Behind the Scenes, or,
Thirty years a
Slave, and Four Years in the White House:
Electronic Edition.
Elizabeth Keckley, ca. 1818-1907
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First edition, 1999
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Academic Affairs Library, UNC-Chapel Hill
University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 1999.
Call number CB K25B (North Carolina Collection, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill)
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Library of Congress Subject Headings,
21st edition, 1998
LC Subject Headings:
Keckley, Elizabeth, ca. 1818-1907.
Keckley, Elizabeth, ca. 1818-1907 -- Correspondence.
Lincoln, Mary Todd, 1818-1882.
Lincoln, Mary Todd, 1818-1882 -- Correspondence.
Davis, Varina, 1826-1906.
Presidents' spouses -- Correspondence.
African Americans -- Southern states -- Biography.
Slaves -- Southern States -- Biography -- 19th century.
Slaves -- Southern States -- Social conditions -- 19th century.
Freedmen -- Southern States -- Biography.
Washington D.C. -- Social life and customs.
Plantation life -- Southern States -- History -- 19th Century.
Washington D.C. -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Personal
narratives.
Slaves' writings, American -- Southern States.
1999-05-14,
Celine Noel and Sam McRae
revised TEIHeader and created catalog
record for the electronic edition.
1999-04-21, Natalia Smith, project manager,
finished TEI-conformant encoding and final proofing.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868,
by
ELIZABETH KECKLEY,
In the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the United States for
the Southern District of Pennsylvania.
THE NEW YORK PRINTING COMPANY,
81, 83, and 85 Centre Street,
New York.
I HAVE often been asked to write my life, as those who
know me know that it has been an eventful one. At last I
have acceded to the importunities of my friends, and
have hastily sketched some of the striking incidents
that go to make up my history. My life, so full of
romance, may sound like a dream to the matter-of-fact
reader, nevertheless everything I have written is strictly
true; much has been omitted, but nothing has been
exaggerated. In writing as I have done, I am well
aware that I have invited criticism; but before the critic
judges harshly, let my explanation be carefully read
and weighed. If I have portrayed the dark side of
slavery, I also have painted the bright side. The good
that I have said of human servitude should be thrown
into the scales with the evil that I have said of it. I
have kind, true-hearted friends in the South as well as in the
North, and I would not wound those Southern
friends by sweeping condemnation, simply because I was
once a slave. They were not so much responsible for the
curse under which I was born, as the God of nature and the
fathers who framed the Constitution for the United States.
The law descended to them, and it was but natural that they
should recognize it, since it manifestly was their interest to
do so. And yet a wrong was inflicted upon me; a cruel
custom deprived me of my liberty, and since I was robbed of
my dearest right, I would not have been human had I not
rebelled against the robbery. God rules the Universe. I was a
feeble instrument in His hands, and through me and the
enslaved millions of my race, one of the problems was
solved that belongs to the great problem of human destiny;
and the solution was developed so gradually that there was
no great convulsion of the harmonies of natural laws. A
solemn truth was thrown to the surface, and what is better
still, it was recognized as a truth by those who give force to
moral laws. An act may be wrong, but unless the ruling
power recognizes the wrong, it is useless to hope for a
correction of it. Principles may be right, but they are not
established within an hour. The masses are slow to reason,
and each principle, to acquire moral force, must come to us
from the fire of the crucible; the fire may inflict unjust
punishment, but then it purifies and renders stronger the
principle, not in itself, but in the eyes of those who arrogate
judgment to themselves. When the war of the Revolution
established the independence of the
American colonies, an evil was perpetuated, slavery was
more firmly established; and since the evil had been planted,
it must pass through certain stages before it could be
eradicated. In fact, we give but little thought to the plant of
evil until it grows to such monstrous proportions that it
overshadows important interests; then the efforts to
destroy it become earnest. As one of the victims of slavery I
drank of the bitter water; but then, since destiny willed it
so, and since I aided in bringing a solemn truth to the surface
as a truth, perhaps I have no right to complain. Here, as in
all things pertaining to life, I can afford to be charitable.
It may be charged that I have written too freely on some
questions, especially in regard to Mrs. Lincoln. I do not
think so; at least I have been prompted by the purest
motive. Mrs. Lincoln, by her own acts, forced herself into
notoriety. She stepped beyond the formal lines which hedge
about a private life, and invited public criticism. The people
have judged her harshly, and no woman was ever more
traduced in the public prints of the country. The people
knew nothing of the secret history of her transactions,
therefore they judged her by what was thrown to the
surface. For an act may be wrong judged purely by itself,
but when the motive that prompted the act is understood, it
is construed differently. I lay it down as an axiom, that only
that is criminal in the sight of God where crime is meditated.
Mrs. Lincoln may have been imprudent, but since her
intentions were good, she should be judged more kindly
than she has been. But the world do not know what her
intentions were; they have only been made acquainted with
her acts without knowing what feeling guided her actions. If
the world are to judge her as I have judged her, they must be
introduced to the secret history of her transactions. The veil
of mystery must be drawn aside; the origin of a fact must
be brought to light with the naked fact itself. If I have
betrayed confidence in anything I have published, it has
been to place Mrs. Lincoln in a better light before the world.
A breach of trust--if breach it can be called--of this kind is
always excusable. My own character, as well as the
character of Mrs. Lincoln, is at stake, since I have been
intimately associated with that lady in the most eventful
periods of her life. I have been her confidante, and if evil
charges are laid at her door, they also must be laid at mine,
since I have been a party to all her movements. To defend
myself I must defend the lady that I have served. The world
have judged Mrs. Lincoln by the facts which float upon the
surface, and through her have partially judged me, and the
only way to convince them that wrong was not meditated is
to explain the motives that actuated us. I have written
nothing that can place Mrs. Lincoln in a worse light before
the world than the light in which she now stands, therefore
the secret history that I publish can do her no harm. I have
excluded everything of a personal character from her letters;
the extracts introduced only
refer to public men, and are such as to throw light upon her
unfortunate adventure in New York. These letters were not
written for publication, for which reason they are all the
more valuable; they are the frank overflowings of the heart,
the outcropping of impulse, the key to genuine motives.
They prove the motive to have been pure, and if they shall
help to stifle the voice of calumny, I am content. I do not
forget, before the public journals vilified Mrs. Lincoln, that
ladies who moved in the Washington circle in which she
moved, freely canvassed her character among themselves.
They gloated over many a tale of scandal that grew out of
gossip in their own circle. If these ladies, could say
everything bad of the wife of the President, why should I
not be permitted to lay her secret history bare, especially
when that history plainly shows that her life, like all lives,
has its good side as well as its bad side! None of us are
perfect, for which reason we should heed the voice of
charity when it whispers in our ears, "Do not magnify the
imperfections of others." Had Mrs. Lincoln's acts never
become public property, I should not have published to the
world the secret chapters of her life. I am not the special
champion of the widow of our lamented President; the
reader of the pages which follow will discover that I have
written with the utmost frankness in regard to her--have
exposed her faults as well as given her credit for honest
motives. I wish the world to judge her as she is, free from
the exaggerations of praise or scandal, since
I have been associated with her in so many things
that have provoked hostile criticism; and the judgment
that the world may pass upon her, I flatter myself, will
present my own actions in a better light.
MY life has been an eventful one. I was born a slave--was the child of slave parents--therefore I came
upon the earth free in God-like thought, but
fettered in action. My birthplace was Dinwiddie
Court-House, in Virginia. My recollections of
childhood are distinct, perhaps for the reason that
many stirring incidents are associated with that
period. I am now on the shady side of forty, and as
I sit alone in my room the brain is busy, and a
rapidly moving panorama brings scene after scene
before me, some
pleasant and others sad; and when I thus greet old
familiar faces, I often find myself wondering if I am not
living the past over again. The visions are so terribly
distinct that I almost imagine them to be real. Hour
after hour I sit while the scenes are being shifted; and
as I gaze upon the panorama of the past, I realize how
crowded with incidents my life has been. Every day
seems like a romance within itself, and the years grow
into ponderous volumes. As I cannot condense, I
must omit many strange passages in my history. From
such a wilderness of events it is difficult to make a
selection, but as I am not writing altogether the history
of myself, I will confine my story to the most important
incidents which I believe influenced the moulding of
my character. As I glance over the crowded sea of the
past, these incidents stand forth prominently, the
guide-posts of memory. I presume that I must have
been four years old when I
first began to remember; at least, I cannot now
recall anything occurring previous to this period.
My master, Col. A. Burwell, was somewhat
unsettled in his business affairs, and while I was
yet an infant he made several removals. While
living at Hampton Sidney College, Prince
Edward County, Va., Mrs. Burwell gave birth
to a daughter, a sweet, black-eyed baby, my
earliest and fondest pet. To take care of this
baby was my first duty. True, I was but a
child myself--only four years old--but then I
had been raised in a hardy school--had been
taught to rely upon myself, and to prepare
myself to render assistance to others. The lesson
was not a bitter one, for I was too young to
indulge in philosophy, and the precepts that I
then treasured and practised I believe developed
those principles of character which have enabled
me to triumph over so many difficulties.
Notwithstanding all the wrongs that slavery heaped
upon me, I can bless it for one thing--youth's
important lesson of self-reliance. The baby was named
Elizabeth, and it was pleasant to me to be assigned a
duty in connection with it, for the discharge of that
duty transferred me from the rude cabin to the
household of my master. My simple attire was a short
dress and a little white apron. My old mistress
encouraged me in rocking the cradle, by telling me that
if I would watch over the baby well, keep the flies out
of its face, and not let it cry, I should be its little maid.
This was a golden promise, and I required no better
inducement for the faithful performance of my task. I
began to rock the cradle most industriously, when lo!
out pitched little pet on the floor. I instantly cried out,
"Oh! the baby is on the floor;" and, not knowing what
to do, I seized the fire-shovel in my perplexity, and was
trying to shovel up my tender charge, when my
mistress called to me to let the child alone, and then
ordered that I be taken out and lashed for my
carelessness.
The blows were not administered with a light hand, I
assure you, and doubtless the severity of the lashing
has made me remember the incident so well. This was
the first time I was punished in this cruel way, but not
the last. The black-eyed baby that I called my pet grew
into a self-willed girl, and in after years was the cause
of much trouble to me. I grew strong and healthy, and,
notwithstanding I knit socks and attended to various
kinds of work, I was repeatedly told, when even
fourteen years old, that I would never be worth my
salt. When I was eight, Mr. Burwell's family consisted
of six sons and four daughters, with a large family of
servants. My mother was kind and forbearing; Mrs.
Burwell a hard task-master; and as mother had so much
work to do in making clothes, etc., for the family,
besides the slaves, I determined to render her all the
assistance in my power, and in rendering her such
assistance my young energies were taxed to the
utmost[.]
I was my mother's only child, which made her love for
me all the stronger. I did not know much of my father,
for he was the slave of another man, and when Mr.
Burwell moved from Dinwiddie he was separated from
us, and only allowed to visit my mother twice a year--during the Easter holidays and Christmas. At last Mr.
Burwell determined to reward my mother, by making
an arrangement with the owner of my father, by which
the separation of my parents could be brought to an
end. It was a bright day, indeed, for my mother when it
was announced that my father was coming to live with
us. The old weary look faded from her face, and she
worked as if her heart was in every task. But the
golden days did not last long. The radiant dream
faded all too soon.
In the morning my father called me to him and
kissed me, then held me out at arms' length as if he
were regarding his child with pride. "She is growing
into a large fine girl," he remarked
to my mother. "I dun no which I like best, you
or Lizzie, as both are so dear to me." My mother's
name was Agnes, and my father delighted to call me
his "Little Lizzie." While yet my father and mother
were speaking hopefully, joyfully of the future, Mr.
Burwell came to the cabin, with a letter in his hand.
He was a kind master in some things, and as gently
as possible informed my parents that they must
part; for in two hours my father must join his
master at Dinwiddie, and go with him to the
West, where he had determined to make his future
home. The announcement fell upon the little
circle in that rude-log cabin like a thunderbolt.
I can remember the scene as if it were but
yesterday;--how my father cried out against the
cruel separation; his last kiss; his wild straining
of my mother to his bosom; the solemn prayer to
Heaven; the tears and sobs--the fearful anguish of
broken hearts. The last kiss, the last good-by; and he,
my father, was gone, gone forever.
The shadow eclipsed the sunshine, and love brought
despair. The parting was eternal. The cloud had no
silver lining, but I trust that it will be all silver in
heaven. We who are crushed to earth with heavy
chains, who travel a weary, rugged, thorny road,
groping through midnight darkness on earth, earn our
right to enjoy the sunshine in the great hereafter. At
the grave, at least, we should be permitted to lay our
burdens down, that a new world, a world of
brightness, may open to us. The light that is denied us
here should grow into a flood of effulgence beyond
the dark, mysterious shadows of death. Deep as was
the distress of my mother in parting with my father,
her sorrow did not screen her from insult. My old
mistress said to her: "Stop your nonsense; there is
no necessity for you putting on airs. Your husband is
not the only slave that has been sold from his family,
and you are not the only one that has had to part.
There are plenty more men about here, and if you
want a
husband so badly, stop your crying and go and find
another." To these unfeeling words my mother made
no reply. She turned away in stoical silence, with a
curl of that loathing scorn upon her lips which swelled
in her heart.
My father and mother never met again in this world.
They kept up a regular correspondence for years, and
the most precious mementoes of my existence are the
faded old letters that he wrote, full of love, and always
hoping that the future would bring brighter days. In
nearly every letter is a message for me. "Tell my
darling little Lizzie," he writes, "to be a good girl, and
to learn her book. Kiss her for me, and tell her that I
will come to see her some day." Thus he wrote time
and again, but he never came. He lived in hope, but
died without ever seeing his wife and child.
