before she drove away I asked permission to come to the White House
that night and hear Mr. Lincoln speak.

"Certainly, Lizabeth; if you take any interest in political speeches,
come and listen in welcome."

"Thank you, Mrs. Lincoln. May I trespass further on your kindness by
asking permission to bring a friend with me?"

"Yes, bring your friend also. By the way, come in time to dress me
before the speaking commences."

"I will be in time. You may rely upon that. Good morning," I added, as
she swept from my room, and, passing out into the street, entered her
carriage and drove away.

About 7 o'clock that evening I entered the White House. As I went
up-stairs I glanced into Mr. Lincoln's room through the half-open door,
and seated by a desk was the President, looking over his notes and
muttering to himself. His face was thoughtful, his manner abstracted,
and I knew, as I paused a moment to watch him, that he was rehearsing
the part that he was to play in the great drama soon to commence.

Proceeding to Mrs. Lincoln's apartment, I worked with busy fingers, and
in a short time her toilette was completed.

Great crowds began to gather in front of the White House, and loud calls
were made for the President. The band stopped playing, and as he
advanced to the centre window over the door to make his address, I
looked out, and never saw such a mass of heads before. It was like a
black, gently swelling sea. The swaying motion of the crowd, in the dim
uncertain light, was like the rising and falling of billows--like the
ebb and flow of the tide upon the stranded shore of the ocean. Close to
the house the faces were plainly discernible, but they faded into mere
ghostly outlines on the outskirts of the assembly; and what added to the
weird, spectral beauty of the scene, was the confused hum of voices that
rose above the sea of forms, sounding like the subdued, sullen roar of
an ocean storm, or the wind soughing through the dark lonely forest. It
was a grand and imposing scene, and when the President, with pale face
and his soul flashing through his eyes, advanced to speak, he looked
more like a demigod than a man crowned with the fleeting days of
mortality.

The moment the President appeared at the window he was greeted with a
storm of applause, and voices re-echoed the cry, "A light! a light!"

A lamp was brought, and little Tad at once rushed to his father's side,
exclaiming:

"Let me hold the light, Papa! let me hold the light!"

Mrs. Lincoln directed that the wish of her son be gratified, and the
lamp was transferred to his hands. The father and son standing there in
the presence of thousands of free citizens, the one lost in a chain of
eloquent ideas, the other looking up into the speaking face with a
proud, manly look, formed a beautiful and striking tableau.

There were a number of distinguished gentlemen, as well as ladies, in
the room, nearly all of whom remarked the picture.

I stood a short distance from Mr. Lincoln, and as the light from the
lamp fell full upon him, making him stand out boldly in the darkness, a
sudden thought struck me, and I whispered to the friend at my side:

"What an easy matter would it be to kill the President, as he stands
there! He could be shot down from the crowd, and no one be able to tell
who fired the shot."

I do not know what put such an idea into my head, unless it was the
sudden remembrance of the many warnings that Mr. Lincoln had received.

The next day, I made mention to Mrs. Lincoln of the idea that had
impressed me so strangely the night before, and she replied with a sigh:

"Yes, yes, Mr. Lincoln's life is always exposed. Ah, no one knows what
it is to live in constant dread of some fearful tragedy. The President
has been warned so often, that I tremble for him on every public
occasion. I have a presentiment that he will meet with a sudden and
violent end. I pray God to protect my beloved husband from the hands of
the assassin."

Mr. Lincoln was fond of pets. He had two goats that knew the sound of
his voice, and when he called them they would come bounding to his side.
In the warm bright days, he and Tad would sometimes play in the yard
with these goats, for an hour at a time. One Saturday afternoon I went
to the White House to dress Mrs. Lincoln. I had nearly completed my task
when the President came in. It was a bright day, and walking to the
window, he looked down into the yard, smiled, and, turning to me, asked:

"Madam Elizabeth, you are fond of pets, are you not?"

"O yes, sir," I answered.

"Well, come here and look at my two goats. I believe they are the
kindest and best goats in the world. See how they sniff the clear air,
and skip and play in the sunshine. Whew! what a jump," he exclaimed as
one of the goats made a lofty spring. "Madam Elizabeth, did you ever
before see such an active goat?" Musing a moment, he continued: "He
feeds on my bounty, and jumps with joy. Do you think we could call him a
bounty-jumper? But I flatter the bounty-jumper. My goat is far above
him. I would rather wear his horns and hairy coat through life, than
demean myself to the level of the man who plunders the national treasury
in the name of patriotism. The man who enlists into the service for a
consideration, and deserts the moment he receives his money but to
repeat the play, is bad enough; but the men who manipulate the grand
machine and who simply make the bounty-jumper their agent in an
outrageous fraud are far worse. They are beneath the worms that crawl in
the dark hidden places of earth."

His lips curled with haughty scorn, and a cloud was gathering on his
brow. Only a moment the shadow rested on his face. Just then both goats
looked up at the window and shook their heads as if they would say "How
d'ye do, old friend?"

"See, Madam Elizabeth," exclaimed the President in a tone of enthusiasm,
"my pets recognize me. How earnestly they look! There they go again;
what jolly fun!" and he laughed outright as the goats bounded swiftly to
the other side of the yard. Just then Mrs. Lincoln called out, "Come,
Lizabeth; if I get ready to go down this evening I must finish dressing
myself, or you must stop staring at those silly goats."

Mrs. Lincoln was not fond of pets, and she could not understand how Mr.
Lincoln could take so much delight in his goats. After Willie's death,
she could not bear the sight of anything he loved, not even a flower.
Costly bouquets were presented to her, but she turned from them with a
shudder, and either placed them in a room where she could not see them,
or threw them out of the window. She gave all of Willie's
toys--everything connected with him--away, as she said she could not
look upon them without thinking of her poor dead boy, and to think of
him, in his white shroud and cold grave, was maddening. I never in my
life saw a more peculiarly constituted woman. Search the world over, and
you will not find her counterpart. After Mr. Lincoln's death, the goats
that he loved so well were given away--I believe to Mrs. Lee, _née_ Miss
Blair, one of the few ladies with whom Mrs. Lincoln was on intimate
terms in Washington.

During my residence in the Capital I made my home with Mr. and Mrs.
Walker Lewis, people of my own race, and friends in the truest sense of
the word.

The days passed without any incident of particular note disturbing the
current of life. On Friday morning, April 14th--alas! what American does
not remember the day--I saw Mrs. Lincoln but for a moment. She told me
that she was to attend the theatre that night with the President, but I
was not summoned to assist her in making her toilette. Sherman had swept
from the northern border of Georgia through the heart of the Confederacy
down to the sea, striking the death-blow to the rebellion. Grant had
pursued General Lee beyond Richmond, and the army of Virginia, that had
made such stubborn resistance, was crumbling to pieces. Fort Sumter had
fallen;--the stronghold first wrenched from the Union; and which had
braved the fury of Federal guns for so many years, was restored to the
Union; the end of the war was near at hand, and the great pulse of the
loyal North thrilled with joy. The dark war-cloud was fading, and a
white-robed angel seemed to hover in the sky, whispering "Peace--peace
on earth, good-will toward men!" Sons, brothers, fathers, friends,
sweethearts were coming home. Soon the white tents would be folded, the
volunteer army be disbanded, and tranquillity again reign. Happy, happy
day!--happy at least to those who fought under the banner of the Union.
There was great rejoicing throughout the North. From the Atlantic to the
Pacific, flags were gayly thrown to the breeze, and at night every city
blazed with its tens of thousand lights. But scarcely had the fireworks
ceased to play, and the lights been taken down from the windows, when
the lightning flashed the most appalling news over the magnetic wires.
"The President has been murdered!" spoke the swift-winged messenger, and
the loud huzza died upon the lips. A nation suddenly paused in the midst
of festivity, and stood paralyzed with horror--transfixed with awe.

Oh, memorable day! Oh, memorable night! Never before was joy so
violently contrasted with sorrow.

At 11 o'clock at night I was awakened by an old friend and neighbor,
Miss M. Brown, with the startling intelligence that the entire Cabinet
had been assassinated, and Mr. Lincoln shot, but not mortally wounded.
When I heard the words I felt as if the blood had been frozen in my
veins, and that my lungs must collapse for the want of air. Mr. Lincoln
shot! the Cabinet assassinated! What could it mean? The streets were
alive with wondering, awe-stricken people. Rumors flew thick and fast,
and the wildest reports came with every new arrival. The words were
repeated with blanched cheeks and quivering lips. I waked Mr. and Mrs.
Lewis, and told them that the President was shot, and that I must go to
the White House. I could not remain in a state of uncertainty. I felt
that the house would not hold me. They tried to quiet me, but gentle
words could not calm the wild tempest. They quickly dressed themselves,
and we sallied out into the street to drift with the excited throng. We
walked rapidly towards the White House, and on our way passed the
residence of Secretary Seward, which was surrounded by armed soldiers,
keeping back all intruders with the point of the bayonet. We hurried on,
and as we approached the White House, saw that it too was surrounded
with soldiers. Every entrance was strongly guarded, and no one was
permitted to pass. The guard at the gate told us that Mr. Lincoln had
not been brought home, but refused to give any other information. More
excited than ever, we wandered down the street. Grief and anxiety were
making me weak, and as we joined the outskirts of a large crowd, I began
to feel as meek and humble as a penitent child. A gray-haired old man
was passing. I caught a glimpse of his face, and it seemed so full of
kindness and sorrow that I gently touched his arm, and imploringly
asked:

"Will you please, sir, to tell me whether Mr. Lincoln is dead or not?"

"Not dead," he replied, "but dying. God help us!" and with a heavy step
he passed on.

"Not dead, but dying! then indeed God help us!"

We learned that the President was mortally wounded--that he had been
shot down in his box at the theatre, and that he was not expected to
live till morning; when we returned home with heavy hearts. I could not
sleep. I wanted to go to Mrs. Lincoln, as I pictured her wild with
grief; but then I did not know where to find her, and I must wait till
morning. Never did the hours drag so slowly. Every moment seemed an age,
and I could do nothing but walk about and hold my arms in mental agony.

Morning came at last, and a sad morning was it. The flags that floated
so gayly yesterday now were draped in black, and hung in silent folds at
half-mast. The President was dead, and a nation was mourning for him.
Every house was draped in black, and every face wore a solemn look.
People spoke in subdued tones, and glided whisperingly, wonderingly,
silently about the streets.

About eleven o'clock on Saturday morning a carriage drove up to the
door, and a messenger asked for "Elizabeth Keckley."

"Who wants her?" I asked.

"I come from Mrs. Lincoln. If you are Mrs. Keckley, come with me
immediately to the White House."

I hastily put on my shawl and bonnet, and was driven at a rapid rate to
the White House. Everything about the building was sad and solemn. I was
quickly shown to Mrs. Lincoln's room, and on entering, saw Mrs. L.
tossing uneasily about upon a bed. The room was darkened, and the only
person in it besides the widow of the President was Mrs. Secretary
Welles, who had spent the night with her. Bowing to Mrs. Welles, I went
to the bedside.

"Why did you not come to me last night, Elizabeth--I sent for you?" Mrs.
Lincoln asked in a low whisper.

"I did try to come to you, but I could not find you," I answered, as I
laid my hand upon her hot brow.

I afterwards learned, that when she had partially recovered from the
first shock of the terrible tragedy in the theatre, Mrs. Welles asked:

"Is there no one, Mrs. Lincoln, that you desire to have with you in this
terrible affliction?"

"Yes, send for Elizabeth Keckley. I want her just as soon as she can be
brought here."

Three messengers, it appears, were successively despatched for me, but
all of them mistook the number and failed to find me.