I note a few extracts from one of my father's letters
to my mother, following copy literally:
"Dear Wife: My dear biloved wife I am more than
glad to meet with opportunty writee thes few lines to
you by my Mistress who ar now about starterng to
virginia, and sevl others of my old friends are with her;
in compeney Mrs. Ann Rus the wife of master Thos
Rus and Dan Woodiard and his family and I am very
sorry that I havn the chance to go with them as I feele
Determid. to see you If life last again. I am now here
and out at this pleace so I am not abble to get of at this
time. I am write well and hearty and all the rest of
masters family. I heard this eveng by Mistress that ar
just from theree all sends love to you and all my old
frends. I am a living in a town called Shelbyville and I
have wrote a greate many letters since Ive beene here
and almost been reeady to my selfe that its out of the
question to write any more at tall: my dear wife I dont
feeld no whys like giving out writing
to you as yet and I hope when you get this letter
that you be Inncougege to write me a letter. I am well
satisfied at my living at this place I am a
making money for my own benifit and I hope that its
to yours also If I live to see Nexct year
I shall heve my own time from master by giving him
100 and twenty Dollars a year and I thinke I shall be
doing good bisness at that and heve something
more thean all that. I hope with gods helpe that
I may be abble to rejoys with you on the earth and In
heaven lets meet when will I am detemnid to nuver
stope praying, not in this earth and I hope to praise
god In glory there weel meet to part no more forever.
So my dear wife I hope to meet you In paradase to
prase god forever * * * * * I want Elizabeth to be
a good girl and not to thinke that becasue I am
bound so fare that gods not abble to open the
way * * * *
father was dated Shelbyville, Tennessee, March 20,
1839. He writes in a cheerful strain, and hopes to see
her soon. Alas! he looked forward to a meeting in
vain. Year after year the one great hope swelled in his
heart, but the hope was only realized beyond the dark
portals of the grave.
When I was about seven years old I witnessed, for
the first time, the sale of a human being. We were
living at Prince Edward, in Virginia, and master had
just purchased his hogs for the winter, for which he
was unable to pay in full. To escape from his
embarrassment it was necessary to sell one of the
slaves. Little Joe, the son of the cook, was selected as
the victim. His mother was ordered to dress him up in
his Sunday clothes, and send him to the house. He
came in with a bright face, was placed in the scales,
and was sold, like the hogs, at so much per pound. His
mother was kept in ignorance of the transaction, but
her suspicions were aroused. When her son started
for Petersburgh in the wagon, the truth began to dawn
upon her
mind, and she pleaded piteously that her boy should
not be taken from her; but master quieted her by
telling her that he was simply going to town with the
wagon, and would be back in the morning. Morning
came, but little Joe did not return to his mother.
Morning after morning passed, and the mother went
down to the grave without ever seeing her child again.
One day she was whipped for grieving for her lost boy.
Colonel Burwell never liked to see one of his slaves wear a
sorrowful face, and those who offended in this particular
way were always punished. Alas! the sunny face of the
slave is not always an indication of sunshine in the heart.
Colonel Burwell at one time owned about seventy slaves,
all of which were sold, and in a majority of instances
wives were separated from husbands and children from
their parents. Slavery in the Border States forty years ago
was different from what it was twenty years ago. Time
seemed to soften the hearts of master and
mistress, and to insure kinder and more humane
treatment to bondsmen and bondswomen. When I
was quite a child, an incident occurred which my
mother afterward impressed more strongly on my mind.
One of my uncles, a slave of Colonel Burwell, lost a
pair of ploughlines, and when the loss was made
known the master gave him a new pair, and told him
that if he did not take care of them he would punish
him severely. In a few weeks the second pair of lines
was stolen, and my uncle hung himself rather than
meet the displeasure of his master. My mother went
to the spring in the morning for a pail of water, and on
looking up into the willow tree which shaded the
bubbling crystal stream, she discovered the lifeless
form of her brother suspended beneath one of the
strong branches. Rather than be punished the way
Colonel Burwell punished his servants, he took his
own life. Slavery had its dark side as well as its bright
side.
I MUST pass rapidly over the stirring events of my
early life. When I was about fourteen years old I
went to live with my master's eldest son, a Presbyterian
minister. His salary was small, and he was burdened
with a helpless wife, a girl that he had married in the
humble walks of life. She was morbidly sensitive,
and imagined that I regarded her with contemptuous
feelings because she was of poor parentage. I was their
only servant, and a gracious loan at that. They were
not able to buy me, so my old master sought
render them assistance by allowing them the benefit of
my services. From the very first I did the work of three
servants, and yet I was scolded and regarded with
distrust. The years passed slowly, and I continued to
serve them, and at the same time grew into strong,
healthy womanhood. I was nearly eighteen when we
removed from Virginia to Hillsboro', North Carolina,
where young Mr. Burwell took charge of a church.
The salary was small, and we still had to practise the
closest economy. Mr. Bingham, a hard, cruel man, the
village schoolmaster, was a member of my young
master's church, and he was a frequent visitor to the
parsonage. She whom I called mistress seemed to be
desirous to wreak vengeance on me for something,
and Bingham became her ready tool. During this time
my master was unusually kind to me; he was naturally
a good-hearted man, but was influenced by his wife. It
was Saturday evening, and while I was bending over
the bed, watching the baby
that I had just hushed into slumber, Mr. Bingham
came to the door and asked me to go with him to his
study. Wondering what he meant by his strange
request, I followed him, and when we had entered the
study he closed the door, and in his blunt way
remarked: "Lizzie, I am going to flog you." I was
thunderstruck, and tried to think if I had been remiss in
anything. I could not recollect of doing anything to
deserve punishment, and with surprise exclaimed:
"Whip me, Mr. Bingham! what for?"
"No matter," he replied, "I am going to whip you, so
take down your dress this instant."
Recollect, I was eighteen years of age, was a
woman fully developed, and yet this man coolly bade
me take down my dress. I drew myself up proudly,
firmly, and said: "No, Mr. Bingham, I shall not take
down my dress before you. Moreover, you shall not
whip me unless you prove the stronger. Nobody has a
right to whip me but my own master, and nobody shall
do so if I can prevent it."
My words seemed to exasperate him. He seized a
rope, caught me roughly, and tried to tie me. I resisted
with all my strength, but he was the stronger of the
two, and after a hard struggle succeeded in binding
my hands and tearing my dress from my back. Then he
picked up a rawhide, and began to ply it freely over
my shoulders. With steady hand and practised eye he
would raise the instrument of torture, nerve himself for
a blow, and with fearful force the rawhide descended
upon the quivering flesh. It cut the skin, raised great
welts, and the warm blood trickled down my back. Oh
God! I can feel the torture now--the terrible,
excruciating agony of those moments. I did not
scream; I was too proud to let my tormentor know
what I was suffering. I closed my lips firmly, that not
even a groan might escape from them, and I stood like
a statue while the keen lash cut deep into my flesh. As
soon as I was released, stunned with pain, bruised
and bleeding, I went home and
rushed into the presence of the pastor and his wife,
wildly exclaiming: "Master Robert, why did you let
Mr. Bingham flog me? What have I done that I should
be so punished?"
"Go away," he gruffly answered, "do not bother me."
I would not be put off thus. "What have I done?
I will know why I have been flogged."
I saw his cheeks flush with anger, but I did not
move. He rose to his feet, and on my refusing to go
without an explanation, seized a chair, struck me, and
felled me to the floor. I rose, bewildered, almost dead
with pain, crept to my room, dressed my bruised arms
and back as best I could, and then lay down, but not
to sleep. No, I could not sleep, for I was suffering
mental as well as bodily torture. My spirit rebelled
against the unjustness that had been inflicted upon
me, and though I tried to smother my anger and to
forgive those who had been so cruel to me, it was
impossible. The next morning I was more
calm, and I believe that I could then have forgiven
everything for the sake of one kind word. But the kind
word was not proffered, and it may be possible that
I grew somewhat wayward and sullen. Though I
had faults, I know now, as I felt then, harshness was
the poorest inducement for the correction of them. It
seems that Mr. Bingham had pledged himself to Mrs.
Burwell to subdue what he called my "stubborn pride."
On Friday following the Saturday on which I was so
savagely beaten, Mr. Bingham again directed me come
to his study. I went, but with the determination to offer
resistance should he attempt to flog me again. On
entering the room I found him prepared with a new
rope and a new cowhide. I told him that I was ready to
die, but that he could not conquer me. In struggling with
him I bit his finger severely, when he seized a heavy
stick and beat me with it in a shameful manner. Again
I went home sore and bleeding, but with pride as
strong and defiant as ever. The following Thursday Mr.
Bingham again tried to conquer me, but in vain. We
struggled, and he struck me many savage blows. As I
stood bleeding before him, nearly exhausted with his
efforts, he burst into tears, and declared that it would
be a sin to beat me any more. My suffering at last
subdued his hard heart; he asked my forgiveness, and
afterwards was an altered man. He was never known
to strike one of his servants from that day forward.
Mr. Burwell, he who preached the love of Heaven,
who glorified the precepts and examples of Christ,
who expounded the Holy Scriptures Sabbath after
Sabbath from the pulpit, when Mr. Bingham refused
to whip me any more, was urged by his wife to punish
me himself. One morning he went to the wood-pile,
took an oak broom, cut the handle off, and with this
heavy handle attempted to conquer me. I fought him,
but he proved the strongest. At the sight of my bleeding
form, his wife fell
upon her knees and begged him to desist. My
distress even touched her cold, jealous heart. I was so
badly bruised that I was unable to leave my bed for
five days. I will not dwell upon the bitter anguish of
these hours, for even the thought of them now makes
me shudder. The Rev. Mr. Burwell was not yet
satisfied. He resolved to make another attempt to
subdue my proud, rebellious spirit--made the attempt
and again failed, when he told me, with an air of
penitence, that he should never strike me another
blow; and faithfully he kept his word. These revolting
scenes created a great sensation at the time, were the
talk of the town and neighborhood, and I flatter
myself that the actions of those who had conspired
against me were not viewed in a light to reflect much
credit upon them.
The savage efforts to subdue my pride were not the
only things that brought me suffering and deep
mortification during my residence at Hillsboro'. I was
regarded as fair-looking for
one of my race, and for four years a white man--I spare
the world his name--had base designs upon me. I do
not care to dwell upon this subject, for it is one that is
fraught with pain. Suffice it to say, that he persecuted
me for four years, and I--I--became a mother. The child
of which he was the father was the only child that I
ever brought into the world. If my poor boy ever
suffered any humiliating pangs on account of birth, he
could not blame his mother, for God knows that she
did not wish to give him life; he must blame the edicts
of that society which deemed it no crime to undermine
the virtue of girls in my then position.
Among the old letters preserved by my mother I
find the following, written by myself while at
Hillsboro'. In this connection I desire to state that Rev.
Robert Burwell is now living
* at Charlotte, North
Carolina:--
to write to you for a long time, but numerous things
have prevented, and for that reason you must excuse
me.
"I thought very hard of you for not writing to me,
but hope that you will answer this letter as soon as you
receive it, and tell me how you like Marsfield, and
if you have seen any of old acquaintances, or if you
yet know any of the brick-house people who I think
so much of. I want to hear of the family at home
very much, indeed. I really believe you and all the
family have forgotten me, if not I certainly should
have heard from some of you since you left Boyton,
if it was only a line; nevertheless I love you all very
dearly, and shall, although I may never see you again,
nor do I ever expect to. Miss Anna is going to Petersburgh
in winter, but she says that she does not intend take me;
what reason she has for leaving me cannot tell. I have often
wished that I lived where I knew I never could see you,
for then I
would not have my hopes raised, and to be disappointed
in this manner; however, it is said that a bad beginning
makes a good ending, but I hardly expect to see that
happy day at this place. Give my love to all the family,
both white and black. I was very much obliged to you
for the presents you sent me last summer, though it is
quite late in the day to be thanking for them. Tell Aunt
Bella that I was very much obliged to her for her present;
I have been so particular with it that I have only worn
it once.
"There have been six weddings since October; the
most respectable one was about a fortnight ago; I was
asked to be the first attendant, but, as usual with all
my expectations, I was disappointed, for on the
wedding-day I felt more like being locked up in a
three-cornered box than attending a wedding. About a
week before Christmas I was bridesmaid for Ann
Nash; when the night came I was in quite a trouble;
I did not know whether my frock was clean or dirty; I
only had a week's notice, and the body and sleeves to
make, and only one hour every night to work on it, so
you can see with these troubles to overcome my
chance was rather slim. I must now close, although I
could fill ten pages with my griefs and misfortunes; no
tongue could express them as I feel; don't forget me
though; and answer my letters soon. I will write you
again, and would write more now, but Miss Anna says
it is time I had finished. Tell Miss Elizabeth that I wish
she would make haste and get married, for mistress
says that I belong to her when she gets married.
"I wish you would send me a pretty frock this
summer; if you will send it to Mrs. Robertson's Miss
Bet will send it to me.
THE years passed and brought many changes to me,
but on these I will not dwell, as I wish to hasten to
the most interesting part of my story. My troubles
in North Carolina were brought to an end by my
unexpected return to Virginia, where I lived with Mr.
Garland, who had married Miss Ann Burwell, one of
my old master's daughters. His life was not a
prosperous one, and after struggling with the world
for several years he left his native State, a
disappointed man. He moved to St. Louis, hoping to
improve his fortune in the West;
but ill luck followed him there, and he seemed to be
unable to escape from the influence of the evil star of
his destiny. When his family, myself included, joined
him in his new home on the banks of the Mississippi,
we found him so poor that he was unable to pay the
dues on a letter advertised as in the post-office for him.
The necessities of the family were so great, that it was
proposed to place my mother out at service. The idea
was shocking to me. Every gray hair in her old head
was dear to me, and I could not bear the thought of
her going to work for strangers. She had been raised
in the family, had watched the growth of each child
from infancy to maturity; they had been the objects
of her kindest care, and she was wound round about
them as the vine winds itself about the rugged oak.
They had been the central figures in her dream of
life--a dream beautiful to her, since she had basked
in the sunshine of no other. And now they proposed
to destroy each tendril of
affection, to cloud the sunshine of her existence when
the day was drawing to a close, when the shadows of
solemn night were rapidly approaching. My mother,
my poor aged mother, go among strangers to toil for a
living! No, a thousand times no! I would rather work
my fingers to the bone, bend over my sewing till the
film of blindness gathered in my eyes; nay, even beg
from street to street. I told Mr. Garland so, and he gave
me permission to see what I could do. I was fortunate
in obtaining work, and in a short time I had acquired
something of a reputation as a seamstress and
dress-maker. The best ladies in St. Louis were my
patrons, and when my reputation was once established
I never lacked for orders. With my needle I kept bread
in the mouths of seventeen persons for two years and five
months. While I was working so hard that others might
live in comparative comfort, and move in those circles
of society to which their birth gave them entrance, the
thought often
occurred to me whether I was really worth my salt or
not; and then perhaps the lips curled with a bitter
sneer. It may seem strange that I should place so much
emphasis upon words thoughtlessly, idly spoken; but
then we do many strange things in life, and cannot
always explain the motives that actuate us. The heavy
task was too much for me, and my health began to
give way. About this time Mr. Keckley, whom I had
met in Virginia, and learned to regard with more than
friendship, came to St. Louis. He sought my hand in
marriage, and for a long time I refused to consider his
proposal; for I could not bear the thought of bringing
children into slavery--of adding one single recruit to
the millions bound to hopeless servitude, fettered and
shackled with chains stronger and heavier than
manacles of iron. I made a proposition to buy myself
and son; the proposition was bluntly declined, and I
was commanded never to broach the subject again.
I would not be put off thus,
for hope pointed to a freer, brighter life in the future.
Why should my son be held in slavery? I often asked
myself. He came into the world through no will of mine,
and yet, God only knows how I loved him. The
Anglo-Saxon blood as well as the African flowed in his veins;
the two currents commingled--one singing of freedom,
the other silent and sullen with generations of despair.
Why should not the Anglo-Saxon triumph--why should
it be weighed down with the rich blood typical of the
tropics? Must the life-current of one race bind the other
race in chains as strong and enduring as if there had
been no Anglo-Saxon taint? By the laws of God and
nature, as interpreted by man, one-half of my boy was
free, and why should not this fair birthright of freedom
remove the curse from the other half--raise it into the
bright, joyous sunshine of liberty? I could not answer
these questions of my heart that almost maddened me,
and I learned to regard human philosophy with
trust. Much as I respected the authority of my master,
I could not remain silent on a subject that so nearly
concerned me. One day, when I insisted on knowing
whether he would permit me to purchase myself, and
what price I must pay for myself, he turned to me in a
petulant manner, thrust his hand into his pocket, drew
forth a bright silver quarter of a dollar, and proffering
it to me, said:
"Lizzie, I have told you often not to trouble me
with such a question. If you really wish to leave me,
take this: it will pay the passage of yourself and boy
on the ferry-boat, and when you are on the other side
of the river you will be free. It is the cheapest way that
I know of to accomplish what you desire."
I looked at him in astonishment, and earnestly
replied: "No, master, I do not wish to be free in such a
manner. If such had been my wish, I should never
have troubled you about obtaining your consent to
my purchasing myself. I can
cross the river any day, as you well know, and have
frequently done so, but will never leave you in such a
manner. By the laws of the land I am your slave--you
are my master, and I will only be free by such means
as the laws of the country provide." He expected this
answer, and I knew that he was pleased. Some time
afterwards he told me that he had reconsidered the
question; that I had served his family faithfully; that I
deserved my freedom, and that he would take $1200
for myself and boy.
This was joyful intelligence for me, and the reflection
of hope gave a silver lining to the dark cloud of my
life--faint, it is true, but still a silver lining.
Taking a prospective glance at liberty, I consented
to marry. The wedding was a great event in the
family. The ceremony took place in the parlor,
in the presence of the family and a number of guests.
Mr. Garland gave me away, and the pastor, Bishop
Hawks, performed the
ceremony, who had solemnized the bridals of Mr. G.'s
own children. The day was a happy one, but it faded
all too soon. Mr. Keckley--let me speak kindly of his
faults--proved dissipated, and a burden instead of a
helpmate. More than all, I learned that he was a slave
instead of a free man, as he represented himself to be.
With the simple explanation that I lived with him eight
years, let charity draw around him the mantle of
silence.
I went to work in earnest to purchase my freedom,
but the years passed, and I was still a slave. Mr.
Garland's family claimed so much of my attention--in
fact, I supported them--that I was not able to
accumulate anything. In the mean time Mr. Garland
died, and Mr. Burwell, a Mississippi planter, came to
St. Louis to settle up the estate. He was a kind-hearted
man, and said I should be free, and would afford me
every facility to raise the necessary amount to pay the
price of my liberty. Several schemes were urged
upon me by my friends. At last I formed a resolution
to go to New York, state my case, and appeal to the
benevolence of the people. The plan seemed feasible,
and I made preparations to carry it out. When I was
almost ready to turn my face northward, Mrs. Garland
told me that she would require the names of six
gentlemen who would vouch for my return, and
become responsible for the amount at which I was
valued. I had many friends in St. Louis, and as I
believed that they had confidence in me, I felt that I
could readily obtain the names desired. I started out,
stated my case, and obtained five signatures to the
paper, and my heart throbbed with pleasure, for I did
not believe that the sixth would refuse me. I called he
listened patiently, then remarked:
"Yes, yes, Lizzie; the scheme is a fair one, and you
shall have my name. But I shall bid you good-by
when you start."
"No, good-by for all time," and he looked at me as
if he would read my very soul with his eyes.
I was startled. "What do you mean, Mr. Farrow?
Surely you do not think that I do not mean to
come back?"
"No."
"No, what then?"
"Simply this: you mean to come back, that is, you
mean so now, but you never will. When you reach
New York the abolitionists will tell you what savages
we are, and they will prevail on you to stay there; and
we shall never see you again."
"But I assure you, Mr. Farrow, you are mistaken. I
not only mean to come back, but will come back, and
pay every cent of the twelve hundred dollars for
myself and child."
I was beginning to feel sick at heart, for I could not
accept the signature of this man when he had no faith
in my pledges. No; slavery,
eternal slavery rather than be regarded with distrust
by those whose respect I esteemed.
"But--I am not mistaken," he persisted. "Time will
show. When you start for the North I shall bid you
good-by."
The heart grew heavy. Every ray of sunshine was
eclipsed. With humbled pride, weary step, tearful
face, and a dull, aching pain, I left the house. I walked
along the street mechanically. The cloud had no silver
lining now. The rosebuds of hope had withered and
died without lifting up their heads to receive the dew
kiss of morning. There was no morning for me--all was
night, dark night.
I reached my own home, and weeping threw myself
upon the bed. My trunk was packed, my luncheon
was prepared by mother, the cars were ready to bear
me where I would not hear the clank of chains, where
I would breathe the free, invigorating breezes of the
glorious North. I had dreamed such a happy dream, in
imagination
had drunk of the water, the pure, sweet crystal
water of life, but now--now--the flowers had withered
before my eyes; darkness had settled down upon me
like a pall, and I was left alone with cruel mocking
shadows.
The first paroxysm of grief was scarcely over, when
a carriage stopped in front of the house; Mrs.
Le Bourgois, one of my kind patrons, got out of it and
entered the door. She seemed to bring sunshine with
her handsome cheery face. She came to where I was,
and in her sweet way said:
"Lizzie, I hear that you are going to New York to
beg for money to buy your freedom. I have been
thinking over the matter, and told Ma it would be a
shame to allow you to go North to beg for what we
should give you. You have many friends in St.
Louis, and I am going to raise the twelve hundred
dollars required among them. I have two hundred
dollars put away for a present; am indebted to you
one hundred dollars;
mother owes you fifty dollars, and will add another
fifty to it; and as I do not want the present, I will make
the money a present to you. Don't start for New York
now until I see what I can do among your friends."
Like a ray of sunshine she came, and like a ray of
sunshine she went away. The flowers no longer were
withered, drooping. Again they seemed to bud and
grow in fragrance and beauty. Mrs. Le Bourgois, God
bless her dear good heart, was more than successful.
The twelve hundred dollars were raised, and at last
my son and myself were free. Free, free! what a
glorious ring to the word. Free! the bitter heart-struggle
was over. Free! the soul could go out to heaven and to
God with no chains to clog its flight or pull it down.
Free! the earth wore a brighter look, and the very stars
seemed to sing with joy. Yes, free! free by the laws of
man and the smile of God--and Heaven bless them who
made me so!
The following, copied from the original papers,
contain, in brief, the history of my emancipation:--
"I promise to give Lizzie and her son George their
freedom, on the payment of $1200.
"ANNE P. GARLAND.
"June 27,1855."
"LIZZY:--I
send you this note to sign for the sum of
$75, and when I give you the whole amount you will
then sign the other note for $100.
"ELLEN M. DOAN.
"In the paper you will find $25; see it is all right
before the girl leaves."
"I have received of Lizzy Keckley $950, which I
have deposited with Darby & Barksdale for her--$600
on the 21st July, $300 on the 27th and 28th of July, and
$50 on 13th August, 1855.
"I have and shall make use of said money for Lizzy's benefit,
and hereby guarantee to her one
per cent. per month--as much more as can be made she
shall have. The one per cent., as it may be checked
out, I will be responsible for myself, as well as for the
whole amount, when it shall be needed by her.
"WILLIS L. WILLIAMS.
"ST. LOUIS, 13th August, 1855."
"Know all men by these presents, that for and in
consideration of the love and affection we bear
towards our sister, Anne P. Garland, of St. Louis,
Missouri, and for the further consideration of $5 in
hand paid, we hereby sell and convey unto her, the
said Anne P. Garland, a negro woman named Lizzie,
and a negro boy, her son, named George; said Lizzie
now resides at St. Louis, and is a seamstress, known
there as Lizzie Garland, the wife of a yellow man
named James, and called James Keckley; said George
is a bright mulatto boy, and is known in St. Louis as
Garland's George. We warrant these two slaves to be
slaves for
life, but make no representations as to age or health.
"Witness our hands and seals, this 10th day of
August, 1855.
"JAS. R. PUTNAM, [L.S.]
"E. M. PUTNAM, [L.S.]
"A. BURWELL, [L.S.]"
"The State of Mississippi, Warren
County, City of Vicksburg.} ss.
"Be it remembered, that on the tenth day of August,
in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred
and fifty-five, before me, Francis N. Steele, a
Commissioner, resident in the city of Vicksburg, duly
commissioned and qualified by the executive
authority, and under the laws of the State of Missouri,
to take the acknowledgment of deeds, etc., to be used
or recorded therein, personally appeared James R.
Putnam and E. M. Putnam, his wife, and Armistead
Burwell, to me known to be the individuals named in,
and who
executed the foregoing conveyance, and
acknowledged that they executed the same for the
purposes therein mentioned; and the E. M. Putnam
being by me examined apart from her husband, and
being fully acquainted with the contents of the
foregoing conveyance, acknowledged that she
executed the same freely, and relinquished her dower,
and any other claim she might have in and to the
property therein mentioned, freely, and without fear,
compulsion, or undue influence of her said husband.
"In witness whereof I have hereunto set my hand
and affixed my official seal, this 10th day of August,
A.D. 1855.
"F. N. STEELE,
"Commissioner for Missouri."
[L.S.]
"Know all men that I, Anne P. Garland, of the
County and City of St. Louis, State of Missouri, for
and in consideration of the sum of $1200, to me in
band paid this day in cash, hereby emancipate
my negro woman Lizzie, and her son George;
the said Lizzie is known in St. Louis as the wife
of James, who is called James Keckley; is of light
complexion, about 37 years of age, by trade a
dress-maker, and called by those who know her
Garland's Lizzie. The said boy, George, is the only
child of Lizzie, is about 16 years of age, and is almost
white, and called by those who know him Garland's
George.
"Witness my hand and seal, this 13th day of
November, 1855.
ANNE P. GARLAND, [L.S.]
"Witness:--JOHN WICKHAM,
"WILLIS L. WILLIAMS."
In St. Louis Circuit Court, October Term, 1855.
November 15, 1855.
"State of Missouri,
County of St. Louis.} ss.
"Be it remembered, that on this fifteenth day of
November, eighteen hundred and fifty-five, in
open court came John Wickham and Willis L. Williams,
these two subscribing witnesses, examined under
oath to that effect, proved the execution and
acknowledgment of said deed by Anne P. Garland to
Lizzie and her son George, which said proof of
acknowledgment is entered on the record of the court
of that day.
"In testimony whereof I hereto set my hand and
affix the seal of said court, at office in the City of St.
Louis, the day and year last aforesaid.
WM. J. HAMMOND, Clerk."
[L. S.]
"State of Missouri,
County of St. Louis.} ss.
"I, Wm. J. Hammond, Clerk of the Circuit
Court within and for the county aforesaid, certify the
foregoing to be a true copy of a deed of emancipation
from Anne P. Garland to Lizzie and her son George, as
fully as the same remain in my office.
affix the seal of said court, at office in the City of St.
Louis, this fifteenth day of November, 1855.
WM. J. HAMMOND, Clerk.
"By WM. A. PENNINGTON, D. C."
"State of Missouri,
County of St. Louis.} ss.