Shortly after entering the room on Saturday morning, Mrs. Welles excused
herself, as she said she must go to her own family, and I was left alone
with Mrs. Lincoln.

She was nearly exhausted with grief, and when she became a little quiet,
I asked and received permission to go into the Guests' Room, where the
body of the President lay in state. When I crossed the threshold of the
room, I could not help recalling the day on which I had seen little
Willie lying in his coffin where the body of his father now lay. I
remembered how the President had wept over the pale beautiful face of
his gifted boy, and now the President himself was dead. The last time I
saw him he spoke kindly to me, but alas! the lips would never move
again. The light had faded from his eyes, and when the light went out
the soul went with it. What a noble soul was his--noble in all the noble
attributes of God! Never did I enter the solemn chamber of death with
such palpitating heart and trembling footsteps as I entered it that day.
No common mortal had died. The Moses of my people had fallen in the hour
of his triumph. Fame had woven her choicest chaplet for his brow. Though
the brow was cold and pale in death, the chaplet should not fade, for
God had studded it with the glory of the eternal stars.

When I entered the room, the members of the Cabinet and many
distinguished officers of the army were grouped around the body of their
fallen chief. They made room for me, and, approaching the body, I lifted
the white cloth from the white face of the man that I had worshipped as
an idol--looked upon as a demi-god. Notwithstanding the violence of the
death of the President, there was something beautiful as well as grandly
solemn in the expression of the placid face. There lurked the sweetness
and gentleness of childhood, and the stately grandeur of godlike
intellect. I gazed long at the face, and turned away with tears in my
eyes and a choking sensation in my throat. Ah! never was man so widely
mourned before. The whole world bowed their heads in grief when Abraham
Lincoln died.

Returning to Mrs. Lincoln's room, I found her in a new paroxysm of
grief. Robert was bending over his mother with tender affection, and
little Tad was crouched at the foot of the bed with a world of agony in
his young face. I shall never forget the scene--the wails of a broken
heart, the unearthly shrieks, the terrible convulsions, the wild,
tempestuous outbursts of grief from the soul. I bathed Mrs. Lincoln's
head with cold water, and soothed the terrible tornado as best I could.
Tad's grief at his father's death was as great as the grief of his
mother, but her terrible outbursts awed the boy into silence. Sometimes
he would throw his arms around her neck, and exclaim, between his broken
sobs, "Don't cry so, Mamma! don't cry, or you will make me cry, too! You
will break my heart."

Mrs. Lincoln could not bear to hear Tad cry, and when he would plead to
her not to break his heart, she would calm herself with a great effort,
and clasp her child in her arms.

Every room in the White House was darkened, and every one spoke in
subdued tones, and moved about with muffled tread. The very atmosphere
breathed of the great sorrow which weighed heavily upon each heart. Mrs.
Lincoln never left her room, and while the body of her husband was being
borne in solemn state from the Atlantic to the broad prairies of the
West, she was weeping with her fatherless children in her private
chamber. She denied admittance to almost every one, and I was her only
companion, except her children, in the days of her great sorrow.

There were many surmises as to who was implicated with J. Wilkes Booth
in the assassination of the President. A new messenger had accompanied
Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln to the theatre on that terrible Friday night. It
was the duty of this messenger to stand at the door of the box during
the performance, and thus guard the inmates from all intrusion. It
appears that the messenger was carried away by the play, and so
neglected his duty that Booth gained easy admission to the box. Mrs.
Lincoln firmly believed that this messenger was implicated in the
assassination plot.

One night I was lying on a lounge near the bed occupied by Mrs. Lincoln.
One of the servants entering the room, Mrs. L. asked:

"Who is on watch to-night?"

"The new messenger," was the reply.

"What! the man who attended us to the theatre on the night my dear, good
husband was murdered! He, I believe, is one of the murderers. Tell him
to come in to me."

The messenger had overheard Mrs. Lincoln's words through the half-open
door, and when he came in he was trembling violently.

She turned to him fiercely: "So you are on guard to-night--on guard in
the White House after helping to murder the President!"

"Pardon me, but I did not help to murder the President. I could never
stoop to murder--much less to the murder of so good and great a man as
the President."

"But it appears that you _did_ stoop to murder."

"No, no! don't say that," he broke in. "God knows that I am innocent."

"I don't believe you. Why were you not at the door to keep the assassin
out when he rushed into the box?"

"I did wrong, I admit, and I have bitterly repented it, but I did not
help to kill the President. I did not believe that any one would try to
kill so good a man in such a public place, and the belief made me
careless. I was attracted by the play, and did not see the assassin
enter the box."

"But you should have seen him. You had no business to be careless. I
shall always believe that you are guilty. Hush! I shan't hear another
word," she exclaimed, as the messenger essayed to reply. "Go now and
keep your watch," she added, with an imperious wave of her hand. With
mechanical step and white face the messenger left the room, and Mrs.
Lincoln fell back on her pillow, covered her face with her hands, and
commenced sobbing.

Robert was very tender to his mother in the days of her sorrow.

He suffered deeply, as his haggard face indicated, but he was ever manly
and collected when in the presence of his mother. Mrs. Lincoln was
extremely nervous, and she refused to have anybody about her but myself.
Many ladies called, but she received none of them. Had she been less
secluded in her grief, perhaps she would have had many warmer friends
to-day than she has. But far be it from me to harshly judge the sorrow
of any one. Could the ladies who called to condole with Mrs. Lincoln,
after the death of her husband, and who were denied admittance to her
chamber, have seen how completely prostrated she was with grief, they
would have learned to speak more kindly of her. Often at night, when Tad
would hear her sobbing, he would get up, and come to her bed in his
white sleeping-clothes: "Don't cry, Mamma; I cannot sleep if you cry!
Papa was good, and he has gone to heaven. He is happy there. He is with
God and brother Willie. Don't cry, Mamma, or I will cry too."

The closing appeal always proved the most effectual, as Mrs. Lincoln
could not bear to hear her child cry.

Tad had been petted by his father, but petting could not spoil such a
manly nature as his. He seemed to realize that he was the son of a
President--to realize it in its loftiest and noblest sense. One morning,
while being dressed, he looked up at his nurse, and said: "Pa is dead.
I can hardly believe that I shall never see him again. I must learn to
take care of myself now." He looked thoughtful a moment, then added,
"Yes, Pa is dead, and I am only Tad Lincoln now, little Tad, like other
little boys. I am not a President's son now. I won't have many presents
any more. Well, I will try and be a good boy, and will hope to go some
day to Pa and brother Willie, in heaven." He was a brave, manly child,
and knew that influence had passed out of their hands with the death of
his father, and that his position in life was altered. He seemed to feel
that people petted him, and gave him presents, because they wanted to
please the President of the United States. From that period forward he
became more independent, and in a short time learned to dispense with
the services of a nurse. While in Chicago, I saw him get out his clothes
one Sunday morning and dress himself, and the change was such a great
one to me--for while in the White House, servants obeyed his every nod
and bid--that I could scarcely refrain from shedding tears. Had his
father lived, I knew it would have been different with his favorite boy.
Tad roomed with Robert, and he always took pride in pleasing his
brother.

After the Committee had started West with the body of the President,
there was quite a breeze of excitement for a few days as to where the
remains should be interred. Secretary Stanton and others held frequent
conferences with Robert, Mr. Todd, Mrs. Lincoln's cousin, and Dr. Henry,
an old schoolmate and friend of Mr. Lincoln. The city authorities of
Springfield had purchased a beautiful plat of ground in a prosperous
portion of the city, and work was rapidly progressing on the tomb, when
Mrs. Lincoln made strenuous objection to the location. She declared that
she would stop the body in Chicago before it should be laid to rest in
the lot purchased for the purpose by the City of Springfield. She gave
as a reason, that it was her desire to be laid by the side of her
husband when she died, and that such would be out of the question in a
public place of the kind. As is well known, the difficulty was finally
settled by placing the remains of the President in the family vault at
Oak Ridge, a charming spot for the home of the dead.

After the President's funeral Mrs. Lincoln rallied, and began to make
preparations to leave the White House. One day she suddenly exclaimed:
"God, Elizabeth, what a change! Did ever woman have to suffer so much
and experience so great a change? I had an ambition to be Mrs.
President; that ambition has been gratified, and now I must step down
from the pedestal. My poor husband! had he never been President, he
might be living to-day. Alas! all is over with me!"

Folding her arms for a few moments, she rocked back and forth, then
commenced again, more vehemently than ever: "My God, Elizabeth, I can
never go back to Springfield! no, never, until I go in my shroud to be
laid by my dear husband's side, and may Heaven speed that day! I should
like to live for my sons, but life is so full of misery that I would
rather die." And then she would go off into a fit of hysterics.

CHAPTER XII

MRS. LINCOLN LEAVES THE WHITE HOUSE

For five weeks Mrs. Lincoln was confined to her room. Packing afforded
quite a relief, as it so closely occupied us that we had not much time
for lamentation.

Letters of condolence were received from all parts of the country, and
even from foreign potentates, but Mr. Andrew Johnson, the successor of
Mr. Lincoln, never called on the widow, or even so much as wrote a line
expressing sympathy for her grief and the loss of her husband. Robert
called on him one day to tell him that his mother would turn the White
House over to him in a few days, and he never even so much as inquired
after their welfare. Mrs. Lincoln firmly believes that Mr. Johnson was
concerned in the assassination plot.

In packing, Mrs. Lincoln gave away everything intimately connected with
the President, as she said that she could not bear to be reminded of the
past. The articles were given to those who were regarded as the warmest
of Mr. Lincoln's admirers. All of the presents passed through my hands.
The dress that Mrs. Lincoln wore on the night of the assassination was
given to Mrs. Slade, the wife of an old and faithful messenger. The
cloak, stained with the President's blood, was given to me, as also was
the bonnet worn on the same memorable night. Afterwards I received the
comb and brush that Mr. Lincoln used during his residence at the White
House. With this same comb and brush I had often combed his head. When
almost ready to go down to a reception, he would turn to me with a
quizzical look: "Well, Madam Elizabeth, will you brush my bristles down
to-night?"

"Yes, Mr. Lincoln."

Then he would take his seat in an easy-chair, and sit quietly while I
arranged his hair. As may well be imagined, I was only too glad to
accept this comb and brush from the hands of Mrs. Lincoln. The cloak,
bonnet, comb, and brush, the glove worn at the first reception after the
second inaugural, and Mr. Lincoln's over-shoes, also given to me, I have
since donated for the benefit of Wilberforce University, a colored
college near Xenia, Ohio, destroyed by fire on the night that the
President was murdered.

There was much surmise, when Mrs. Lincoln left the White House, what her
fifty or sixty boxes, not to count her score of trunks, could contain.
Had the government not been so liberal in furnishing the boxes, it is
possible that there would have been less demand for so much
transportation. The boxes were loosely packed, and many of them with
articles not worth carrying away. Mrs. Lincoln had a passion for
hoarding old things, believing, with Toodles, that they were "handy to
have about the house."

The bonnets that she brought with her from Springfield, in addition to
every one purchased during her residence in Washington, were packed in
the boxes, and transported to Chicago. She remarked that she might find
use for the material some day, and it was prudent to look to the future.
I am sorry to say that Mrs. Lincoln's foresight in regard to the future
was only confined to cast-off clothing, as she owed, at the time of the
President's death, different store bills amounting to seventy thousand
dollars. Mr. Lincoln knew nothing of these bills, and the only happy
feature of his assassination was that he died in ignorance of them. Had
he known to what extent his wife was involved, the fact would have
embittered the only pleasant moments of his life. I disclose this secret
in regard to Mrs. Lincoln's debts, in order to explain why she should
subsequently have labored under pecuniary embarrassment. The children,
as well as herself, had received a vast number of presents during Mr.
Lincoln's administration, and these presents constituted a large item in
the contents of the boxes. The only article of furniture, so far as I
know, taken away from the White House by Mrs. Lincoln, was a little
dressing-stand used by the President. I recollect hearing him say one
day:

"Mother, this little stand is so handy, and suits me so well, that I do
not know how I shall get along without it when we move away from here."
He was standing before a mirror, brushing his hair, when he made the
remark.

"Well, father," Mrs. Lincoln replied, "if you like the stand so well, we
will take it with us when we go away."

"Not for the world," he exclaimed; but she interrupted him:

"I should like to know what difference it makes if we put a better one
in its place."

"That alters the question. If you will put a stand in its place worth
twice as much as this one, and the Commissioner consents, then I have no
objection."

Mrs. Lincoln remembered these words, and, with the consent of the
Commissioner, took the stand to Chicago with her for the benefit of
little Tad. Another stand, I must not forget to add, was put in its
place.

It is charged that a great deal of furniture was lost from the White
House during Mr. Lincoln's occupation of it. Very true, and it can be
accounted for in this way: In some respects, to put the case very
plainly, Mrs. Lincoln was "penny wise and pound foolish." When she moved
into the White House, she discharged the Steward, whose business it was
to look after the affairs of the household. When the Steward was
dismissed, there was no one to superintend affairs, and the servants
carried away many pieces of furniture. In this manner the furniture
rapidly disappeared.

Robert was frequently in the room where the boxes were being packed, and
he tried without avail to influence his mother to set fire to her vast
stores of old goods. "What are you going to do with that old dress,
mother?" he would ask.

"Never mind, Robert, I will find use for it. You do not understand this
business."

"And what is more, I hope I never may understand it. I wish to heaven
the car would take fire in which you place these boxes for
transportation to Chicago, and burn all of your old plunder up;" and
then, with an impatient gesture, he would turn on his heel and leave the
room.

"Robert is so impetuous," his mother would say to me, after the closing
of the door. "He never thinks about the future. Well, I hope that he
will get over his boyish notions in time."

Many of the articles that Mrs. Lincoln took away from the White House
were given, after her arrival in Chicago, for the benefit of charity
fairs.

At last everything was packed, and the day for departure for the West
came. I can never forget that day; it was so unlike the day when the
body of the President was borne from the hall in grand and solemn state.
Then thousands gathered to bow the head in reverence as the plumed
hearse drove down the line. There was all the pomp of military
display--drooping flags, battalions with reversed arms, and bands
playing dirge-like airs. Now, the wife of the President was leaving the
White House, and there was scarcely a friend to tell her good-by. She
passed down the public stairway, entered her carriage, and quietly drove
to the depot where we took the cars. The silence was almost painful.

It had been arranged that I should go to Chicago. When Mrs. Lincoln
first suggested her plan, I strongly objected; but I had been with her
so long, that she had acquired great power over me.

"I cannot go West with you, Mrs. Lincoln," I said, when the idea was
first advanced.

"But you must go to Chicago with me, Elizabeth; I cannot do without
you."

"You forget my business, Mrs. Lincoln. I cannot leave it. Just now I
have the spring trousseau to make for Mrs. Douglas, and I have promised
to have it done in less than a week."

"Never mind. Mrs. Douglas can get some one else to make her trousseau.
You may find it to your interest to go. I am very poor now, but if
Congress makes an appropriation for my benefit, you shall be well
rewarded."

"It is not the reward, but--" I commenced, by way of reply, but she
stopped me:

"Now don't say another word about it, if you do not wish to distress me.
I have determined that you shall go to Chicago with me, and you _must_
go."

When Mrs. Douglas learned that Mrs. Lincoln wished me to accompany her
West, she sent me word:

"Never mind me. Do all you can for Mrs. Lincoln. My heart's sympathy is
with her."

Finding that no excuse would be accepted, I made preparations to go to
Chicago with Mrs. L.

The green car had specially been chartered for us, and in this we were
conveyed to the West. Dr. Henry accompanied us, and he was remarkably
attentive and kind. The first night out, Mrs. Lincoln had a severe
headache; and while I was bathing her temples, she said to me:

"Lizabeth, you are my best and kindest friend, and I love you as my best
friend. I wish it were in my power to make you comfortable for the
balance of your days. If Congress provides for me, depend upon it, I
will provide for you."

The trip was devoid of interest. We arrived in Chicago without accident
or delay, and apartments were secured for us at the Tremont House, where
we remained one week. At the expiration of this time Mrs. Lincoln
decided that living at the hotel was attended with too much expense, so
it was arranged that we should go to the country. Rooms were selected at
Hyde Park, a summer resort.

Robert and Tad accompanied their mother to Hyde Park. We arrived about 3
o'clock in the afternoon of Saturday. The place had just been opened the
summer before, and there was a newness about everything. The
accommodations were not first-class, the rooms being small and plainly
furnished. It was a lively day for us all. Robert occupied himself
unpacking his books, and arranging them on the shelves in the corner of
his small but neat room. I assisted him, he talking pleasantly all the
while. When we were through, he folded his arms, stood off a little
distance from the mantel, with an abstracted look as if he were thinking
of the great change in his fortunes--contrasting the present with the
past. Turning to me, he asked: "Well, Mrs. Keckley, how do you like our
new quarters?"

"This is a delightful place, and I think you will pass your time
pleasantly," I answered.

He looked at me with a quizzical smile, then remarked: "You call it a
delightful place! Well, perhaps it is. Since you do not have to stay
here, you can safely say as much about the charming situation as you
please. I presume that I must put up with it, as mother's pleasure must
be consulted before my own. But candidly, I would almost as soon be
dead as be compelled to remain three months in this dreary house."

He seemed to feel what he said, and going to the window, he looked out
upon the view with moody countenance. I passed into Mrs. Lincoln's room,
and found her lying upon the bed, sobbing as if her heart would break.

"What a dreary place, Lizzie! And to think that I should be compelled to
live here, because I have not the means to live elsewhere. Ah! what a
sad change has come to us all." I had listened to her sobbing for eight
weeks, therefore I was never surprised to find her in tears. Tad was the
only cheerful one of the party. He was a child of sunshine, and nothing
seemed to dampen the ardor of his spirits.

Sunday was a very quiet day. I looked out of my window in the morning,
upon the beautiful lake that formed one of the most delightful views
from the house. The wind was just strong enough to ripple the broad
bosom of the water, and each ripple caught a jewel from the sunshine,
and threw it sparkling up towards the sky. Here and there a sail-boat
silently glided into view, or sank below the faint blue line that marked
the horizon--glided and melted away like the spectral shadows that
sometimes haunt the white snow-fields in the cold, tranquil light of a
winter's moon. As I stood by my window that morning, looking out upon
the lake, my thoughts were etherealized--the reflected sunbeams
suggested visions of crowns studded with the jewels of eternal life, and
I wondered how any one could call Hyde Park a dreary place. I had seen
so much trouble in my life, that I was willing to fold my arms and sink
into a passive slumber--slumber anywhere, so the great longing of the
soul was gratified--rest.

Robert spent the day in his room with his books, while I remained in
Mrs. Lincoln's room, talking with her, contrasting the present with the
past, and drawing plans for the future. She held no communication, by
letter or otherwise, with any of her relatives or old friends, saying
that she wished to lead a secluded life for the summer. Old faces, she
claimed, would only bring back memories of scenes that she desired to
forget; and new faces, she felt assured, could not sympathize with her
distress, or add to the comforts of her situation.

On Monday morning, Robert was getting ready to ride into Chicago, as
business called him to the city.

"Where you goin', brother Bob?"--Tad generally called Robert, brother
Bob.

"Only into town!" was the brief reply.

"Mayn't I go with you?"

"Ask mother. I think that she will say no."

Just then Mrs. Lincoln came in, and Tad ran to her, with the eager
question:

"Oh, Ma! can't I go to town with brother Bob? I want to go so badly."

"Go to town! No; you must stay and keep me company. Besides, I have
determined that you shall get a lesson every day, and I am going to
commence to-day with you."

"I don't want to get a lesson--I won't get a lesson," broke in the
impetuous boy. "I don't want to learn my book; I want to go to town!"

"I suppose you want to grow up to be a great dunce. Hush, Tad; you shall
not go to town until you have said a lesson;" and the mother looked
resolute.

"May I go after I learn my book?" was the next question.

"Yes; if Robert will wait for you."

"Oh, Bob will wait; won't you, Bob?"

"No, I cannot wait; but the landlord is going in this afternoon, and you
can go with him. You must do as mother tells you, Tad. You are getting
to be a big boy now, and must start to school next fall; and you would
not like to go to school without knowing how to read."

"Where's my book, Ma? Get my book quick. I will say my lesson," and he
jumped about the room, boisterously, boy-like.

"Be quiet, Tad. Here is your book, and we will now begin the first
lesson," said his mother, as she seated herself in an easy-chair.

Tad had always been much humored by his parents, especially by his
father. He suffered from a slight impediment in his speech, and had
never been made to go to school; consequently his book knowledge was
very limited. I knew that his education had been neglected, but had no
idea he was so deficient as the first lesson at Hyde Park proved him to
be.

Drawing a low chair to his mother's side, he opened his book, and began
to slowly spell the first word, "A-P-E."

"Well, what does A-p-e spell?"

"Monkey," was the instant rejoinder. The word was illustrated by a small
wood-cut of an ape, which looked to Tad's eyes very much like a monkey;
and his pronunciation was guided by the picture, and not by the sounds
of the different letters.

"Nonsense!" exclaimed his mother. "A-p-e does not spell monkey."

"Does spell monkey! Isn't that a monkey?" and Tad pointed triumphantly
to the picture.

"No, it is not a monkey."

"Not a monkey! what is it, then?"

"An ape."

"An ape! 'taint an ape. Don't I know a monkey when I see it?"

"No, if you say that is a monkey."

"I do know a monkey. I've seen lots of them in the street with the
organs. I know a monkey better than you do, 'cause I always go out into
the street to see them when they come by, and you don't."

"But, Tad, listen to me. An ape is a species of the monkey. It looks
like a monkey, but it is not a monkey."

"It shouldn't look like a monkey, then. Here, Yib"--he always called me
Yib--"isn't this a monkey, and don't A-p-e spell monkey? Ma don't know
anything about it;" and he thrust his book into my face in an earnest,
excited manner.

I could not longer restrain myself, and burst out laughing. Tad looked
very much offended, and I hastened to say: "I beg your pardon, Master
Tad; I hope that you will excuse my want of politeness."

He bowed his head in a patronizing way, and returned to the original
question: "Isn't this a monkey? Don't A-p-e spell monkey?"

"No, Tad; your mother is right. A-p-e spells ape."

"You don't know as much as Ma. Both of you don't know anything;" and
Master Tad's eyes flashed with indignation.

Robert entered the room, and the question was referred to him. After
many explanations, he succeeded in convincing Tad that A-p-e does not
spell monkey, and the balance of the lesson was got over with less
difficulty.

Whenever I think of this incident I am tempted to laugh; and then it
occurs to me that had Tad been a negro boy, not the son of a President,
and so difficult to instruct, he would have been called thick-skulled,
and would have been held up as an example of the inferiority of race. I
know many full negro boys, able to read and write, who are not older
than Tad Lincoln was when he persisted that A-p-e spelt monkey. Do not
imagine that I desire to reflect upon the intellect of little Tad. Not
at all; he is a bright boy, a son that will do honor to the genius and
greatness of his father; I only mean to say that some incidents are
about as damaging to one side of the question as to the other. If a
colored boy appears dull, so does a white boy sometimes; and if a whole
race is judged by a single example of apparent dulness, another race
should be judged by a similar example.