"I, the undersigned Recorder of said county, certify
that the foregoing instrument of writing was filed for
record in my office on the 14th day of November,
1855; it is truly recorded in Book No. 169, page 288.
"Witness my hand and official seal, date last
aforesaid.
THE twelve hundred dollars with which I purchased the
freedom of myself and son I consented to accept only as
a loan. I went to work in earnest, and in a short time paid
every cent that was so kindly advanced by my lady
patrons of St. Louis. All this time my husband was a
source of trouble to me, and a burden. Too close
occupation with my needle had its effects upon my health,
and feeling exhausted with work, I determined to make a
change. I had a conversation with Mr. Keckley; informed
him that since he persisted in dissipation we must separate;
that I was going North, and that I should never live with
him again, at least until I had good evidence of his reform.
He was rapidly debasing himself, and although I was
willing to work for him, I was not willing to share his
degradation. Poor man; he had his faults, but over these
faults death has drawn a veil. My husband is now sleeping
in his grave, and in the silent grave I would bury all
unpleasant memories of him.
I left St. Louis in the spring of 1860, taking the cars
direct for Baltimore, where I stopped six weeks,
attempting to realize a sum of money by forming
classes of young colored women, and teaching them
my system of cutting and fitting dresses. The scheme
was not successful, for after six weeks of labor and
vexation, I left Baltimore with scarcely money enough
to pay my fare to Washington. Arriving in the capital,
I sought and obtained work at two
dollars and a half per day. However, as I was notified
that I could only remain in the city ten days without
obtaining a license to do so, such being the law, and
as I did not know whom to apply for assistance, I was
sorely troubled. I also had to have some one vouch to
the authorities that I was a free woman. My means were
too scanty, and my profession too precarious to warrant
my purchasing license. In my perplexity I called on a
lady for whom I was sewing, Miss Ringold, a member
of Gen. Mason's family, from Virginia. I stated my
case, and she kindly volunteered to render me all the
assistance in her power. She called on Mayor Burritt
with me, and Miss Ringold succeeded in making an
arrangement for me to remain in Washington without
paying the sum required for a license; moreover, I
was not to be molested. I rented apartments in a good
locality, and soon had a good run of custom. The
summer passed, winter came, and I was still in
Washington. Mrs. Davis, wife of Senator Jefferson
Davis, came from the South in November
of 1860, with her husband. Learning that Mrs.
Davis wanted a modiste, I presented myself, and
was employed by her on the recommendation of
one of my patrons and her intimate friend, Mrs.
Captain Hetsill. I went to the house to work,
but finding that they were such late risers, and as
I had to fit many dresses on Mrs. Davis, I told
her that I should prefer giving half the day to
her, working the other in my own room for some
of my other lady patrons. Mrs. D. consented to
the proposition, and it was arranged that I should
come to her own house every day after 12 M.
It was the winter before the breaking out of that
fierce and bloody war between the two sections
of the country; and as Mr. Davis occupied a
leading position, his house was the resort of
politicians and statesmen from the South.
Almost every night, as I learned from the
servants and other members of the family, secret
meetings were held at the house; and some of
these meetings were protracted to a very late
hour. The prospects of war were freely discussed in
my presence by Mr. and Mrs. Davis and their friends.
The holidays were approaching, and Mrs. Davis kept
me busy in manufacturing articles of dress for herself
and children. She desired to present Mr. Davis on
Christmas with a handsome dressing-gown. The
material was purchased, and for weeks the work had
been under way. Christmas eve came, and the gown
had been laid aside so often that it was still unfinished.
I saw that Mrs. D. was anxious to have it completed,
so I volunteered to remain and work on it. Wearily the
hours dragged on, but there was no rest for my busy
fingers. I persevered in my task, notwithstanding my
head was aching. Mrs. Davis was busy in the adjoining
room, arranging the Christmas tree for the children. I
looked at the clock, and the hands pointed
to a quarter of twelve. I was arranging the cords on the
gown when the Senator came
in; he looked somewhat careworn, and his step
seemed to be a little nervous. He leaned against the
door, and expressed his admiration of the Christmas
tree, but there was no smile on his face. Turning round,
he saw me sitting in the adjoining room, and quickly
exclaimed:
"That you, Lizzie! why are you here so late? Still
at work; I hope that Mrs. Davis, is not too exacting!"
"No, sir," I answered. "Mrs. Davis was very anxious
to have this gown finished to-night, and I volunteered
to remain and complete it."
"Well, well, the case must be urgent," and he came
slowly towards me, took the gown in his hand, and
asked the color of the silk, as he said the gas-light was
so deceptive to his old eyes.
"It is a drab changeable silk, Mr. Davis," I answered;
and might have added that it was rich and handsome,
but did not, well knowing that he would make the
discovery in the morning.
from the room without another question. He inferred
that the gown was for him, that it was to be the
Christmas present from his wife, and he did not wish to
destroy the pleasure that she would experience in
believing that the gift would prove a surprise. In this
respect, as in many others, he always appeared to me
as a thoughtful, considerate man in the domestic circle.
As the clock struck twelve I finished the gown, little
dreaming of the future that was before it. It was worn, I
have not the shadow of a doubt, by Mr. Davis during
the stormy years that he was the President of the
Confederate States.
The holidays passed, and before the close of January
the war was discussed in Mr. Davis's family as an
event certain to happen in the future. Mrs. Davis was
warmly attached to Washington, and I often heard her
say that she disliked the idea of breaking up old
associations, and going South to suffer from trouble
and deprivation. One day, while discussing the question
in my presence with one of her intimate friends, she
exclaimed: "I would rather remain in Washington
and be kicked about, than go South and be Mrs.
President." Her friend expressed surprise at the remark,
and Mrs. Davis insisted that the opinion was an honest
one.
While dressing her one day, she said to me:
"Lizzie, you are so very handy that I should like to
take you South with me."
"When do you go South, Mrs. Davis?" I inquired.
"Oh, I cannot tell just now, but it will be soon.
You know there is going to be war, Lizzie?"
"No!"
"But I tell you yes."
"Who will go to war?" I asked.
"The North and South," was her ready reply.
"The Southern people will not submit to the
humiliating demands of the Abolition party; they will
fight first."
"The South, of course. The South is impulsive, is in
earnest, and Southern soldiers will fight to conquer.
The North will yield, when it sees the South is in earnest,
rather than engage in a long and bloody war."
"But, Mrs. Davis, are you certain that there will be war?"
"Certain!--I know it. You had better go South with
me; I will take good care of you. Besides, when the
war breaks out, the colored people will suffer in the North.
The Northern people will look upon them as the cause of
the war, and I fear, in their exasperation, will be inclined
to treat you harshly. Then, I may come back to Washington
in a few months, and live in the White House. The Southern
people talk of choosing Mr. Davis for their President. In fact,
it may be considered settled that he will be their President. As
soon as we go South and secede from the other States, we
will raise an
army and march on Washington, and then I shall live
in the White House."
I was bewildered with what I heard. I had served
Mrs. Davis faithfully, and, she had learned to place
the greatest confidence in me. At first I was almost
tempted to go South with her, for her reasoning
seemed plausible. At the time the conversation was
closed, with my promise to consider the question.
I thought over the question much, and the more I
thought the less inclined I felt to accept the proposition
so kindly made by Mrs. Davis. I knew the North to be
strong, and believed that the people would fight for the
flag that they pretended to venerate so highly. The
Republican party had just emerged from a heated
campaign, flushed with victory, and I could not think
that the hosts composing the party would quietly yield
all they had gained in the Presidential canvass. A
show of war from the South, I felt, would lead to actual
war in the North; and with
the two sections bitterly arrayed against each other,
I preferred to cast my lost among the people of the
North.
I parted with Mrs. Davis kindly, half promising to join
her in the South if further deliberation should induce me
to change my views. A few weeks before she left
Washington I made two chintz wrappers for her. She
said that she must give up expensive dressing for a
while; and that she, with the Southern people, now
that war was imminent, must learn to practise lessons
of economy. She left some fine needle-work in my
hands, which I finished, and forwarded to her at
Montgomery, Alabama, in the month of June, through
the assistance of Mrs. Emory, one of her oldest and
best friends.
Since bidding them good-by at Washington, early
in the year 1860, I have never met any of the Davis
family. Years of excitement, years of bloodshed, and
hundreds of thousands of graves intervene between
the months I spent in the
family and now. The years have brought many
changes; and in view of these terrible changes even
I, who was once a slave, who have been punished
with the cruel lash, who have experienced the heart
and soul tortures of a slave's life, can say to Mr.
Jefferson Davis, "Peace! you have suffered! Go in
peace."
In the winter of 1865 I was in Chicago, and one
day visited the great charity fair held for the benefit
of the families of those soldiers who were killed or
wounded during the war. In one part of the building
was a wax figure of Jefferson Davis, wearing over
his other garments the dress in which it was
reported that he was captured. There was always
a great crowd around this figure, and I was naturally
attracted towards it. I worked my way to the figure,
and in examining the dress made the pleasing
discovery that it was one of the chintz wrappers that I
had made for Mrs. Davis, a short time before she
departed from Washington for
the South. When it was announced that I recognized
the dress as one that I had made for the wife of the late
Confederate President there was great cheering and
excitement, and I at once became the object of the
deepest curiosity. Great crowds followed me, and in
order to escape from the embarrassing situation I
left the building.
I believe it now is pretty well established that Mr.
Davis had on a water-proof cloak instead of
a dress, as first reported, when he was captured. This
does not invalidate any portion of my story. The
dress on the wax figure at the fair in Chicago unquestionable
was one of the chintz wrappers that I made for Mrs. Davis
in January, 1860, in Washington; and I infer, since it was
not found on the body of the fugitive President of the South,
it was taken from the trunks of Mrs. Davis, captured at the
same time. Be this as it may, the coincidence is none
the less striking and curious.
EVER since arriving in Washington I had a great desire
to work for the ladies of the White House, and to
accomplish this end I was ready to make almost any
sacrifice consistent with propriety. Work came in
slowly, and I was beginning to feel very much
embarrassed, for I did not know how I was to meet
the bills staring me in the face. It is true, the bills
were small, but then they were formidable to me,
who had little or nothing to pay them with. While in
this situation I called at the Ringolds, where I met
Mrs.
Captain Lee. Mrs. L. was in a state bordering on
excitement, as the great event of the season, the
dinner-party given in honor of the Prince of
Wales, was soon to come off, and she must have a
dress suitable for the occasion. The silk had been
purchased, but a dress-maker had not yet been
found. Miss Ringold recommended me, and I received
the order to make the dress. When I called on Mrs.
Lee the next day, her husband was in the room, and
handing me a roll of bank bills, amounting to one
hundred dollars, he requested me to purchase the
trimmings, and to spare no expense in making a selection.
With the money in my pocket I went out in the street,
entered the store of Harper & Mitchell, and asked to
look at their laces. Mr. Harper waited on me himself,
and was polite and kind. When I asked permission to
carry the laces to Mrs. Lee, in order to learn whether
she could approve my selection or not, he gave a
ready assent. When I reminded him that I was a
stranger, and that the
goods were valuable, he remarked that he was not
afraid to trust me--that he believed my face was the
index to an honest heart. It was pleasant to be spoken
to thus, and I shall never forget the kind words of Mr.
Harper. I often recall them, for they are associated with
the dawn of a brighter period in my dark life. I
purchased the trimmings, and Mr. Harper allowed me a
commission of twenty-five dollars on the purchase.
The dress was done in time, and it gave complete
satisfaction. Mrs. Lee attracted great attention at the
dinner-party, and her elegant dress proved a good card
for me. I received numerous orders, and was relieved
from all pecuniary embarrassments. One of my patrons
was Mrs. Gen. McClean, a daughter of Gen. Sumner.
One day when I was very busy, Mrs. McC. drove up to
my apartments, came in where I was engaged with my
needle, and in her emphatic way said:
next Sunday, and positively I have not a dress fit to
wear on the occasion. I have just purchased material,
and you must commence work on it right away."
"But Mrs. McClean," I replied, "I have more work
now promised than I can do. It is impossible for me
to make a dress for you to wear on Sunday next."
"Pshaw! Nothing is impossible. I must have the
dress made by Sunday;" and she spoke with some
impatience.
"I am sorry," I began, but she interrupted me.
"Now don't say no again. I tell you that you must
make the dress. I have often heard you say that you
would like to work for the ladies of the White House.
Well, I have it in my power to obtain you this
privilege. I know Mrs. Lincoln well, and you shall
make a dress for her provided you finish mine in time
to wear at dinner on Sunday."
The inducement was the best that could have been
offered. I would undertake the dress if I should have to
sit up all night--every night, to make my pledge good. I
sent out and employed assistants, and, after much
worry and trouble, the dress was completed to the
satisfaction of Mrs. McClean. It appears that Mrs.
Lincoln had upset a cup of coffee on the dress she
designed wearing on the evening of the reception after
the inauguration of Abraham Lincoln as President of
the United States, which rendered it necessary that
she should have a new one for the occasion. On
asking Mrs. McClean who her dress-maker was, that
lady promptly informed her,
"Lizzie Keckley."
"Lizzie Keckley? The name is familiar to me. She
used to work for some of my lady friends in St. Louis,
and they spoke well of her. Can you recommend her
to me?"
"If you please. I shall feel under many obligations for
your kindness."