I returned to Washington, with Mrs. Lincoln's best wishes for my success
in business. The journey was devoid of incident. After resting a few
days, I called at the White House, and transacted some business for Mrs.
Lincoln. I had no desire to enter the house, for everything about it
bitterly reminded me of the past; and when I came out of the door, I
hoped that I had crossed the threshold for the last time. I was asked by
some of my friends if I had sent my business cards to Mr. Johnson's
family, and my answer was that I had not, as I had no desire to work for
the President's family. Mr. Johnson was no friend to Mr. Lincoln, and he
had failed to treat Mrs. Lincoln, in the hour of her greatest sorrow,
with even common courtesy.

Having promised to make a spring trousseau for Mrs. Senator Douglas as
soon as I should return from Chicago, I called on her to meet the
engagement. She appeared pleased to see me, and in greeting me, asked,
with evident surprise:

"Why, Keckley"--she always called me Keckley--"is this you? I did not
know you were coming back. It was reported that you designed remaining
with Mrs. Lincoln all summer."

"Mrs. Lincoln would have been glad to have kept me with her had she been
able."

"Able! What do you mean by that?"

"Simply this: Already she is laboring under pecuniary embarrassment, and
was only able to pay my expenses, and allow me nothing for my time."

"You surprise me. I thought she was left in good circumstances."

"So many think, it appears. Mrs. Lincoln, I assure you, is now
practising the closest economy. I must do something for myself, Mrs.
Douglas, so I have come back to Washington to open my shop."

The next day I collected my assistants, and my business went on as
usual. Orders came in more rapidly than I could fill them. One day, in
the middle of the month of June, the girl who was attending the door
came into the cutting-room, where I was hard at work:

"Mrs. Keckley, there is a lady below, who wants to see you."

"Who is she?"

"I don't know. I did not learn her name."

"Is her face familiar? Does she look like a regular customer?"

"No, she is a stranger. I don't think she was ever here before. She came
in an open carriage, with a black woman for an attendant."

"It may be the wife of one of Johnson's new secretaries. Do go down,
Mrs. Keckley," exclaimed my work-girls in a chorus. I went below, and on
entering the parlor, a plainly dressed lady rose to her feet, and asked:

"Is this the dressmaker?"

"Yes, I am a dressmaker."

"Mrs. Keckley?"

"Yes."

"Mrs. Lincoln's former dressmaker, were you not?"

"Yes, I worked for Mrs. Lincoln."

"Are you very busy now?"

"Very, indeed."

"Can you do anything for me?"

"That depends upon what is to be done, and when it is to be done."

"Well, say one dress now, and several others a few weeks later."

"I can make one dress for you now, but no more. I cannot finish the one
for you in less than three weeks."

"That will answer. I am Mrs. Patterson, the daughter of President
Johnson. I expect my sister, Mrs. Stover, here in three weeks, and the
dress is for her. We are both the same size, and you can fit the dress
to me."

The terms were satisfactorily arranged, and after measuring Mrs.
Patterson, she bade me good morning, entered her carriage, and drove
away.

When I went up-stairs into the work-room, the girls were anxious to
learn who my visitor was.

"It was Mrs. Patterson, the daughter of President Johnson," I answered,
in response to several questions.

"What! the daughter of our good Moses. Are you going to work for her?"

"I have taken her order."

"I fear that Johnson will prove a poor Moses, and I would not work for
any of the family," remarked one of the girls. None of them appeared to
like Mr. Lincoln's successor.

I finished the dress for Mrs. Patterson, and it gave satisfaction. I
afterwards learned that both Mrs. Patterson and Mrs. Stover were
kindhearted, plain, unassuming women, making no pretensions to elegance.
One day when I called at the White House, in relation to some work that
I was doing for them, I found Mrs. Patterson busily at work with a
sewing-machine. The sight was a novel one to me for the White House, for
as long as I remained with Mrs. Lincoln, I do not recollect ever having
seen her with a needle in her hand. The last work done for the Johnsons
by me were two dresses, one for each of the sisters. Mrs. Patterson
subsequently wrote me a note, requesting me to cut and fit a dress for
her; to which I replied that I never cut and fitted work to be made up
outside of my work-room. This brought our business relations to an
abrupt end.

The months passed, and my business prospered. I continually received
letters from Mrs. Lincoln, and as the anniversary of her husband's death
approached, she wrote in a sadder strain. Before I left Chicago she had
exacted the promise that should Congress make an appropriation for her
benefit, I must join her in the West, and go with her to visit the tomb
of the President for the first time. The appropriation was made one of
the conditions of my visit, for without relief from Congress she would
be unable to bear my expenses. The appropriation was not made; and so I
was unable to join Mrs. Lincoln at the appointed time. She wrote me that
her plan was to leave Chicago in the morning with Tad, reach Springfield
at night, stop at one of the hotels, drive out to Oak Ridge the next
day, and take the train for Chicago the same evening, thus avoiding a
meeting with any of her old friends. This plan, as she afterwards wrote
me, was carried out. When the second anniversary approached, President
Johnson and party were "swinging round the circle," and as they were to
visit Chicago, she was especially anxious to be away from the city when
they should arrive; accordingly she hurried off to Springfield, and
spent the time in weeping over the tomb where repose the hallowed ashes
of her husband.

During all this time I was asked many questions about Mrs. Lincoln, some
prompted by friendship, but a greater number by curiosity; but my brief
answers, I fear, were not always accepted as the most satisfactory.

CHAPTER XIII

THE ORIGIN OF THE RIVALRY BETWEEN MR. DOUGLAS AND MR. LINCOLN

Mrs. Lincoln from her girlhood up had an ambition to become the wife of
a President. When a little girl, as I was told by one of her sisters,
she was disposed to be a little noisy at times, and was self-willed. One
day she was romping about the room, making more noise than the nerves of
her grandmother could stand. The old lady looked over her spectacles,
and said, in a commanding tone:

"Sit down, Mary. Do be quiet. What on earth do you suppose will become
of you if you go on this way?"

"Oh, I will be the wife of a President some day," carelessly answered
the petted child.

Mrs. Lincoln, as Miss Mary Todd, was quite a belle in Springfield,
Illinois, and from all accounts she was fond of flirting. She generally
managed to keep a half-dozen gentlemen biting at the hook that she
baited so temptingly for them. The world, if I mistake not, are not
aware that the rivalry between Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Stephen A. Douglas
commenced over the hand of Miss Mary Todd. The young lady was ambitious,
and she smiled more sweetly upon Mr. Douglas and Mr. Lincoln than any of
her other admirers, as they were regarded as rising men. She played her
part so well that neither of the rivals for a long time could tell who
would win the day. Mr. Douglas first proposed for her hand, and she
discarded him. The young man urged his suit boldly:

"Mary, you do not know what you are refusing. You have always had an
ambition to become the wife of a President of the United States. Pardon
the egotism, but I fear that in refusing my hand to-night you have
thrown away your best chance to ever rule in the White House."

"I do not understand you, Mr. Douglas."

"Then I will speak more plainly. You know, Mary, that I am ambitious
like yourself, and something seems to whisper in my ear, 'You will be
President some day.' Depend upon it, I shall make a stubborn fight to
win the proud position."

"You have my best wishes, Mr. Douglas; still I cannot consent to be your
wife. I shall become Mrs. President, or I am the victim of false
prophets, but it will not be as Mrs. Douglas."

I have this little chapter in a romantic history from the lips of Mrs.
Lincoln herself.

At one of the receptions at the White House, shortly after the first
inauguration, Mrs. Lincoln joined in the promenade with Senator Douglas.
He was holding a bouquet that had been presented to her, and as they
moved along he said:

"Mary, it reminds me of old times to have you lean upon my arm."

"You refer to the days of our youth. I must do you the credit, Mr.
Douglas, to say, that you were a gallant beau."

"Not only a beau, but a lover. Do you remember the night our flirtation
was brought to an end?"

"Distinctly. You now see that I was right. I am Mrs. President, but not
Mrs. Douglas."

"True, you have reached the goal before me, but I do not despair. Mrs.
Douglas--a nobler woman does not live--if I am spared, may possibly
succeed you as Mrs. President."

A few evenings after Mr. Douglas had been discarded, Mr. Lincoln made a
formal proposal for the hand of Miss Todd, but it appears that the young
lady was not willing to capitulate at once. She believed that she could
send her lover adrift to-day and win him back to-morrow.

"You are bold, Mr. Lincoln."

"Love makes me bold."

"You honor me, pardon me, but I cannot consent to be your wife."

"Is this your final answer, Miss Todd?" and the suitor rose nervously to
his feet.

"I do not often jest, Mr. Lincoln. Why should I reconsider to-morrow my
decision of to-day."

"Excuse me. Your answer is sufficient. I was led to hope that I might
become dearer to you than a friend, but the hope, it seems, has proved
an idle one. I have the honor to say good night, Miss Todd," and pale,
yet calm, Mr. Lincoln bowed himself out of the room.

He rushed to his office in a frantic state of mind. Dr. Henry, his most
intimate friend, happened to come in, and was surprised to see the young
lawyer walking the floor in an agitated manner.

"What is the matter, Lincoln? You look desperate."

"Matter! I am sick of the world. It is a heartless, deceitful world, and
I care not how soon I am out of it."

"You rave. What has happened? Have you been quarrelling with your
sweetheart?"

"Quarrel! I wish to God it was a quarrel, for then I could look forward
to reconciliation; the girl has refused to become my wife, after leading
me to believe that she loved me. She is a heartless coquette."

"Don't give up the conquest so easily. Cheer up, man, you may succeed
yet. Perhaps she is only testing your love."

"No! I believe that she is going to marry Douglas. If she does I will
blow my brains out."

"Nonsense! That would not mend matters. Your brains were given to you
for different use. Come, we will go to your room now. Go to bed and
sleep on the question, and you will get up feeling stronger to-morrow;"
and Dr. Henry took the arm of his friend Lincoln, led him home, and saw
him safely in bed.

The next morning the doctor called at Mr. Lincoln's room, and found that
his friend had passed a restless night. Excitement had brought on fever,
which threatened to assume a violent form, as the cause of the
excitement still remained. Several days passed, and Mr. Lincoln was
confined to his bed. Dr. Henry at once determined to call on Miss Todd,
and find out how desperate the case was. Miss Todd was glad to see him,
and she was deeply distressed to learn that Mr. Lincoln was ill. She
wished to go to him at once, but the Doctor reminded her that she was
the cause of his illness. She frankly acknowledged her folly, saying
that she only desired to test the sincerity of Mr. Lincoln's love, that
he was the idol of her heart, and that she would become his wife.

The Doctor returned with joyful news to his patient. The intelligence
proved the best remedy for the disease. Mutual explanations followed,
and in a few months Mr. Lincoln led Miss Todd to the altar in triumph.

I learned these facts from Dr. Henry and Mrs. Lincoln. I believe them to
be facts, and as such have recorded them. They do not agree with Mr.
Herndon's story, that Mr. Lincoln never loved but one woman, and that
woman was Ann Rutledge; but then Mr. Herndon's story must be looked upon
as a pleasant piece of fiction. When it appeared, Mrs. Lincoln felt
shocked that one who pretended to be the friend of her dead husband
should deliberately seek to blacken his memory. Mr. Lincoln was far too
honest a man to marry a woman that he did not love. He was a kind and an
indulgent husband, and when he saw faults in his wife he excused them as
he would excuse the impulsive acts of a child. In fact, Mrs. Lincoln was
never more pleased than when the President called her his child-wife.

Before closing this rambling chapter I desire to refer to another
incident.

After the death of my son, Miss Mary Welsh, a dear friend, one of my old
St. Louis patrons, called to see me, and on broaching the cause of my
grief, she condoled with me. She knew that I had looked forward to the
day when my son would be a support to me--knew that he was to become the
prop and main-stay of my old age, and knowing this, she advised me to
apply for a pension. I disliked the idea very much, and told her
so--told her that I did not want to make money out of his death. She
explained away all of my objections--argued that Congress had made an
appropriation for the specific purpose of giving a pension to every
widow who should lose an only son in the war, and insisted that I should
have my rights. She was so enthusiastic in the matter that she went to
see Hon. Owen Lovejoy, then a member of the House from Illinois, and
laid my case before him. Mr. Lovejoy was very kind, and said as I was
entitled to the pension, I should have it, even if he had to bring the
subject before Congress. I did not desire public agitation, and Mr.
Lovejoy prepared my claim and laid it before the Commissioners. In the
meantime he left Washington, and Mr. Joseph Lovejoy, his brother,
prosecuted the claim for me, and finally succeeded in securing me a
pension of eight dollars per month. Mr. Joseph Lovejoy was inclined to
the Democratic party, and he pressed my claim with great earnestness; he
hoped that the claim would not be allowed, as he said the rejection of
it would make capital for his party. Nevertheless the pension was
granted, and I am none the less thankful to Mr. Joseph Lovejoy for his
kindness to me, and interest in my welfare.

CHAPTER XIV

OLD FRIENDS

In order to introduce a pleasant chapter of my life, I must take a
slight retrospective glance. Mrs. Ann[e] Garland, the mistress from whom
I purchased my freedom in St. Louis, had five daughters, all lovely,
attractive girls. I used to take pride in dressing the two eldest, Miss
Mary and Miss Carrie, for parties. Though the family labored under
pecuniary embarrassment, I worked for these two young girls, and they
were always able to present a good appearance in society. They were much
admired, and both made the best matches of the season. Miss Mary married
Dr. Pappan, and Miss Carrie, Dr. John Farrow. I loved them both
tenderly, and they were warmly attached to me. Both are now dead, and
when the death-film was gathering in the eyes, each called for me and
asked to die in my arms. Miss Carrie did not long survive her sister,
and I wept many tears over the death-beds of the two lovely flowers that
had blossomed so sweetly beneath my eyes. Each breathed her last in the
arms that had sheltered them so often in the bright rosy period of life.
My mother took care of my son, and Miss Nannie Garland, the fourth
daughter, when a wee thing, became my especial charge. She slept in my
bed, and I watched over her as if she had been my own child. She called
me Yiddie, and I could not have loved her more tenderly had she been the
sister of my unfortunate boy. She was about twelve years old when I
purchased my freedom, and resigned my charge to other hands. After Mr.
Garland's death, the widow moved to Vicksburg, Mississippi, and I lost
sight of the family for a few years. My mother accompanied them to
Vicksburg, where she died. I made two visits to Vicksburg as a free
woman, the object of my second visit being to look after the few
effects left by my mother. As I did not visit my mother's grave at the
time, the Garlands were much surprised, but I offered no explanation.
The reason is not difficult to understand. My mother was buried in a
public ground, and the marks of her grave, as I learned, were so obscure
that the spot could not be readily designated. To look upon a grave, and
not feel certain whose ashes repose beneath the sod, is painful, and the
doubt which mystifies you, weakens the force, if not the purity, of the
love-offering from the heart. Memory preserved a sunny picture of my
mother's face, and I did not wish to weave sombre threads--threads
suggestive of a deserted grave-yard--into it, and thus impair its
beauty. After spending a few weeks with the family, I returned to St.
Louis, and then came North. The war broke out, and I lost all trace of
the Garlands. Often, during my residence in Washington, I recalled the
past, and wondered what had become of those who claimed my first duty
and my first love. When I would mention their names and express interest
in their welfare, my Northern friends would roll up their eyes in
surprise.

"Why, Lizzie, how can you have a kind thought for those who inflicted a
terrible wrong upon you by keeping you in bondage?" they would ask.

"You forget the past is dear to every one, for to the past belongs that
golden period, the days of childhood. The past is a mirror that reflects
the chief incidents of my life. To surrender it is to surrender the
greatest part of my existence--early impressions, friends, and the
graves of my father, my mother, and my son. These people are associated
with everything that memory holds dear, and so long as memory proves
faithful, it is but natural that I should sigh to see them once more."

"But they have forgotten you. They are too selfish to give a single
thought to you, now that you no longer are their slave."

"Perhaps so, but I cannot believe it. You do not know the Southern
people as well as I do--how warm is the attachment between master and
slave."

My Northern friends could not understand the feeling, therefore
explanation was next to useless. They would listen with impatience, and
remark at the close, with a shrug of the shoulders, "You have some
strange notions, Lizzie."

In the fall of 1865 a lady called on me at my apartments in Washington.
Her face looked familiar, but I could not place her. When I entered the
room, she came towards me eagerly:

"You are surprised to see me, I know. I am just from Lynchburg, and when
I left cousin Ann[e] I promised to call and see you if I came to
Washington. I am here, you see, according to promise."

I was more bewildered than ever.

"Cousin Ann[e]! Pardon me--"

"Oh, I see you do not recognize me. I am Mrs. General Longstreet, but
you knew me when a girl as Bettie Garland."

"Bettie Garland! And is this indeed you? I am so glad to see you. Where
does Miss Ann[e] live now?" I always called my last mistress, Miss
Ann[e].

"Ah! I thought you could not forget old friends. Cousin Ann[e] is living
in Lynchburg. All the family are in Virginia. They moved to the old
State during the war. Fannie is dead. Nannie has grown into a woman and
is married to General Meem. Hugh was killed in the war, and now only
Spot, Maggie, and Nannie are left."

"Fannie, dead! and poor Hugh! You bring sad news as well as pleasant.
And so my little pet is married? I can hardly believe it; she was only a
child when I saw her last."

"Yes, Nannie is married to a noble man. General Meem belongs to one of
the best families in Virginia. They are now living at Rude's Hill, up
beyond Winchester, in the Shenandoah Valley. All of them want to see you
very badly."

"I should be delighted to go to them. Miss Bettie, I can hardly realize
that you are the wife of General Longstreet; and just think, you are now
sitting in the very chair and the very room where Mrs. Lincoln has often
sat!"

She laughed: "The change is a great one, Lizzie; we little dream to-day
what to-morrow will bring forth. Well, we must take a philosophical view
of life. After fighting so long against the Yankees, General Longstreet
is now in Washington, sueing for pardon, and we propose to live in
peace with the United States again."

I had many questions to ask her about old friends, and the time passed
rapidly. She greeted me with the frankness that she had always extended
to me, and I was transported to days of the long-ago. Her stay in
Washington was brief, as the General arranged his business, and they
left the capital the next day.

Mrs. Longstreet gave me the Garlands' address, and I wrote to them,
expressing the hope that I would be able to see them before long. In
reply came letters full of tender sympathy and affection. In the winter
of 1865, Miss Nannie wrote to me that she had the best husband in the
world; that they designed going to housekeeping in the spring, and that
they would be glad to have me make them a visit in July, 1866. She sent
me a pressing invitation. "You must come to me, dear Lizzie," she wrote.
"We are now living at Rude's Hill. I am dying to see you. Ma, Maggie,
Spot, and Minnie, sister Mary's child, are with me, and you only are
needed to make the circle complete. Come; I will not take no for an
answer."

I was anxious to go myself, and when I received the urgent invitation I
concluded to go at once, and I wrote them to expect me in August. On the
10th of August I left Washington for Virginia, taking the train for
Harper's Ferry. The journey was attended with several disappointments.
We arrived at Harper's Ferry in the night, and being asleep at the time,
I was carried to the station beyond, where I had to wait and take the
return train. After returning to Harper's Ferry, where I changed cars
for Winchester, I missed the train, and was detained another day. From
Winchester the only way to reach Rude's Hill was by a line of stages. We
commenced the weary drive in the evening, and rode all night. A young
gentleman in the stage said that he knew General Meem well, and that he
would tell me when we reached the place. Relying upon him, I went to
sleep, and it appears that the polite young gentleman followed my
example. About four o'clock in the morning one of the passengers shook
me, and asked:

"Aunty, don't you want to get out at Rude's Hill?"

I started up, rubbing my eyes. "Yes. Are we there?"

"More than there. We have passed it."

"Passed it!"

"Yes. It is six miles back. You should not sleep so soundly, Aunty."

"Why _did_ you not tell me sooner? I am _so_ anxious to be there."

"Fact is, I forgot it. Never mind. Get out at this village, and you can
find conveyance back."

The village, New Market, was in a dilapidated condition; everything
about it spoke plainly of the sad destruction of war. Getting out of the
stage I went into a house, by courtesy named a hotel, where I obtained a
cup of coffee.

"Is there no conveyance from here to Rude's Hill?" I asked.

"Yes; the stage returns this evening," answered the landlord.

"This evening! I want to go as soon as possible. I should die if I had
to stay all day in this lonely place."

A colored man behind the bar, seeing how earnest I was, came forward,
and informed me that he would drive me over to General Meem's place in
an hour. This was joyful news, and I urged him to get ready to start as
soon as possible.

While standing in the door of the hotel, impatiently waiting for my
colored friend to drive round with his little wagon, a fat old lady
waddled across the street and greeted me.

"Ain't you Lizzie?"

"Yes," I answered, surprised that she should know my name.

"I thought so. They have been expecting you at Rude's Hill every day for
two weeks, and they do but little but talk about you. Mrs. Meem was in
town yesterday, and she said that she expected you this week certain.
They will be mighty glad to see you. Why, will you believe it! they
actually have kept a light burning in the front window every night for
ten nights, in order that you might not go by the place should you
arrive in the night."

"Thank you. It is pleasant to know that I am expected. I fell asleep in
the stage, and failed to see the light, so am here instead of at Rude's
Hill."

Just then the colored man drove up with the wagon, and I got in with
him, and was soon on the road to General Meem's country-seat.

As we drove up to Rude's Hill, I observed a young man standing in the
yard, and believing it to be Spot, whom I had not seen for eight years,
I beckoned to him. With an exclamation of joy, he came running towards
me. His movements attracted the attention of the family, and in a minute
the door was crowded with anxious, inquiring faces. "It is Lizzie! It is
Lizzie!" was the happy cry from all parties. In my eagerness to get to
them, I stepped from the wagon to the top of the stile, intending to
make a triumphant leap into the yard; but, alas! my exultation was
brief. My hoop-skirt caught on one of the posts, and I fell sprawling
into the yard. Spot reached me first and picked me up, only to put me
into the arms of Miss Nannie, her sister Maggie, and Mrs. Garland. Could
my friends of the North have seen that meeting, they would never have
doubted again that the mistress had any affection for her former slave.
I was carried to the house in triumph. In the parlor I was divested of
my things, and placed in an easy-chair before a bright fire. The
servants looked on in amazement.

"Lizzie, you are not changed a bit. You look as young as when you left
us in St. Louis, years ago," and Mrs. Meem, my foster child, kissed me
again.

"Here, Lizzie, this is Minnie, Minnie Pappan, sister Mary's child.
Hasn't she grown?" and Miss Maggie led a tall, queenly lady up to me.

"Minnie! Poor dear Miss Mary's child! I can hardly believe it. She was
only a baby when I saw her last. It makes me feel old to see how large
she has grown. Miss Minnie, you are larger than--your mother was--your
dear mother whom I held in my arms when she died;" and I brushed a tear
from each of my eyes.

"Have you had your breakfast, Lizzie?" asked Mrs. Garland.