The next Sunday Mrs. McClean sent me a message
to call at her house at four o'clock P.M., that day. As
she did not state why I was to call, I determined to
wait till Monday morning. Monday morning came, and
nine o'clock found me at Mrs. McC.'s house. The
streets of the capital were thronged with people, for
this was Inauguration day. A new President, a man of the
people from the broad prairies of the West, was to
accept the solemn oath of office, was to assume the
responsibilities attached to the high position of Chief
Magistrate of the United States. Never was such deep
interest felt in the inauguration proceedings as was felt
to-day; for threats of assassination had been made,
and every breeze from the South came heavily laden
with the rumors of war. Around Willard's hotel swayed
an excited crowd, and it was with the utmost difficulty
that I worked my way to the
house on the opposite side of the street, occupied by
the McCleans. Mrs. McClean was out, but presently
an aide on General McClean's staff called, and
informed me that I was wanted at Willard's. I crossed
the street, and on entering the hotel was met by Mrs.
McClean, who greeted me:
"Lizzie, why did you not come yesterday, as I
requested? Mrs. Lincoln wanted to see you, but I fear
that now you are too late."
"I am sorry, Mrs. McClean. You did not say what
you wanted with me yesterday, so I judged that this
morning would do as well."
"You should have come yesterday," she insisted.
"Go up to Mrs. Lincoln's room"--giving me the
number--"she may find use for you yet."
With a nervous step I passed on, and knocked at
Mrs. Lincoln's door. A cheery voice bade me come in,
and a lady, inclined to stoutness, about forty years of
age, stood before me.
"Very well; I have not time to talk to you now, but
would like to have you call at the White House, at
eight o'clock to-morrow morning, where I shall then
be."
I bowed myself out of the room, and returned to my
apartments. The day passed slowly, for I could not
help but speculate in relation to the appointed
interview for the morrow. My long-cherished hope was
about to be realized, and I could not rest.
Tuesday morning, at eight o'clock, I crossed the
threshold of the White House for the first time. I was
shown into a waiting-room, and informed that Mrs.
Lincoln was at breakfast. In the waiting-room I found
no less than three mantua-makers waiting for an
interview with the
wife of the new President. It seems that Mrs. Lincoln
had told several of her lady friends that she had urgent
need for a dress-maker, and that each of these friends
had sent her mantua-maker to the White House. Hope
fell at once. With so many rivals for the position
sought after, I regarded my chances for success as
extremely doubtful. I was the last one summoned to
Mrs. Lincoln's presence. All the others had a hearing,
and were dismissed. I went up-stairs timidly, and
entering the room with nervous step, discovered the
wife of the President standing by a window, looking
out, and engaged in lively conversation with a lady,
Mrs. Grimsly, as I afterwards learned. Mrs. L. came
forward, and greeted me warmly.
"You have come at last. Mrs. Keckley, who have
you worked for in the city?"
"Among others, Mrs. Senator Davis has been one
of my best patrons," was my reply.
have you? Of course you gave satisfaction; so far,
good. Can you do my work?"
"Yes, Mrs. Lincoln. Will you have much work for
me to do?"
"That, Mrs. Keckley, will depend altogether upon
your prices. I trust that your terms are reasonable. I
cannot afford to be extravagant. We are just from the
West, and are poor. If you do not charge too much, I
shall be able to give you all my work."
"I do not think there will be any difficulty about
charges, Mrs. Lincoln; my terms are reasonable."
"Well, if you will work cheap, you shall have
plenty to do. I can't afford to pay big prices, so I
frankly tell you so in the beginning."
The terms were satisfactorily arranged, and I
measured Mrs. Lincoln, took the dress with me, a
bright rose-colored moire-antique, and returned the
next day to fit it on her. A number of ladies were in the
room, all making preparations for
the levee to come off on Friday night. These
ladies, I learned, were relatives of Mrs. L.'s,--Mrs.
Edwards and Mrs. Kellogg, her own sisters, and
Elizabeth Edwards and Julia Baker, her nieces. Mrs.
Lincoln this morning was dressed in a cashmere
wrapper, quilted down the front; and she wore a
simple head-dress. The other ladies wore morning
robes.
I was hard at work on the dress, when I was
informed that the levee had been postponed from
Friday night till Tuesday night. This, of course, gave
me more time to complete my task. Mrs. Lincoln sent
for me, and suggested some alteration in style, which
was made. She also requested that I make a waist of
blue watered silk for Mrs. Grimsly, as work on the
dress would not require all my time.
Tuesday evening came, and I had taken the last
stitches on the dress. I folded it and carried it to the
White House, with the waist for Mrs. Grimsly. When I
went up-stairs, I found the
ladies in a terrible state of excitement. Mrs. Lincoln
was protesting that she could not go down, for the
reason that she had nothing to wear.
"Mrs. Keckley, you have disappointed me--
deceived me. Why do you bring my dress at this late
hour?"
"Because I have just finished it, and I thought I
should be in time."
"But you are not in time, Mrs. Keckley; you have
bitterly disappointed me. I have no time now to dress,
and, what is more, I will not dress, and go down-stairs."
"I am sorry if I have disappointed you, Mrs.
Lincoln, for I intended to be in time. Will you let me
dress you? I can have you ready in a few minutes."
"No, I won't be dressed. I will stay in my room.
Mr. Lincoln can go down with the other ladies."
Mary," joined in Mrs. Grimsly and Mrs. Edwards.
"Let Mrs. Keckley assist you, and she will soon have
you ready."
Thus urged, she consented. I dressed her hair, and
arranged the dress on her. It fitted nicely, and she
was pleased. Mr. Lincoln came in, threw himself on
the sofa, laughed with Willie and little Tad, and then
commenced pulling on his gloves, quoting poetry all
the while.
"You seem to be in a poetical mood to-night," said
his wife.
"Yes, mother, these are poetical times," was his
pleasant reply. "I declare, you look charming in that
dress. Mrs. Keckley has met with great success."
And then he proceeded to compliment the other
ladies.
Mrs. Lincoln looked elegant in her rose-colored
moire-antique. She wore a pearl necklace, pearl
ear-rings, pearl bracelets, and red roses in her hair. Mrs.
Baker was dressed in lemon-colored silk; Mrs.
Kellogg in a drab silk, ashes of rose;
Mrs. Edwards in a brown and black silk; Miss
Edwards in crimson, and Mrs. Grimsly in blue watered
silk. Just before starting down-stairs, Mrs. Lincoln's
lace handkerchief was the object of search. It had been
displaced by Tad, who was mischievous, and hard to
restrain. The handkerchief found, all became serene.
Mrs. Lincoln took the President's arm, and with smiling
face led the train below. I was surprised at her grace
and composure. I had heard so much, in current and
malicious report, of her low life, of her ignorance and
vulgarity, that I expected to see her embarrassed on
this occasion. Report, I soon saw, was wrong. No
queen, accustomed to the usages of royalty all her life,
could have comported herself with more calmness and
dignity than did the wife of the President. She was
confident and self-possessed, and confidence always
gives grace.
This levee was a brilliant one, and the only one of
the season. I became the regular modiste
of Mrs. Lincoln. I made fifteen or sixteen dresses for
her during the spring and early part of the summer,
when she left Washington; spending the hot weather
at Saratoga, Long Branch, and other places. In the
mean time I was employed by Mrs. Senator Douglas,
one of the loveliest ladies that I ever met, Mrs.
Secretary Wells, Mrs. Secretary Stanton, and others.
Mrs. Douglas always dressed in deep mourning, with
excellent taste, and several of the leading ladies of
Washington society were extremely jealous of her
superior attractions.
MRS. LINCOLN returned to Washington in
November, and again duty called me to the White
House. The war was now in progress, and every
day brought stirring news from the front--the front,
where the Gray opposed the Blue, where flashed the
bright sabre in the sunshine, where were heard the angry
notes of battle, the deep roar of cannon, and the fearful
rattle of musketry; where new graves were being made every
day, where brother forgot a mother's early blessing and
sought the lifeblood of brother, and friend raised the deadly
knife against friend.
Oh, the front, with its stirring battle-scenes! Oh, the
front, with its ghastly heaps of dead! The life of the
nation was at stake; and when the land was full of
sorrow, there could not be much gayety at the capital.
The days passed quietly with me. I soon learned that
some people had an intense desire to penetrate the
inner circle of the White House. No President and his
family, heretofore occupying this mansion, ever excited
so much curiosity as the present incumbents. Mr.
Lincoln had grown up in the wilds of the West, and
evil report had said much of him and his wife. The
polite world was shocked, and the tendency to
exaggerate intensified curiosity. As soon as it was
known that I was the modiste of Mrs. Lincoln, parties
crowded around and affected friendship for me, hoping
to induce me to betray the secrets of the domestic
circle. One day a woman, I will not call her a lady, drove
up to my rooms, gave me an order to make a dress, and
insisted on partly paying me in advance. She
called on me every day, and was exceedingly kind.
When she came to take her dress away, she
cautiously remarked:
"Mrs. Keckley, you know Mrs. Lincoln?"
"Yes."
"You are her modiste; are you not?"
"Yes."
"You know her very well; do you not?"
"I am with her every day or two."
"Don't you think you would have some influence
with her?"
"I cannot say. Mrs. Lincoln, I presume, would
listen to anything I should suggest, but whether she
would be influenced by a suggestion of mine is
another question."
"I am sure that you could influence her, Mrs.
Keckley. Now listen; I have a proposition to make. I
have a great desire to become an inmate of the White
House. I have heard so much of Mr. Lincoln's
goodness that I should like to be near him; and if I
can enter the
White House no other way, I am willing to go as a
menial. My dear Mrs. Keckley, will you not
recommend me to Mrs. Lincoln as a friend of yours
out of employment, and ask her to take me as a
chambermaid? If you will do this you shall be well
rewarded. It may be worth several thousand dollars to
you in time."
I looked at the woman in amazement. A bribe, and
to betray the confidence of my employer! Turning to
her with a glance of scorn, I said:
"Madam, you are mistaken in regard to my character.
Sooner than betray the trust of a friend, I would throw
myself into the Potomac river. I am not so base as that.
Pardon me, but there is the door, and I trust that you will
never enter my room again."
She sprang to her feet in deep confusion, and
passed through the door, murmuring: "Very well; you
will live to regret your action today."
"Never, never!" I exclaimed, and closed the door
after her with a bang. I afterwards learned that this
woman was an actress, and that her object was to
enter the White House as a servant, learn its secrets,
and then publish a scandal to the world. I do not give
her name, for such publicity would wound the
sensitive feelings of friends, who would have to share
her disgrace, without being responsible for her faults.
I simply record the incident to show how I often was
approached by unprincipled parties. It is unnecessary
to say that I indignantly refused every bribe offered.
The first public appearance of Mrs. Lincoln that
winter was at the reception on New Year's Day. This
reception was shortly followed by a brilliant levee.
The day after the levee I went to the White House,
and while fitting a dress to Mrs. Lincoln, she said:
"Lizabeth"--she had learned to drop the E -
"Lizabeth, I have an idea. These are war times,
and we must be as economical as possible. You know
the President is expected to give a series of state
dinners every winter, and these dinners are very
costly; Now I want to avoid this expense; and my
idea is, that if I give three large receptions, the state
dinners can be scratched from the programme. What
do you think, Lizabeth?"
"I think that you are right, Mrs. Lincoln."
"I am glad to hear you say so. If I can make Mr.
Lincoln take the same view of the case, I shall not fail
to put the idea into practice."
Before I left her room that day, Mr. Lincoln came in.
She at once stated the case to him. He pondered the
question a few moments before answering.
"Mother, I am afraid your plan will not work."
"But it will work, if you will only determine that it
shall work."
"It is breaking in on the regular custom," he
mildly replied.
"But you forget, father, these are war times, and
old customs can be done away with for the once. The
idea is economical, you must admit."
"Yes, mother, but we must think of something
besides economy."
"I do think of something else. Public receptions are
more democratic than stupid state dinners--are more in
keeping with the spirit of the institutions of our
country, as you would say if called upon to make a
stump speech. There are a great many strangers in the
city, foreigners and others, whom we can entertain at
our receptions, but whom we cannot invite to our
dinners."
"I believe you are right, mother. You argue the
point well. I think that we shall have to decide on the
receptions."
So the day was carried. The question was decided,
and arrangements were made for the first reception. It
now was January, and cards were issued for February.
The children, Tad and Willie, were constantly
receiving presents. Willie was so delighted with
a little pony, that he insisted on riding it every
day. The weather was changeable, and exposure
resulted in a severe cold, which deepened into
fever. He was very sick, and I was summoned
to his bedside. It was sad to see the poor boy
suffer. Always of a delicate constitution, he
could not resist the strong inroads of disease.
The days dragged wearily by, and he grew weaker
and more shadow-like. He was his mother's
favorite child, and she doted on him. It grieved
her heart sorely to see him suffer. When able to
be about, he was almost constantly by her side.
When I would go in her room, almost always I
found blue-eyed Willie there, reading from an
open book, or curled up in a chair with pencil and
paper in hand. He had decidedly a literary taste, and
was a studious boy. A short time before his death he
wrote this simple little poem:
His Country has her part to pa
To'rds those he has left behind;
His widow and his children all,
She must always keep in mind.
Finding that Willie continued to grow worse, Mrs.
Lincoln determined to withdraw her cards of invitation
and postpone the reception. Mr. Lincoln thought that
the cards had better not be withdrawn. At least he
advised that the doctor be consulted before any steps
were taken. Accordingly Dr. Stone was called in. He
pronounced Willie better, and said that there was
every reason for an early recovery. He thought, since
the invitations had been issued, it would be best to
go on with the reception. Willie, he insisted, was in no
immediate danger. Mrs. Lincoln was guided by these
counsels, and no postponement was announced. On
the evening of the reception Willie was suddenly
taken worse. His mother sat by his bedside a long
while, holding his feverish hand in her own, and
watching his labored breathing. The doctor claimed
there was no cause for alarm. I arranged Mrs. Lincoln's
hair, then assisted her to dress. Her dress was white
satin, trimmed with black lace. The trail was very long,
and as she swept through the room, Mr. Lincoln was
standing with his back to the fire, his hands behind
him, and his eyes on the carpet. His face wore a
thoughtful, solemn look. The rustling of the satin
dress attracted his attention. He looked at it a few
moments; then, in his quaint, quiet way remarked--
"Whew! our cat has a long tail to-night."