"No, she has not," exclaimed her children in a chorus. "I will get her
breakfast for her," and Nannie, Maggie, and Minnie started for the
kitchen.

"It is not necessary that all should go," said Mrs. Garland. "Here is
the cook, she will get breakfast ready."

But the three did not heed her. All rushed to the kitchen, and soon
brought me a nice hot breakfast.

While I was eating, the cook remarked: "I declar, I nebber did see
people carry on so. Wonder if I should go off and stay two or three
years, if all ob you wud hug and kiss me so when I cum back?"

After I had finished my breakfast, General Meem came in. He greeted me
warmly. "Lizzie, I am very glad to see you. I feel that you are an old
acquaintance, I have heard so much of you through my wife, her sister,
and her mother. Welcome to Rude's Hill."

I was much pleased with his appearance, and closer acquaintance proved
him to be a model gentleman.

Rude's Hill, during the war, was once occupied by General Stonewall
Jackson for his head-quarters, which gave more than ordinary interest to
the place. The location was delightful, but the marks of war could be
seen everywhere on the plantation. General Meem was engaged in planting,
and he employed a large number of servants to assist him in his work.
About a mile from Rude's Hill was Mount Airy, the elegant country-seat
of the General's brother. The two families visited each other a great
deal, and as both entertained plenty of company, the Autumn months
passed pleasantly. I was comfortably quartered at Rude's Hill, and was
shown every attention. We sewed together, talking of old times, and
every day either drove out, or rode on horseback. The room in which I
sat in the daytime was the room that General Jackson always slept in,
and people came from far and near to look at it. General Jackson was the
ideal soldier of the Southern people, and they worshipped him as an
idol. Every visitor would tear a splinter from the walls or windows of
the room, to take away and treasure as a priceless relic.

It did not take me long to discover that I was an object of great
curiosity in the neighborhood. My association with Mrs. Lincoln, and my
attachment for the Garlands, whose slave I had once been, clothed me
with romantic interest.

Colonel Harry Gilmore, well known as a partisan leader in Maryland and
Virginia during the war, was a frequent visitor at Mount Airy and Rude's
Hill. One day I accompanied a party to a tournament, and General Meem
laughed pleasantly over the change that had come to me in so short a
time.

"Why, Lizzie, you are riding with Colonel Gilmore. Just think of the
change from Lincoln to Gilmore! It sounds like a dream. But then the
change is an evidence of the peaceful feeling of this country; a change,
I trust, that augurs brighter days for us all."

I had many long talks with Mrs. Garland, in one of which I asked what
had become of the only sister of my mother, formerly maid to Mrs. G's
mother.

"She is dead, Lizzie. Has been dead for some years. A maid in the old
time meant something different from what we understand by a maid at the
present time. Your aunt used to scrub the floor and milk a cow now and
then, as well as attend to the orders of my mother. My mother was severe
with her slaves in some respects, but then her heart was full of
kindness. She had your aunt punished one day, and not liking her
sorrowful look, she made two extravagant promises in order to effect a
reconciliation, both of which were accepted. On condition that her maid
would look cheerful, and be good and friendly with her, the mistress
told her she might go to church the following Sunday, and that she would
give her a silk dress to wear on the occasion. Now my mother had but one
silk dress in the world, silk not being so plenty in those days as it is
now, and yet she gave this dress to her maid to make friends with her.
Two weeks afterward mother was sent for to spend the day at a neighbor's
house, and on inspecting her wardrobe, discovered that she had no dress
fit to wear in company. She had but one alternative, and that was to
appeal to the generosity of your aunt Charlotte. Charlotte was summoned,
and enlightened in regard to the situation; the maid proffered to loan
the silk dress to her mistress for the occasion, and the mistress was
only too glad to accept. She made her appearance at the social
gathering, duly arrayed in the silk that her maid had worn to church on
the preceding Sunday."

We laughed over the incident, when Mrs. Garland said: "Lizzie, during
the entire war I used to think of you every day, and have longed to see
you so much. When we heard you were with Mrs. Lincoln, the people used
to tell me that I was foolish to think of ever seeing you again--that
your head must be completely turned. But I knew your heart, and could
not believe that you would forget us. I always argued that you would
come and see us some day."

"You judged me rightly, Miss Ann[e]. How could I forget you whom I had
grown up with from infancy. Northern people used to tell me that you
would forget me, but I told them I knew better, and hoped on."

"Ah! love is too strong to be blown away like gossamer threads. The
chain is strong enough to bind life even to the world beyond the grave.
Do you always feel kindly towards me, Lizzie?"

"To tell you candidly, Miss Ann[e], I have but one unkind thought, and
that is, that you did not give me the advantages of a good education.
What I have learned has been the study of after years."

"You are right. I did not look at things then as I do now. I have always
regretted that you were not educated when a girl. But you have not
suffered much on this score, since you get along in the world better
than we who enjoyed every educational advantage in childhood."

I remained five weeks at Rude's Hill, and they were five of the most
delightful weeks of my life. I designed going direct to Richmond, but
the cholera was reported to be raging in that city, so I took the train
for Baltimore. In Baltimore I stopped with Mrs. Annette Jordan. Mrs.
Garland had given me a letter to Mrs. Douglas Gordon, who introduced me
to several Baltimore ladies, among others Mrs. Doctor Thomas, who said
to me, with tears in her eyes: "Lizzie, you deserve to meet with success
for having been so kind to our friends in the days of the past. I wish
there were more women in the world like you. I will always do what
little I can to promote your welfare."

After remaining in Baltimore a few days, I came to the conclusion that I
could do better in Washington; so I returned to the capital, and
reopened my business.

In the spring of 1867, Miss Maggie Garland paid a visit to Baltimore.
Before leaving Virginia she said to some of her friends in Lynchburg
that she designed going by Washington to see Lizzie. Her friends
ridiculed the idea, but she persisted:

"I love Lizzie next to mother. She has been a mother to us all. Half the
pleasure of my visit is that I will be able to see her."

She wrote me a letter, saying that she designed visiting me, asking if
it would be agreeable. I replied, "Yes, come by all means. I shall be so
glad to see you."

She came and stayed at my rooms, and expressed surprise to find me so
comfortably fixed.

I can not do better than conclude this chapter with two letters from my
dear young friends, the first from Mrs. General Meem, and the second
from Miss Maggie Garland. These letters show the goodness of their
hearts and the frankness of their natures. I trust that they will not
object to the publicity that I give them:

    "RUDE'S HILL, Sept. 14, 1867.

    "MY DEAR LIZZIE:--I am nearly ashamed of myself for
    neglecting to acknowledge the receipt of your letter, and the
    very acceptable box of patterns, some weeks ago; but you will
    pardon my remissness, I know, for you can imagine what a busy
    time I've had all summer, with a house full of company most
    of the time, and with very inefficient servants, and in some
    departments _none at all_; so I have had to be at times
    dining-room servant, house-maid, and the last and most
    difficult, dairy-maid. But I have turned that department over
    to our gardener, who, though as green at the business as
    myself, seems willing to learn, and has been doing the
    milking all summer. These are a _few_ of the reasons why I
    have not written to you before, for I hope you will always
    believe that you occupy a large place in my memory and
    affection, whether I write to you or not; and such a poor
    correspondent as yourself ought not to complain. Mother, Mag,
    Uncle John, and Spot are still with us; the former will pass
    the winter with me, but the others all talk of leaving before
    long. The approach of winter always scatters our guests, and
    we have to spend the long, dreary winters alone. But we are
    to have the railroad to Mt. Jackson by Christmas, perhaps
    sooner; and then, if we can raise the wind, we can spend a
    portion of the winter in the city, and I hope you will find
    time to come up and _spend the day_ with me, as we will be
    near neighbors. I so seldom indulge in the pleasant task of
    writing letters that I scarcely know what will interest my
    correspondent, but I flatter myself that _you_ will be glad
    to hear anything and everything about us all, so I'll begin
    with the children. Hugh has improved a great deal, and is
    acknowledged to be the smartest child and the finest looking
    in the State; he talks as plainly as I do, and just as
    understandingly as a child of ten years old; his nurse often
    says we need not set our hearts on that child, he is too
    smart ever to be raised; but I trust his _badness_ will save
    him, for he is terribly spoilt, as such interesting children
    are bound to be. Miss Eliza, no longer called _Jane_, is
    getting to be a little 'star girl,' as her Papa calls her;
    she is just learning to walk, and says a good many words
    quite plainly. You would never take her for the same little
    _cry-baby_ of last summer, and she is a little beauty too--as
    white as the driven snow, with the most beautiful blue eyes,
    and long, dark lashes you ever saw. She will set _somebody_
    crazy if she grows up to be as lovely as she now promises to
    be. My dear good husband has been, like myself, run to death
    this summer; but it agrees with him, and I never saw him
    looking better. He has fallen off a little, which is a great
    improvement, I think. He often speaks of you, and wonders if
    you were sufficiently pleased with your visit last summer to
    repeat it. I hope so, for we will always be glad to welcome
    you to Rude's Hill, whenever you have time to come; provided,
    of course, you have the wish also. Spot expects to hang out
    his shingle in St. Louis next winter. His health is greatly
    improved, though he is still very thin, and very, very much
    like dear father. Mag has promised to teach a little cousin
    of ours, who lives in Nelson County, until February, and will
    leave here in two weeks to commence her labors. I hate to see
    her leave, but she is bent on it, and our winters are so
    unattractive that I do not like to insist on her shutting
    herself up all winter with three old people. She will have
    very pleasant society at Cousin Buller's, and will perhaps
    spend the rest of the winter with Aunt Pris, if Uncle
    Armistead remains in Binghampton, New York, as he talks of
    doing. Do write to me before you get too busy with your fall
    and winter work; I am so anxious to hear all your plans, and
    about your stay in New York. By the by, I will have to
    direct this to Washington, as I do not know your New York
    address. I suppose your friends will forward it. If you are
    going to remain any length of time in New York, send me your
    address, and I will write again. * * I have somehow made out
    a long letter, though there is not much in it, and I hope you
    will do the same before long. _All_ send love.

      "Yours affectionately,
      "N. R. G. MEEM.

    "My pen and ink are both so wretched that I fear you will
    find some difficulty in making out this scratch; but _put on
    your specks_, and what you can't read, just guess at. I
    enclose a very poor likeness of Hugh taken last spring; don't
    show it to anybody, for I assure you there is scarcely the
    faintest resemblance to him now in it.

      "N. R. G. M."

I give only a few extracts from the pleasant letter from Miss Maggie
Garland. The reader will observe that she signs herself "Your child,
Mag," an expression of love warmly appreciated by me:

    "SEDDES, Dec. 17, 1867.

    "So many months have passed, my dear Lizzie, since I was
    cheered by a sight of your welcome handwriting, that I must
    find out what is the matter, and see if I can't persuade you
    to write me a few lines. Whatever comes, 'weal or woe,' you
    know I shall always love you, and I have no idea of letting
    you forget me; so just make up your mind to write me a nice
    long letter, and tell me what you are doing with yourself
    this cold weather. I am buried in the wilds of Amherst, and
    the cold, chilling blasts of December come whistling around,
    and tell us plainly that the reign of the snow-king has begun
    in good earnest. Since October I have been teaching for my
    cousin, Mr. Claiborne, and although I am very happy, and
    every one is so kind to me, I shall not be sorry when the day
    comes when I shall shut up school-books forever. None of
    'Miss Ann[e]'s' children were cut out for 'school-marms,'
    were they, Yiddie? I am sure I was only made to ride in my
    carriage, and play on the piano. Don't you think so? * * *
    You must write me where you are, so I can stop and see you on
    my way North; for you know, dear Lizzie, no one can take your
    place in my heart. I expect to spend the Christmas holidays
    in Lynchburg. It will be very gay there, and I will be glad
    enough to take a good dance. This is a short letter to send
    you after such a long silence, but 'tis too cold to write.
    Let me hear from you very soon.

      "Your child MAG.

    "Please write, for I long to hear from you."

CHAPTER XV

THE SECRET HISTORY OF MRS. LINCOLN'S WARDROBE IN NEW YORK

In March, 1867, Mrs. Lincoln wrote to me from Chicago that, as her
income was insufficient to meet her expenses, she would be obliged to
give up her house in the city, and return to boarding. She said that she
had struggled long enough to keep up appearances, and that the mask must
be thrown aside. "I have not the means," she wrote, "to meet the
expenses of even a first-class boarding-house, and must sell out and
secure cheap rooms at some place in the country. It will not be
startling news to you, my dear Lizzie, to learn that I must sell a
portion of my wardrobe to add to my resources, so as to enable me to
live decently, for you remember what I told you in Washington, as well
as what you understood before you left me here in Chicago. I cannot live
on $1,700 a year, and as I have many costly things which I shall never
wear, I might as well turn them into money, and thus add to my income,
and make my circumstances easier. It is humiliating to be placed in such
a position, but, as I am in the position, I must extricate myself as
best I can. Now, Lizzie, I want to ask a favor of you. It is imperative
that I should do something for my relief, and I want you to meet me in
New York, between the 30th of August and the 5th of September next, to
assist me in disposing of a portion of my wardrobe."

I knew that Mrs. Lincoln's income was small, and also knew that she had
many valuable dresses, which could be of no value to her, packed away in
boxes and trunks. I was confident that she would never wear the dresses
again, and thought that, since her need was urgent, it would be well
enough to dispose of them quietly, and believed that New York was the
best place to transact a delicate business of the kind. She was the wife
of Abraham Lincoln, the man who had done so much for my race, and I
could refuse to do nothing for her, calculated to advance her interests.
I consented to render Mrs. Lincoln all the assistance in my power, and
many letters passed between us in regard to the best way to proceed. It
was finally arranged that I should meet her in New York about the middle
of September. While thinking over this question, I remembered an
incident of the White House. When we were packing up to leave Washington
for Chicago, she said to me, one morning:

"Lizzie, I may see the day when I shall be obliged to sell a portion of
my wardrobe. If Congress does not do something for me, then my dresses
some day may have to go to bring food into my mouth, and the mouths of
my children."

I also remembered of Mrs. L. having said to me at different times, in
the years of 1863 and '4, that her expensive dresses might prove of
great assistance to her some day.

"In what way, Mrs. Lincoln? I do not understand," I ejaculated, the
first time she made the remark to me.

"Very simple to understand. Mr. Lincoln is so generous that he will not
save anything from his salary, and I expect that we will leave the White
House poorer than when we came into it; and should such be the case, I
will have no further need for an expensive wardrobe, and it will be
policy to sell it off."

I thought at the time that Mrs. Lincoln was borrowing trouble from the
future, and little dreamed that the event which she so dimly
foreshadowed would ever come to pass.

I closed my business about the 10th of September, and made every
arrangement to leave Washington on the mission proposed. On the 15th of
September I received a letter from Mrs. Lincoln, postmarked Chicago,
saying that she should leave the city so as to reach New York on the
night of the 17th, and directing me to precede her to the metropolis,
and secure rooms for her at the St. Denis Hotel in the name of Mrs.
Clarke, as her visit was to be _incog._ The contents of the letter were
startling to me. I had never heard of the St. Denis, and therefore
presumed that it could not be a first-class house. And I could not
understand why Mrs. Lincoln should travel, without protection, under an
assumed name. I knew that it would be impossible for me to engage rooms
at a strange hotel for a person whom the proprietors knew nothing about.
I could not write to Mrs. Lincoln, since she would be on the road to New
York before a letter could possibly reach Chicago. I could not telegraph
her, for the business was of too delicate a character to be trusted to
the wires that would whisper the secret to every curious operator along
the line. In my embarrassment, I caught at a slender thread of hope, and
tried to derive consolation from it. I knew Mrs. Lincoln to be
indecisive about some things, and I hoped that she might change her mind
in regard to the strange programme proposed, and at the last moment
despatch me to this effect. The 16th, and then the 17th of September
passed, and no despatch reached me, so on the 18th I made all haste to
take the train for New York. After an anxious ride, I reached the city
in the evening, and when I stood alone in the streets of the great
metropolis, my heart sank within me. I was in an embarrassing situation,
and scarcely knew how to act. I did not know where the St. Denis Hotel
was, and was not certain that I should find Mrs. Lincoln there after I
should go to it. I walked up to Broadway, and got into a stage going up
town, with the intention of keeping a close look-out for the hotel in
question. A kind-looking gentleman occupied the seat next to me, and I
ventured to inquire of him:

"If you please, sir, can you tell me where the St. Denis Hotel is?"

"Yes; we ride past it in the stage. I will point it out to you when we
come to it."

"Thank you, sir."

The stage rattled up the street, and after a while the gentleman looked
out of the window and said:

"This is the St. Denis. Do you wish to get out here?"

"Thank you. Yes, sir."

He pulled the strap, and the next minute I was standing on the pavement.
I pulled a bell at the ladies' entrance to the hotel, and a boy coming
to the door, I asked:

"Is a lady by the name of Mrs. Clarke stopping here? She came last
night, I believe."

"I do not know. I will ask at the office;" and I was left alone.

The boy came back and said:

"Yes, Mrs. Clarke is here. Do you want to see her?"

"Yes."

"Well, just walk round there. She is down here now."

I did not know where "round there" exactly was, but I concluded to go
forward.

I stopped, however, thinking that the lady might be in the parlor with
company; and pulling out a card, asked the boy to take it to her. She
heard me talking, and came into the hall to see herself.

"My dear Lizzie, I am so glad to see you," she exclaimed, coming forward
and giving me her hand. "I have just received your note"--I had written
her that I should join her on the 18th--"and have been trying to get a
room for you. Your note has been here all day, but it was never
delivered until to-night. Come in here, until I find out about your
room;" and she led me into the office.

The clerk, like all modern hotel clerks, was exquisitely arrayed, highly
perfumed, and too self-important to be obliging, or even courteous.

"This is the woman I told you about. I want a good room for her," Mrs.
Lincoln said to the clerk.

"We have no room for her, madam," was the pointed rejoinder.

"But she must have a room. She is a friend of mine, and I want a room
for her adjoining mine."

"We have no room for her on your floor."

"That is strange, sir. I tell you that she is a friend of mine, and I am
sure you could not give a room to a more worthy person."

"Friend of yours, or not, I tell you we have no room for her on your
floor. I can find a place for her on the fifth floor."

"That, sir, I presume, will be a vast improvement on my room. Well, if
she goes to the fifth floor, I shall go too, sir. What is good enough
for her is good enough for me."

"Very well, madam. Shall I give you adjoining rooms, and send your
baggage up?"

"Yes, and have it done in a hurry. Let the boy show us up. Come,
Elizabeth," and Mrs. L. turned from the clerk with a haughty glance, and
we commenced climbing the stairs. I thought we should never reach the
top; and when we did reach the fifth story, what accommodations! Little
three-cornered rooms, scantily furnished. I never expected to see the
widow of President Lincoln in such dingy, humble quarters.

"How provoking!" Mrs. Lincoln exclaimed, sitting down on a chair when we
had reached the top, and panting from the effects of the climbing. "I
declare, I never saw such unaccommodating people. Just to think of them
sticking us away up here in the attic. I will give them a regular going
over in the morning."

"But you forget. They do not know you. Mrs. Lincoln would be treated
differently from Mrs. Clarke."

"True, I do forget. Well, I suppose I shall have to put up with the
annoyances. Why did you not come to me yesterday, Lizzie? I was almost
crazy when I reached here last night, and found you had not arrived. I
sat down and wrote you a note--I felt so badly--imploring you to come to
me immediately."

This note was afterwards sent to me from Washington. It reads as
follows:

    ST. DENIS HOTEL, BROADWAY, N.Y.

    "Wednesday, Sept. 17th.

    "MY DEAR LIZZIE:--I arrived _here_ last evening in utter
    despair _at not_ finding you. I am frightened to death, being
    here alone. Come, I pray you, by _next_ train. Inquire for

      "MRS. CLARKE,
      "Room 94, 5th or 6th Story.

    "House so crowded could not get another spot. I wrote you
    especially to meet me here last evening; it makes me wild to
    think of being here alone. Come by _next train_, without
    fail.

      "Your friend,
      "MRS. LINCOLN.

    "I am booked Mrs. Clarke; inquire for _no other person_.
    _Come, come, come._ I will pay your expenses when you arrive
    here. I shall not leave here or change my room until you
    come.

      "Your friend, M. L.

    "Do not leave this house without seeing me.

    "_Come!_"

I transcribe the letter literally.

In reply to Mrs. Lincoln's last question, I explained what has already
been explained to the reader, that I was in hope she would change her
mind, and knew that it would be impossible to secure the rooms requested
for a person unknown to the proprietors or attachés of the hotel.

The explanation seemed to satisfy her. Turning to me suddenly, she
exclaimed:

"You have not had your dinner, Lizzie, and must be hungry. I nearly
forgot about it in the joy of seeing you. You must go down to the table
right away."

She pulled the bell-rope, and a servant appearing, she ordered him to
give me my dinner. I followed him down-stairs, and he led me into the
dining-hall, and seated me at a table in one corner of the room. I was
giving my order, when the steward came forward and gruffly said:

"You are in the wrong room."

"I was brought here by the waiter," I replied.

"It makes no difference; I will find you another place where you can eat
your dinner."

I got up from the table and followed him, and when outside of the door,
said to him:

"It is very strange that you should permit me to be seated at the table
in the dining-room only for the sake of ordering me to leave it the next
moment."

"Are you not Mrs. Clarke's servant?" was his abrupt question.

"I am with Mrs. Clarke."

"It is all the same; servants are not allowed to eat in the large
dining-room. Here, this way; you must take your dinner in the servants'
hall."

Hungry and humiliated as I was, I was willing to follow to any place to
get my dinner, for I had been riding all day, and had not tasted a
mouthful since early morning.

On reaching the servants' hall we found the door of the room locked. The
waiter left me standing in the passage while he went to inform the clerk
of the fact.

In a few minutes the obsequious clerk came blustering down the hall:

"Did you come out of the street, or from Mrs. Clarke's room?"

"From Mrs. Clarke's room," I meekly answered. My gentle words seemed to
quiet him, and then he explained:

"It is after the regular hour for dinner. The room is locked up, and
Annie has gone out with the key."

My pride would not let me stand longer in the hall.

"Very well," I remarked, as I began climbing the stairs, "I will tell
Mrs. Clarke that I cannot get any dinner."

He looked after me, with a scowl on his face:

"You need not put on airs! I understand the whole thing."

I said nothing, but continued to climb the stairs, thinking to myself:
"Well, if you understand the whole thing, it is strange that you should
put the widow of ex-President Abraham Lincoln in a three-cornered room
in the attic of this miserable hotel."

When I reached Mrs. Lincoln's rooms, tears of humiliation and vexation
were in my eyes.

"What is the matter, Lizzie?" she asked.

"I cannot get any dinner."

"Cannot get any dinner! What do you mean?"

I then told her of all that had transpired below.

"The insolent, overbearing people!" she fiercely exclaimed. "Never mind,
Lizzie, you shall have your dinner. Put on your bonnet and shawl."

"What for?"

"What for! Why, we will go out of the hotel, and get you something to
eat where they know how to behave decently;" and Mrs. Lincoln already
was tying the strings of her bonnet before the glass.