Mrs. Lincoln did not reply. The President added:
"Mother, it is my opinion, if some of that tail was
nearer the head, it would be in better style;" and he
glanced at her bare arms and neck. She had a
beautiful neck and arm, and low dresses were
becoming to her. She turned away with a look of
offended dignity, and presently
took the President's arm, and both went down-stairs
to their guests, leaving me alone with the sick boy.
The reception was a large and brilliant one, and the
rich notes of the Marine Band in the apartments below
came to the sick-room in soft, subdued murmurs, like
the wild, faint sobbing of far-off spirits. Some of the
young people had suggested dancing, but Mr.
Lincoln met the suggestion with an emphatic veto.
The brilliance of the scene could not dispel the
sadness that rested upon the face of Mrs. Lincoln.
During the evening she came up-stairs several times,
and stood by the bedside of the suffering boy. She
loved him with a mother's heart, and her anxiety was
great. The night passed slowly; morning came, and
Willie was worse. He lingered a few days, and died.
God called the beautiful spirit home, and the house of
joy was turned into the house of mourning. I was
worn out with watching, and was not in the room when
Willie died,
but was immediately sent for. I assisted in washing
him and dressing him, and then laid him on the bed,
when Mr. Lincoln came in. I never saw a man so
bowed down with grief. He came to the bed, lifted the
cover from the face of his child, gazed at it long and
earnestly, murmuring, "My poor boy, he was too
good for this earth. God has called him home. I know
that he is much better off in heaven, but then we
loved him so. It is hard, hard to have him die!"
Great sobs choked his utterance. He buried his
head in his hands, and his tall frame was convulsed
with emotion. I stood at the foot of the bed, my eyes
full of tears, looking at the man in silent, awe-stricken
wonder. His grief unnerved him, and made him a weak,
passive child. I did not dream that his rugged nature
could be so moved. I shall never forget those solemn
moments--genius and greatness weeping over love's
idol lost. There is a grandeur as well as a
simplicity about the picture that will never fade. With
me it is immortal--I really believe that I shall carry it
with me across the dark, mysterious river of death.
Mrs. Lincoln's grief was inconsolable. The pale face
of her dead boy threw her into convulsions. Around
him love's tendrils had been twined, and now that he
was dressed for the tomb, it was like tearing the
tendrils out of the heart by their roots. Willie, she
often said, if spared by Providence, would be the
hope and stay of her old age. But Providence had not
spared him. The light faded from his eyes, and the
death-dew had gathered on his brow.
In one of her paroxysms of grief the President
kindly bent over his wife, took her by the arm, and
gently led her to the window. With a stately, solemn
gesture, he pointed to the lunatic asylum.
"Mother, do you see that large white building on
the hill yonder? Try and control your grief,
or it will drive you mad, and we may have to send you
there."
Mrs. Lincoln was so completely overwhelmed with
sorrow that she did not attend the funeral. Willie was
laid to rest in the cemetery, and the White House was
draped in mourning. Black crape everywhere met the
eye, contrasting strangely with the gay and brilliant
colors of a few days before. Party dresses were laid
aside, and every one who crossed the threshold of the
Presidential mansion spoke in subdued tones when
they thought of the sweet boy at rest--
"Under the sod and the dew."
Previous to this I had lost my son. Leaving Wilberforce,
he went to the battle-field with the three months troops,
and was killed in Missouri--found his grave on the
battle-field where the gallant General Lyon fell. It was a
sad blow to me, and the kind womanly letter that Mrs.
Lincoln wrote to me when she heard of my bereavement
was full of golden words of comfort.
Nathaniel Parker Willis, the genial poet, now
sleeping in his grave, wrote this beautiful sketch of
Willie Lincoln, after the sad death of the bright-eyed
boy:
"This little fellow had his acquaintances among
his father's friends, and I chanced to be one of them.
He never failed to seek me out in he crowd, shake
hands, and make some pleasant remark; and this, in a
boy of ten years of age, was, to say the least,
endearing to a stranger. But he had more than mere
affectionateness. His self-possession--aplomb, as the
French call it--was extraordinary. I was one day
passing the White House, when he was outside with a
play-fellow on the side-walk. Mr. Seward drove in, with
Prince Napoleon and two of his suite in the carriage;
and, in a mock-heroic way--terms of intimacy evidently
existing between the boy and the Secretary--the official
gentleman, took off his hat, and the Napoleon did the
same, all making the young Prince President a ceremonious
salute. Not a bit staggered with the homage,
Willie drew himself up to his full height, took off his
little cap with graceful self-possession, and bowed
down formally to the ground, like a little ambassador.
They drove past, and he went on unconcernedly with
his play: the impromptu readiness and good judgment
being clearly a part of his nature. His genial and open
expression of countenance was none the less
ingenuous and fearless for a certain tincture of fun;
and it was in this mingling of qualities that he so
faithfully resembled his father.
"With all the splendor that was around this little
fellow in his new home, he was so bravely and
beautifully himself--and that only. A wild flower
transplanted from the prairie to the hothouse, he
retained his prairie habits, unalterably pure and
simple, till he died. His leading trait seemed to be a
fearless and kindly frankness, willing that everything
should be as different as it pleased, but resting
unmoved in his own conscious
single-heartedness. I found I was studying
him irresistibly, as one of the sweet problems of
childhood that the world is blessed with in rare
places; and the news of his death (I was absent from
Washington, on a visit to my own children, at the
time) came to me like a knell heard unexpectedly at a
merry-making.
"On the day of the funeral I went before the hour,
to take a near farewell look at the dear boy; for they
had embalmed him to send home to the West--to sleep
under the sod of his own valley--and the coffin-lid was
to be closed before the service. The family had just
taken their leave of him, and the servants and nurses
were seeing him for the last time--and with tears and
sobs wholly unrestrained, for he was loved like an
idol by every one of them. He lay with eyes closed--his
brown hair parted as we had known it--pale in the
slumber of death; but otherwise unchanged, for he
was dressed as if for the evening, and held in one of
his hands,
crossed upon his breast, a bunch of exquisite flowers --
a message coming from his mother, while we were
looking upon him, that those flowers might be
preserved for her. She was lying sick in her bed, worn
out with grief and overwatching.
"The funeral was very touching. Of the entertainments
in the East Room the boy had been--for those who now
assembled more especially--a most life-giving variation.
With his bright face, and his apt greetings and replies,
he was remembered in every part of that crimson-curtained
hall, built only for pleasure--of all the crowds, each night,
certainly the one least likely to be death's first mark. He was
his father's favorite. They were intimates--often seen hand
in hand. And there sat the man, with a burden on his
brain at which the world marvels--bent now with the
load at both heart and brain--staggering under a blow
like the taking from him of his child! His men of power
sat around
him--McClellan, with a moist eye when he bowed to the
prayer, as I could see from where I stood; and Chase
and Seward, with their austere features at work; and
senators, and ambassadors, and soldiers, all
struggling with their tears--great hearts sorrowing with
the President as a stricken man and a brother. That
God may give him strength for all his burdens is, I am
sure, at present the prayer of a nation."
This sketch was very much admired by Mrs. Lincoln.
I copy it from the scrap-book in which she pasted it,
with many tears, with her own hands.
IN the summer of 1862, freedmen began to flock into
Washington from Maryland and Virginia. They came
with a great hope in their hearts, and with all their
worldly goods on their backs. Fresh from the bonds
of slavery, fresh from the benighted regions of the
plantation, they came to the Capital looking for
liberty, and many of them not knowing it when they
found it. Many good friends reached forth kind
hands, but the North is not warm and impulsive. For
one kind word spoken, two harsh ones were uttered;
there was something repelling in the atmosphere, and
the bright joyous dreams of freedom to the slave faded--were sadly altered, in the presence of that stern,
practical mother, reality. Instead of flowery paths, days
of perpetual sunshine, and bowers hanging with
golden fruit, the road was rugged and full of thorns,
the sunshine was eclipsed by shadows, and the mute
appeals for help too often were answered by cold
neglect. Poor dusky children of slavery, men and
women of my own race--the transition from slavery to
freedom was too sudden for you! The bright dreams
were too rudely dispelled; you were not prepared for
the new life that opened before you, and the great
masses of the North learned to look upon your
helplessness with indifference--learned to speak of you
as an idle, dependent race. Reason should have
prompted kinder thoughts. Charity is ever kind.
One fair summer evening I was walking the streets
of Washington, accompanied by a friend,
when a band of music was heard in the distance. We
wondered what it could mean, and curiosity prompted
us to find out its meaning. We quickened our steps,
and discovered that it came from the house of Mrs.
Farnham. The yard was brilliantly lighted, ladies and
gentlemen were moving about, and the band was
playing some of its sweetest airs. We approached the
sentinel on duty at the gate, and asked what was going
on. He told us that it was a festival given for the benefit
of the sick and wounded soldiers in the city. This
suggested an idea to me. If the white people can give
festivals to raise funds for the relief of suffering
soldiers, why should not the well-to-do colored people
go to work to do something for the benefit of the
suffering blacks? I could not rest. The thought was
ever present with me, and the next Sunday I made a
suggestion in the colored church, that a society of
colored people be formed to labor for the benefit of the
unfortunate freedmen. The idea proved
popular, and in two weeks "the Contraband Relief
Association" was organized, with forty working
members.
In September of 1862, Mrs. Lincoln left
Washington for New York, and requested me to
follow her in a few days, and join her at the
Metropolitan Hotel. I was glad of the opportunity to
do so, for I thought that in New York I would be able
to do something in the interests of our society. Armed
with credentials, I took the train for New York, and
went to the Metropolitan, where Mrs. Lincoln had
secured accommodations for me. The next morning I
told Mrs. Lincoln of my project; and she immediately
headed my list with a subscription of $200. I
circulated among the colored people, and got them
thoroughly interested in the subject, when I was
called to Boston by Mrs. Lincoln, who wished to visit
her son Robert, attending college in that city. I met
Mr. Wendell Phillips, and other Boston philanthropists,
who gave me all the
assistance in their power. We held a mass meeting at
the Colored Baptist Church, Rev. Mr. Grimes, in
Boston, raised a sum of money, and organized there a
branch society. The society was organized by Mrs.
Grimes, wife of the pastor, assisted by Mrs. Martin,
wife of Rev. Stella Martin. This branch of the main
society, during the war, was able to send us over
eighty large boxes of goods, contributed exclusively
by the colored people of Boston. Returning to New
York, we held a successful meeting at the Shiloh
Church, Rev. Henry Highland Garnet, pastor. The
Metropolitan Hotel, at that time as now, employed
colored help. I suggested the object of my mission to
Robert Thompson, Steward of the Hotel, who
immediately raised quite a sum of money among the
dining-room waiters. Mr. Frederick Douglass
contributed $200, besides lecturing for us. Other
prominent colored men sent in liberal contributions.
From England*
* The Sheffield Anti-Slavery Society of England
contributed through Mr. Frederick Douglass, to the Freedmen's
Relief Association, $24.00; Aberdeen Ladies' Society, $40.00;
Anti-Slavery Society of Edinburgh, Scotland, $48.00; Friends
at Bristol, England, $176.00; Birmingham Negro's Friend
Society, $50.00. Also received through Mr. Charles R.
Douglass, from the Birmingham Society, $33.00.
a large quantity of stores was received. Mrs. Lincoln
made frequent contributions, as also did the
President. In 1863 I was re-elected President of the
Association, which office I continue to hold.
For two years after Willie's death the White House
was the scene of no fashionable display. The memory
of the dead boy was duly respected. In some things
Mrs. Lincoln was an altered woman. Sometimes, when
in her room, with no one present but myself, the mere
mention of Willie's name would excite her emotion,
and any trifling memento that recalled him would
move her to tears. She could not bear to look upon his
picture; and after his death she never
crossed the threshold of the Guest's Room in
which he died, or the Green Room in which he
was embalmed. There was something supernatural in
her dread of these things, and something that she
could not explain. Tad's nature was the opposite of
Willie's, and he was always regarded as his father's
favorite child. His black eyes fairly sparkled with
mischief.
The war progressed, fair fields had been stained
with blood, thousands of brave men had fallen, and
thousands of eyes were weeping for the fallen at
home. There were desolate hearthstones in the South
as well as in the North, and as the people of my race
watched the sanguinary struggle, the ebb and flow of
the tide of battle, they lifted their faces Zionward, as if
they hoped to catch a glimpse of the Promised Land
beyond the sulphureous clouds of smoke which
shifted now and then but to reveal ghastly rows of
new-made graves. Sometimes the very life of the
nation seemed to tremble with the fierce shock
of arms. In 1863 the Confederates were flushed with
victory, and sometimes it looked as if the proud flag of
the Union, the glorious old Stars and Stripes, must
yield half its nationality to the tri-barred flag that
floated grandly over long columns of gray. These were
sad, anxious days to Mr. Lincoln, and those who saw
the man in privacy only could tell how much he
suffered. One day he came into the room where I was
fitting a dress on Mrs. Lincoln. His step was slow and
heavy, and his face sad. Like a tired child he threw
himself upon a sofa, and shaded his eyes with his
hands. He was a complete picture of dejection. Mrs.
Lincoln, observing his troubled look, asked:
"Where have you been, father?"
"To the War Department," was the brief, almost
sullen answer.
"Any news?"
"Yes, plenty of news, but no good news. It is dark,
dark everywhere."
He reached forth one of his long arms, and took a
small Bible from a stand near the head of the sofa,
opened the pages of the holy book, and soon was
absorbed in reading them. A quarter of an hour passed,
and on glancing at the sofa the face of the President
seemed more cheerful. The dejected look was gone,
and the countenance was lighted up with new
resolution and hope. The change was so marked that I
could not but wonder at it, and wonder led to the
desire to know what book of the Bible afforded so
much comfort to the reader. Making the search for a
missing article an excuse, I walked gently around the
sofa, and looking into the open book, I discovered that
Mr. Lincoln was reading that divine comforter, Job. He
read with Christian eagerness, and the courage and
hope that he derived from the inspired pages made him
a new man. I almost imagined that I could hear the
Lord speaking to him from out the whirlwind of battle:
"Gird up thy loins now
like a man: I will demand of thee, and declare thou unto
me." What a sublime picture was this! A ruler of a
mighty nation going to the pages of the Bible with
simple Christian earnestness for comfort and
courage, and finding both in the darkest hours of a
nation's calamity. Ponder it, O ye scoffers at God's
Holy Word, and then hang your heads for very
shame!
Frequent letters were received warning Mr. Lincoln
of assassination, but he never gave a second thought
to the mysterious warnings. The letters, however,
sorely troubled his wife. She seemed to read impending
danger in every rustling leaf, in every whisper of the
wind.
"Where are you going now, father?" she would
say to him, as she observed him putting on his
overshoes and shawl.
"I am going over to the War Department, mother,
to try and learn some news."
"But, father, you should not go out alone. You
know you are surrounded with danger."
"All imagination. What does any one want to harm me
for? Don't worry about me, mother, as if I were a little
child, for no one is going to molest me;" and with a
confident, unsuspecting air he would close the door
behind him, descend the stairs, and pass out to his lonely
walk.
For weeks, when trouble was anticipated, friends of
the President would sleep in the White House to
guard him from danger.
Robert would come home every few months,
bringing new joy to the family circle. He was very
anxious to quit school and enter the army, but the
move was sternly opposed by his mother.
"We have lost one son, and his loss is as much as
I can bear, without being called upon to make another
sacrifice," she would say, when the subject was under
discussion.
"But many a poor mother has given up all her
sons," mildly suggested Mr. Lincoln, "and our son is
not more dear to us than the sons of other people are
to their mothers."
"That may be; but I cannot bear to have Robert
exposed to danger. His services are not required in
the field, and the sacrifice would be a needless one."
"The services of every man who loves his country
are required in this war. You should take a liberal
instead of a selfish view of the question, mother."
Argument at last prevailed, and permission was
granted Robert to enter the army. With the rank of
Captain and A. D. C. he went to the field, and
remained in the army till the close of the war.
I well recollect a little incident that gave me a clearer
insight into Robert's character. He was at home at the
time the Tom Thumb combination was at Washington.
The marriage of little Hopo'-my-thumb--Charles
Stratton--to Miss Warren created no little excitement in
the world, and the people of Washington participated
in the general curiosity. Some of Mrs. Lincoln's
friends made
her believe that it was the duty of Mrs. Lincoln to
show some attention to the remarkable dwarfs. Tom
Thumb had been caressed by royalty in the Old
World, and why should not the wife of the President
of his native country smile upon him, also? Verily,
duty is one of the greatest bugbears in life. A hasty
reception was arranged, and cards of invitation issued.
I had dressed Mrs. Lincoln, and she was ready to go
below and receive her guests, when Robert entered his
mother's room.
"You are at leisure this afternoon, are you not,
Robert?"
"Yes, mother."
"Of course, then, you will dress and come down-stairs."
"No, mother, I do not propose to assist in entertaining
Tom Thumb. My notions of duty, perhaps, are somewhat
different from yours."
to all of the follies and absurdities of the ephemeral
current of fashionable life.
Mrs. Lincoln's love for her husband sometimes
prompted her to act very strangely. She was extremely
jealous of him, and if a lady desired to court her
displeasure, she could select no surer way to do it
than to pay marked attention to the President. These
little jealous freaks often were a source of perplexity
to Mr. Lincoln. If it was a reception for which they
were dressing, he would come into her room to conduct
her downstairs, and while pulling on his gloves ask,
with a merry twinkle in his eyes:
"Well, mother, who must I talk with to-night--shall
it be Mrs. D.?"
"That deceitful woman! No, you shall not listen to
her flattery."
"Well, then, what do you say to Miss C.? She is
too young and handsome to practise deceit."
"Young and handsome, you call her! You should
not judge beauty for me. No, she is
in league with Mrs. D., and you shall not talk with
her."
"Well, mother, I must talk with some one. Is there
any one that you do not object to?" trying to
button his glove, with a mock expression of gravity.
"I don't know as it is necessary that you should
talk to anybody in particular. You know well enough,
Mr. Lincoln, that I do not approve of your flirtations
with silly women, just as if you were a beardless boy,
fresh from school."
"But, mother, I insist that I must talk with
somebody. I can't stand around like a simpleton, and
say nothing. If you will not tell me who I may talk
with, please tell me who I may not talk with."
"There is Mrs. D. and Miss C. in particular. I detest
them both. Mrs. B. also will come around you, but
you need not listen to her flattery. These are the ones
in particular."
"Very well, mother; now that we have settled
the question to your satisfaction, we will go
down-stairs;" and always with stately dignity, he
proffered his arm and led the way.
OFTEN Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln discussed
the relations of Cabinet officers, and gentlemen
prominent in politics, in my presence. I soon
learned that the wife of the President had no
love for Mr. Salmon P. Chase, at that time
Secretary of the Treasury. She was well versed in
human character, was somewhat suspicious of
those by whom she was surrounded, and often
her judgment was correct. Her intuition about
the sincerity of individuals was more accurate
than that of her husband. She looked beyond,
and read the reflection of action in the future. Her
hostility to Mr. Chase was very bitter. She claimed that
he was a selfish politician instead of a true patriot, and
warned Mr. Lincoln not to trust him too far. The
daughter of the Secretary was quite a belle in
Washington, and Mrs. Lincoln, who was jealous of the
popularity of others, had no desire to build up her
social position through political favor to her father.
Miss Chase, now Mrs. Senator Sprague, was a lovely
woman, and was worthy of all the admiration she
received. Mr. Lincoln was more confiding than his wife.
He never suspected the fidelity of those who claimed
to be his friends. Honest to the very core himself, and
frank as a child, he never dreamed of questioning the
sincerity of others.
"Father, I do wish that you would inquire a little
into the motives of Chase," said his wife one day.
sofa, holding a newspaper in his hands. "Mother,
you are too suspicious. I give you credit for sagacity,
but you are disposed to magnify trifles. Chase is a
patriot, and one of my best friends."
"Yes, one of your best, friends because it is his
interest to be so. He is anything for Chase. If he
thought he could make anything by it, he would
betray you to-morrow."
"I fear that you are prejudiced against the man,
mother. I know that you do him injustice."
"Mr. Lincoln, you are either blind or will not see. I
am not the only one that has warned you against
him."
"True, I receive letters daily from all parts of the
country, telling me not to trust Chase; but then these
letters are written by the political enemies of the
Secretary, and it would be unjust and foolish to pay
any attention to them."
"Very well, you will find out some day, if you live
long enough, that I have read the man correctly. I
only hope that your eyes may not be
opened to the truth when it is too late." The
President, as far as I could judge from his
conversation with his wife, continued to confide in
Mr. Chase to the time of his tragic death.
Mrs. Lincoln was especially severe on Mr. Wm. H.
Seward, Secretary of State. She but rarely lost an
opportunity to say an unkind word of him.
One morning I went to the White House earlier than
usual. Mr. Lincoln was sitting in a chair, reading a
paper, stroking with one hand the head of little Tad. I
was basting a dress for Mrs. Lincoln. A servant
entered, and handed the President a letter just
brought by a messenger. He broke the seal, and when
he had read the contents his wife asked:
"Who is the letter from, father?"
"Seward; I must go over and see him today."
"Seward! I wish you had nothing to do with that
man. He cannot be trusted."
"You say the same of Chase. If I listened to you, I
should soon be without a Cabinet."
"Better be without it than to confide in some of the
men that you do. Seward is worse than Chase. He has
no principle.
"Mother, you are mistaken; your prejudices are so
violent that you do not stop to reason. Seward is an
able man, and the country as well as myself can trust
him."
"Father, you are too honest for this world! You
should have been born a saint. You will generally find
it a safe rule to distrust a disappointed, ambitious
politician. It makes me mad to see you sit still and let
that hypocrite, Seward, twine you around his finger as
if you were a skein of thread."
"It is useless to argue the question, mother. You
cannot change my opinion."
Mrs. Lincoln prided herself upon her ability to read
character. She was shrewd and far-seeing,
and had no patience with the frank, confiding nature
of the President.
When Andrew Johnson was urged for military
Governor of Tennessee, Mrs. Lincoln bitterly
opposed the appointment.
"He is a demagogue," she said, almost fiercely,
"and if you place him in power, Mr. Lincoln, mark my
words, you will rue it some day."
General McClellan, when made Commander-in-Chief,
was the idol of the soldiers, and never was a general
more universally popular. "He is a humbug,"
remarked Mrs. Lincoln one day in my presence.
"What makes you think so, mother?" good-naturedly
inquired the President.
"Because he talks so much and does so little. If I
had the power I would very soon take off his head,
and put some energetic man in his place."
"But I regard McClellan as a patriot and an able
soldier. He has been much embarrassed.
The troops are raw, and the subordinate officers
inclined to be rebellious. There are too many
politicians in the army with shoulder-straps. McClellan
is young and popular, and they are jealous of him.
They will kill him off if they can."
"McClellan can make plenty of excuse for himself,
therefore he needs no advocate in you. If he would
only do something, and not promise so much, I might
learn to have a little faith in him. I tell you he is a
humbug, and you will have to find some man to take
his place, that is, if you wish to conquer the South."
Mrs. Lincoln could not tolerate General Grant. "He
is a butcher," she would often say, "and is not fit to
be at the head of an army."
"But he has been very successful in the field,"
argued the President.
"Yes, he generally manages to claim a victory, but
such a victory! He loses two men to the enemy's one.
He has no management, no regard
for life. If the war should continue four years longer,
and he should remain in power, he would depopulate
the North. I could fight an army as well myself.
According to his tactics, there is nothing under the
heavens to do but to march a new line of men up in
front of the rebel breastworks to be shot down as fast
as they take their position, and keep marching until
the enemy grows tired of the slaughter. Grant, I
repeat, is an obstinate fool and a butcher."
"Well, mother, supposing that we give you
command of the army. No doubt you would do much
better than any general that has been tried." There
was a twinkle in the eyes, and a ring of irony in the
voice.
I have often heard Mrs. Lincoln say that if Grant
should ever be elected President of the United States
she would desire to leave the country, and remain
absent during his term of office.
brothers were in the Confederate army, and for this
reason it was often charged that her sympathies were
with the South. Those who made the hasty charge
were never more widely mistaken.
One morning, on my way to the White House, I
heard that Captain Alexander Todd, one of her
brothers, had been killed. I did not like to inform Mrs.
Lincoln of his death, judging that it would be painful
news to her. I had been in her room but a few minutes
when she said, with apparent unconcern, "Lizzie, I
have just heard that one of my brothers has been
killed in the war."
"I also heard the same, Mrs. Lincoln, but hesitated
to speak of it, for fear the subject would be a painful
one to you."
"You need not hesitate. Of course, it is but natural
that I should feel for one so nearly related to me, but
not to the extent that you suppose. He made his
choice long ago. He decided against my husband, and
through him
against me. He has been fighting against us; and
since he chose to be our deadly enemy, I see no
special reason why I should bitterly mourn his death."
I felt relieved, and in subsequent conversations
learned that Mrs. Lincoln had no sympathy for the
South. "Why should I sympathize with the rebels,"
she would say; "are they not against me? They would
hang my husband to-morrow if it was in their power,
and perhaps gibbet me with him. How then can I
sympathize with a people at war with me and mine?"
She always objected to being thought Southern in
feeling.
Mr. Lincoln was generous by nature, and though
his whole heart was in the war, he could not but
respect the valor of those opposed to him. His soul
was too great for the narrow, selfish views of
partisanship. Brave by nature himself, he honored
bravery in others, even his foes. Time and again I
have heard him speak in the highest terms of the
soldierly qualities of
such brave Confederate generals as Lee, Stonewall
Jackson, and Joseph E. Johnson. Jackson was his
ideal soldier. "He is a brave, honest Presbyterian
soldier," were his words; "what a pity that we should
have to fight such a gallant fellow! If we only had
such a man to lead the armies of the North, the
country would not be appalled with so many
disasters."
As this is a rambling chapter, I will here record an
incident showing his feeling toward Robert E. Lee.
The very morning of the day on which he was
assassinated, his son, Capt. Robert Lincoln, came into
the room with a portrait of General Lee in his hand.
The President took the picture, laid it on a table before
him, scanned the face thoughtfully, and said: "It is a
good face; it is the face of a noble, noble, brave man. I
am glad that the war is over at last." Looking up at
Robert, he continued: "Well, my son, you have
returned safely from the front. The war is now closed,
and we soon will live in peace with
the brave men that have been fighting against us. I
trust that the era of good feeling has returned with the
war, and that henceforth we shall live in peace. Now
listen to me, Robert: you must lay aside your uniform,
and return to college. I wish you to read law for three
years, and at the end of that time I hope that we will be
able to tell whether you will make a lawyer or not." His
face was more cheerful than I had seen it for a long
while, and he seemed to be in a generous, forgiving
mood.