Her impulsiveness alarmed me.

"Surely, Mrs. Lincoln, you do not intend to go out on the street
to-night?"

"Yes I do. Do you suppose I am going to have you starve, when we can
find something to eat on every corner?"

"But you forget. You are here as Mrs. Clarke and not as Mrs. Lincoln.
You came alone, and the people already suspect that everything is not
right. If you go outside of the hotel to-night, they will accept the
fact as evidence against you."

"Nonsense; what do you suppose I care for what these low-bred people
think? Put on your things."

"No, Mrs. Lincoln, I shall not go outside of the hotel to-night, for I
realize your situation, if you do not. Mrs. Lincoln has no reason to
care what these people may say about her as Mrs. Lincoln, but she should
be prudent, and give them no opportunity to say anything about her as
Mrs. Clarke."

It was with difficulty I could convince her that she should act with
caution. She was so frank and impulsive that she never once thought that
her actions might be misconstrued. It did not occur to her that she
might order dinner to be served in my room, so I went to bed without a
mouthful to eat.

The next morning Mrs. Lincoln knocked at my door before six o'clock:

"Come, Elizabeth, get up, I know you must be hungry. Dress yourself
quickly and we will go out and get some breakfast. I was unable to sleep
last night for thinking of you being forced to go to bed without
anything to eat."

I dressed myself as quickly as I could, and together we went out and
took breakfast, at a restaurant on Broadway, some place between 609 and
the St. Denis Hotel. I do not give the number, as I prefer leaving it to
conjecture. Of one thing I am certain--the proprietor of the restaurant
little dreamed who one of his guests was that morning.

After breakfast we walked up Broadway, and entering Union Square Park,
took a seat on one of the benches under the trees, watched the children
at play, and talked over the situation. Mrs. Lincoln told me: "Lizzie,
yesterday morning I called for the _Herald_ at the breakfast table, and
on looking over the list of diamond brokers advertised, I selected the
firm of W. H. Brady & Co., 609 Broadway. After breakfast I walked down
to the house, and tried to sell them a lot of jewelry. I gave my name as
Mrs. Clarke. I first saw Mr. Judd, a member of the firm, a very pleasant
gentleman. We were unable to agree about the price. He went back into
the office, where a stout gentleman was seated at the desk, but I could
not hear what he said. [I know now what was said, and so shall the
reader, in parentheses. Mr. Brady has since told me that he remarked to
Mr. Judd that the woman must be crazy to ask such outrageous prices,
and to get rid of her as soon as possible.] Soon after Mr. Judd came
back to the counter, another gentleman, Mr. Keyes, as I have since
learned, a silent partner in the house, entered the store. He came to
the counter, and in looking over my jewelry discovered my name inside of
one of the rings. I had forgotten the ring, and when I saw him looking
at the name so earnestly, I snatched the bauble from him and put it into
my pocket. I hastily gathered up my jewelry, and started out. They asked
for my address, and I left my card, Mrs. Clarke, at the St. Denis Hotel.
They are to call to see me this forenoon, when I shall enter into
negotiations with them."

Scarcely had we returned to the hotel when Mr. Keyes called, and Mrs.
Clarke disclosed to him that she was Mrs. Lincoln. He was much elated to
find his surmise correct. Mrs. L. exhibited to him a large number of
shawls, dresses, and fine laces, and told him that she was compelled to
sell them in order to live. He was an earnest Republican, was much
affected by her story, and denounced the ingratitude of the government
in the severest terms. She complained to him of the treatment she had
received at the St. Denis, and he advised her to move to another hotel
forthwith. She readily consented, and as she wanted to be in an
out-of-the-way place where she would not be recognized by any of her old
friends, he recommended the Earle Hotel in Canal street.

On the way down to the hotel that morning she acceded to a suggestion
made by me, and supported by Mr. Keyes, that she confide in the
landlord, and give him her name without registering, so as to ensure the
proper respect. Unfortunately, the Earle Hotel was full, and we had to
select another place. We drove to the Union Place Hotel, where we
secured rooms for Mrs. Clarke, Mrs. Lincoln changing her mind, deeming
it would not be prudent to disclose her real name to any one. After we
had become settled in our new quarters, Messrs. Keyes and Brady called
frequently on Mrs. Lincoln, and held long conferences with her. They
advised her to pursue the course she did, and were sanguine of success.
Mrs. Lincoln was very anxious to dispose of her things, and return to
Chicago as quickly and quietly as possible; but they presented the case
in a different light, and, I regret to say, she was guided by their
counsel. "Pooh," said Mr. Brady, "place your affairs in our hands, and
we will raise you at least $100,000 in a few weeks. The people will not
permit the widow of Abraham Lincoln to suffer; they will come to her
rescue when they know she is in want."

The argument seemed plausible, and Mrs. Lincoln quietly acceded to the
proposals of Keyes and Brady.

We remained quietly at the Union Place Hotel for a few days. On Sunday
Mrs. Lincoln accepted the use of a private carriage, and accompanied by
me, she drove out to Central Park. We did not enjoy the ride much, as
the carriage was a close one, and we could not throw open the window for
fear of being recognized by some one of the many thousands in the Park.
Mrs. Lincoln wore a heavy veil so as to more effectually conceal her
face. We came near being run into, and we had a spasm of alarm, for an
accident would have exposed us to public gaze, and of course the
masquerade would have been at an end. On Tuesday I hunted up a number of
dealers in secondhand clothing, and had them call at the hotel by
appointment. Mrs. Lincoln soon discovered that they were hard people to
drive a bargain with, so on Thursday we got into a close carriage,
taking a bundle of dresses and shawls with us, and drove to a number of
stores on Seventh Avenue, where an attempt was made to dispose of a
portion of the wardrobe. The dealers wanted the goods for little or
nothing, and we found it a hard matter to drive a bargain with them.
Mrs. Lincoln met the dealers squarely, but all of her tact and
shrewdness failed to accomplish much. I do not care to dwell upon this
portion of my story. Let it answer to say, that we returned to the hotel
more disgusted than ever with the business in which we were engaged.
There was much curiosity at the hotel in relation to us, as our
movements were watched, and we were regarded with suspicion. Our trunks
in the main hall below were examined daily, and curiosity was more
keenly excited when the argus-eyed reporters for the press traced Mrs.
Lincoln's name on the cover of one of her trunks. The letters had been
rubbed out, but the faint outlines remained, and these outlines only
served to stimulate curiosity. Messrs. Keyes and Brady called often, and
they made Mrs. Lincoln believe that, if she would write certain letters
for them to show to prominent politicians, they could raise a large sum
of money for her. They argued that the Republican party would never
permit it to be said that the wife of Abraham Lincoln was in want; that
the leaders of the party would make heavy advances rather than have it
published to the world that Mrs. Lincoln's poverty compelled her to sell
her wardrobe. Mrs. L.'s wants were urgent, as she had to borrow $600
from Keyes and Brady, and she was willing to adopt any scheme which
promised to place a good bank account to her credit. At different times
in her room at the Union Place Hotel she wrote the following letters:

    CHICAGO, Sept. 18, 1867.

    "MR. BRADY, _Commission Broker, No. 609 Broadway,
    New York_:

    "I have this day sent to you personal property, which I am
    compelled to part with, and which you will find of
    considerable value. The articles consist of four camels' hair
    shawls, one lace dress and shawl, a parasol cover, a diamond
    ring, two dress patterns, some furs, etc.

    "Please have them appraised, and confer by letter with me.

      Very respectfully,
      "MRS. LINCOLN."

    "CHICAGO, ----.

    "MR BRADY _No 609 Broadway, N.Y. City_

    "**** DEAR SIR:--The articles I am sending you to dispose of
    were gifts of dear friends, which only urgent necessity
    compels me to part with, and I am especially anxious that
    they shall not be sacrificed.

    "The circumstances are peculiar, and painfully embarrassing;
    therefore I hope you will endeavor to realize as much as
    possible for them. Hoping to hear from you, I remain, very
    respectfully,

      "MRS. A. LINCOLN."

    "Sept. 25, 1867.

    "W.H. BRADY, ESQ.:--My great, great sorrow and loss have made
    me painfully sensitive, but as my feelings and pecuniary
    comforts were never regarded or even recognized in the midst
    of my overwhelming bereavement--_now_ that I am pressed in a
    most startling manner for means of subsistence, I do not know
    why I should shrink from an opportunity of improving my
    trying position.

    "Being assured that all you do will be appropriately
    executed, and in a manner that will not startle me very
    greatly, and excite as little comment as possible, again I
    shall leave all in your hands.

    "I am passing through a very painful ordeal, which the
    country, in remembrance of my noble and devoted husband,
    should have spared me.

    "I remain, with great respect, very truly,

      "MRS. LINCOLN.

    "P.S.--As you mention that my goods have been valued at over
    $24,000, I will be willing to make a reduction of $8,000, and
    relinquish them for $16,000. If this is not accomplished, I
    will continue to sell and advertise largely until every
    article is sold.

    "I must have means to live, at least in a medium comfortable
    state.

      "M. L."

The letters are dated Chicago, and addressed to Mr. Brady, though every
one of them was written in New York; for when Mrs. L. left the West for
the East, she had settled upon no definite plan of action. Mr. Brady
proposed to show the letters to certain politicians, and ask for money
on a threat to publish them if his demands, as Mrs. Lincoln's agent,
were not complied with. When writing the letters I stood at Mrs.
Lincoln's elbow, and suggested that they be couched in the mildest
language possible.

"Never mind, Lizzie," she said; "anything to raise the wind. One might
as well be killed for a sheep as a lamb."

This latter expression was a favorite one of hers; she meaning by it,
that if one must be punished for an act, such as theft for instance,
that the punishment would be no more severe if a sheep were taken
instead of a lamb.

Mr. Brady exhibited the letters quite freely, but the parties to whom
they were shown refused to make any advances. Meanwhile our stay at the
Union Place Hotel excited so much curiosity, that a sudden movement was
rendered expedient to avoid discovery. We sent the large trunks to 609
Broadway, packed the smaller ones, paid our bills at the hotel, and one
morning hastily departed for the country, where we remained three days.
The movement was successful. The keen-eyed reporters for the daily
papers were thrown off the scent, and when we returned to the city we
took rooms at the Brandreth House, where Mrs. Lincoln registered as
"Mrs. Morris." I had desired her to go to the Metropolitan Hotel, and
confide in the proprietors, as the Messrs. Leland had always been very
kind to her, treating her with distinguished courtesy whenever she was
their guest; but this she refused to do.

Several days passed, and Messrs. Brady and Keyes were forced to
acknowledge that their scheme was a failure. The letters had been shown
to various parties, but every one declined to act. Aside from a few
dresses sold at small prices to secondhand dealers, Mrs. Lincoln's
wardrobe was still in her possession. Her visit to New York had proved
disastrous, and she was goaded into more desperate measures. Money she
must have, and to obtain it she proposed to play a bolder game. She gave
Mr. Brady permission to place her wardrobe on exhibition for sale, and
authorized him to publish the letters in the _World_.

After coming to this determination, she packed her trunks to return to
Chicago. I accompanied her to the depot, and told her good-by, on the
very morning that the letters appeared in the _World_. Mrs. Lincoln
wrote me the incidents of the journey, and the letter describes the
story more graphically than I could hope to do. I suppress many
passages, as they are of too confidential a nature to be given to the
public:

    "CHICAGO, October 6th.

    "My DEAR LIZZIE:--My ink is like myself and my spirits
    failing, so I write you to-day with a pencil. I had a
    solitary ride to this place, as you may imagine, varied by
    one or two amusing incidents. I found, after you left me, I
    could not continue in the car in which you left me, owing to