SOME of the freedmen and freedwomen had
exaggerated ideas of liberty. To them it was a
beautiful vision, a land of sunshine, rest and
glorious promise. They flocked to Washington,
and since their extravagant hopes were not realized,
it was but natural that many of them should bitterly
feel their disappointment. The colored people are
wedded to associations, and when you destroy
these you destroy half of the happiness of their
lives. They make a home, and are so fond of it that
they prefer it, squalid
though it be, to the comparative ease and luxury of a
shifting, roaming life. Well, the emancipated slaves, in
coming North, left old associations behind them, and
the love for the past was so strong that they could not
find much beauty in the new life so suddenly opened
to them. Thousands of the disappointed, huddled
together in camps, fretted and pined like children for
the "good old times." In visiting them in the interests
of the Relief Society of which I was president, they
would crowd around me with pitiful stories of distress.
Often I heard them declare that they would rather go
back to slavery in the South, and be with their old
masters, than to enjoy the freedom of the North. I
believe they were sincere in these declarations,
because dependence had become a part of their
second nature, and independence brought with it the
cares and vexatious of poverty.
I was very much amused one day at the grave
complaints of a good old, simple-minded woman,
fresh from a life of servitude. She had never
ventured beyond a plantation until coming North. The
change was too radical for her, and she could not
exactly understand it. She thought, as many others
thought, that Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln were the
government, and that the President and his wife had
nothing to do but to supply the extravagant wants of
every one that applied to them. The wants of this old
woman, however, were not very extravagant.
"Why, Missus Keckley," said she to me one day,
"I is been here eight months, and Missus
Lingom an't even give me one shife. Bliss God,
childen, if I had ar know dat de Government, and
Mister and Missus Government, was going to do
dat ar way, I neber would 'ave comed here in God's
wurld. My old missus us't gib me two shifes,
eber year."
I could not restrain a laugh at the grave manner in
which this good old woman entered her protest. Her
idea of freedom was two or more
old shifts every year. Northern readers may not fully
recognize the pith of the joke. On the Southern
plantation, the mistress, according to established
custom, every year made a present of certain
under-garments to her slaves, which articles were
always anxiously looked forward to, and thankfully
received. The old woman had been in the habit of
receiving annually two shifts from her mistress, and
she thought the wife of the President of the United
States very mean for overlooking this established
custom of the plantation.
While some of the emancipated blacks pined for the
old associations of slavery, and refused to help
themselves, others went to work with commendable
energy, and planned with remarkable forethought.
They built themselves cabins, and each family
cultivated for itself a small patch of ground. The
colored people are fond of domestic life, and with
them domestication means happy children, a fat pig, a
dozen or
more chickens, and a garden. Whoever visits the
Freedmen's Village now in the vicinity of Washington
will discover all of these evidences of prosperity and
happiness. The schools are objects of much interest.
Good teachers, white and colored, are employed, and
whole brigades of bright-eyed dusky children are
there taught the common branches of education.
These children are studious, and the teachers inform
me that their advancement is rapid. I number among
my personal friends twelve colored girls employed as
teachers in the schools at Washington. The Colored
Mission Sabbath School, established through the
influence of Gen. Brown at the Fifteenth Street
Presbyterian Church, is always an object of great
interest to the residents of the Capital, as well as to
the hundreds of strangers visiting the city.
In 1864 the receptions again commenced at the
White House. For the first two years of Mr. Lincoln's
administration, the President selected a
lady to join in the promenade with him, which left Mrs.
Lincoln free to choose an escort from among the
distinguished gentlemen that always surrounded her
on such occasions. This custom at last was
discontinued by Mrs. Lincoln.
"Lizabeth!"--I was sewing in her room, and she was
seated in a comfortable arm-chair--"Lizabeth, I have
been thinking over a little matter. As you are well
aware, the President, at every reception, selects a lady
to lead the promenade with him. Now it occurs to me
that this custom is an absurd one. On such occasions
our guests recognize the position of the President as
first of all; consequently, he takes the lead in
everything; well, now, if they recognize his position
they should also recognize mine. I am his wife, and
should lead with him. And yet he offers his arm to any
other lady in the room, making her first with him and
placing me second. The custom is an absurd one, and
I mean to abolish it. The dignity that I owe to my
position, as Mrs. President,
demands that I should not hesitate any longer
to act."
Mrs. Lincoln kept her word. Ever after this, she
either led the promenade with the President, or the
President walked alone or with a gentleman. The
change was much remarked, but the reason why it
was made, I believe, was never generally known.
In 1864 much doubt existed in regard to the
re-election of Mr. Lincoln, and the White House
was besieged by all grades of politicians. Mrs.
Lincoln was often blamed for having a certain
class of men around her.
"I have an object in view, Lizabeth," she said to me
in reference to this matter. "In a political canvass it is
policy to cultivate every element of strength. These
men have influence, and we require influence to
re-elect Mr. Lincoln. I will be clever to them until after
the election, and then, if we remain at the White
House, I will drop every one of them, and let them
know very
plainly that I only made tools of them. They are
an unprincipled set, and I don't mind a little
double-dealing with them."
"Does Mr. Lincoln know what your purpose is?" I
asked.
"God! no; he would never sanction such a
proceeding, so I keep him in the dark, and will tell him
of it when all is over. He is too honest to take the
proper care of his own interests, so I feel it to be my
duty to electioneer for him."
Mr. Lincoln, as every one knows, was far from
handsome. He was not admired for his graceful figure
and finely moulded face, but for the nobility of his
soul and the greatness of his heart. His wife was
different. He was wholly unselfish in every respect,
and I believe that he loved the mother of his children
very tenderly. He asked nothing but affection from
her, but did not always receive it. When in one of her
wayward impulsive moods, she was apt to say and do
things that wounded him deeply. If he had not
loved her, she would have been powerless to cloud
his thoughtful face, or gild it with a ray of sunshine
as she pleased. We are indifferent to those we do not
love, and certainly the President was not indifferent to
his wife. She often wounded him in unguarded
moments, but calm reflection never failed to bring
regret.
Mrs. Lincoln was extremely anxious that her
husband should be re-elected President of the United
States. In endeavoring to make a display becoming
her exalted position, she had to incur many expenses.
Mr. Lincoln's salary was inadequate to meet them, and
she was forced to run in debt, hoping that good
fortune would favor her, and enable her to extricate
herself from an embarrassing situation. She bought
the most expensive goods on credit, and in the
summer of 1864 enormous unpaid bills stared her in
the face.
"What do you think about the election, Lizabeth?"
she said to me one morning.
"I think that Mr. Lincoln will remain in the White
House four years longer," I replied, looking up from
my work.
"What makes you think so? Some how I have
learned to fear that he will be defeated."
"Because he has been tried, and has proved
faithful to the best interests of the country. The
people of the North recognize in him an honest man,
and they are willing to confide in him, at least until the
war has been brought to a close. The Southern people
made his election a pretext for rebellion, and now to
replace him by some one else, after years of
sanguinary war, would look too much like a surrender
of the North. So, Mr. Lincoln is certain to be re-elected.
He represents a principle, and to maintain this
principle the loyal people of the loyal States will vote
for him, even if he had no merits to commend him."
"Your view is a plausible one, Lizabeth, and your
confidence gives me new hope. If he
should be defeated, I do not know what would
become of us all. To me, to him, there is more at stake
in this election than he dreams of."
"What can you mean, Mrs. Lincoln? I do not
comprehend."
"Simply this. I have contracted large debts, of
which he knows nothing, and which he will be unable
to pay if he is defeated."
"What are your debts, Mrs. Lincoln?"
"They consist chiefly of store bills. I owe altogether
about twenty-seven thousand dollars; the principal
portion at Stewart's, in New York. You understand,
Lizabeth, that Mr. Lincoln has but little idea of the
expense of a woman's wardrobe. He glances at my
rich dresses, and is happy in the belief that the few
hundred dollars that I obtain from him supply all my
wants. I must dress in costly materials. The people
scrutinize every article that I wear with critical
curiosity. The very fact of having grown up in the
West, subjects me to more searching observation.
To keep up appearances, I must have money--more
than Mr. Lincoln can spare for me. He is too honest to
make a penny outside of his salary; consequently I
had, and still have, no alternative but to run in debt."
"And Mr. Lincoln does not even suspect how
much you owe?"
"God, no!"--this was a favorite expression of hers--
"and I would not have him suspect. If he knew that his
wife was involved to the extent that she is, the
knowledge would drive him mad. He is so sincere and
straightforward himself, that he is shocked by the
duplicity of others. He does not know a thing about
any debts and I value his happiness, not to speak of
my own, too much to allow him to know anything.
This is what troubles me so much. If he is re-elected, I
can keep him in ignorance of my affairs; but if he
is defeated, then the bills will be sent in, and he will
know all;" and something like a hysterical sob
escaped her.
Mrs. Lincoln sometimes feared that the politicians
would get hold of the particulars of her debts, and use
them in the Presidential campaign against her
husband; and when this thought occurred to her, she
was almost crazy with anxiety and fear.
When in one of these excited moods, she would
fiercely exclaim--
"The Republican politicians must pay my debts.
Hundreds of them are getting immensely rich off the
patronage of my husband, and it is but fair that they
should help me out of my embarrassment. I will make a
demand of them, and when I tell them the facts they
cannot refuse to advance whatever money I require."
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?"
"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."
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.
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.
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."
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 demi-god 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 a 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."
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. Not-withstanding
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 an a lounge near the bed
occupied by Mrs. Lincoln. One of the servants
entering the room, Mrs. L. asked:
"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 be rushed into
the box?"
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.
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.
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."
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.
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.
"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."
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?"
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.
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.
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:
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."
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.
IN order to introduce a pleasant chapter of my life, I
must take a slight retrospective glance. Mrs. Ann
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 somber 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:
just from Lynchburg, and when I left cousin Ann 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! 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 live now?" I
always called my last mistress, Miss Ann.
"Ah! I thought you could not forget old
friends. Cousin Ann 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; every thing 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.
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 county-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.
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. 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, 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."
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:
"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 my self, 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:
"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'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.
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, post-marked
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
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!"
Page 278
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?"
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.
"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
second-hand 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
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 second-hand
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 every seat's berth
being engaged; so, being simple Mrs. Clarke, I had to
eat 'humble-pie' in a car less commodious. My
thoughts were too much with my 'dry goods and
interests' at 609 Broadway, to care much for my
surroundings, as uncomfortable as they were. In front
of me sat a middle-aged, gray-haired, respectable-looking
gentleman, who, for the whole morning, had
the page of the World before him which contained my
letters and business concerns. About four hours
before arriving at Chicago, a consequential-looking
man, of formidable size, seated himself by him, and it
appears they were entirely unknown to each other.
The well-fed looking individual opened the
conversation with the man who had read the World so
attentively, and the conversation soon grew warm and
earnest. The
war and its devastation engaged them. The bluffy
individual, doubtless a Republican who had pocketed
his many thousands, spoke of the widows of the land,
made so by the war. My reading man remarked to him:
" 'Are you aware that Mrs. Lincoln is in indigent
circumstances, and has to sell her clothing and jewelry
to gain means to make life more endurable?'
"The well-conditioned man replied: 'I do not blame
her for selling her clothing, if she wishes it. I suppose
when sold she will convert the proceeds into five-twenties
to enable her to have means to be buried.'
"The World man turned towards him with a
searching glance, and replied, with the haughtiest
manner: 'That woman is not dead yet.'
"The discomfited individual looked down, never
spoke another word, and in half an hour left his seat,
and did not return.
occurred. May it be found through the execution
of my friends, Messrs Brady and Keyes, that
'that woman is not yet dead,' and being alive,
she speaketh and gaineth valuable hearers. Such
is life! Those who have been injured, how gladly
the injurer would consign them to mother earth
and forgetfulness! Hoping I should not be
recognized at Fort Wayne, I thought I would get
out at dinner for a cup of tea. * * * will
show you what a creature of fate I am, as
miserable as it sometimes is. I went into the
dining-room alone, and was ushered up to the table,
where, at its head, sat a very elegant-looking
gentleman--at his side a middle-aged lady. My
black veil was doubled over my face. I had
taken my seat next to him--he at the head of the
table, I at his left hand. I immediately felt
a pair of eyes was gazing at me. I looked
him full in the face, and the glance was earnestly
returned. I sipped my water, and said: 'Mr. S.,
is this indeed you?' His face was as pale as the
table-cloth. We entered into conversation, when I
asked him how long since he had left Chicago. He
replied, 'Two weeks since.' He said, 'How strange you
should be on the train and I not know it!'
"As soon as I could escape from the table, I did
so by saying, 'I must secure a cup of tea for a
lady friend with me who has a head-ache.' I
had scarcely returned to the car, when he entered
it with a cup of tea borne by his own aristocratic
hands. I was a good deal annoyed by seeing
him, and he was so agitated that he spilled half
of the cup over my elegantly gloved hands. He
looked very sad, and I fancied 609 Broadway
occupied his thoughts. I apologized for the
absent lady who wished the cup, by saying that
'in my absence she had slipped out for it.' His
heart was in his eyes, notwithstanding my veiled
face. Pity for me, I fear, has something to do
with all this. I never saw his manner so gentle
and sad. This was nearly evening, and I did not
see him again, as he returned to the lady, who was his
sister-in-law from the East.
* * *
What evil spirit possessed me to go out and get that
cup of tea? When he left me, woman-like I tossed
the cup of tea out of the window, and tucked my head
down and shed bitter tears. * * At the depot my
darling little Taddie was waiting for me, and his voice
never sounded so sweet.
* * * My dear Lizzie, do visit Mr. Brady
each morning at nine o'clock, and urge them all
you can. I see by the papers Stewart has returned.
To-morrow I will send the invoice of
goods, which please to not give up. How much
I miss you, tongue cannot tell. Forget my fright
and nervousness of the evening before. Of
course you were as innocent as a child in all you
did. I consider you my best living friend, and
I am struggling to be enabled some day to repay
you. Write me often, as you promised.
It is not necessary for me to dwell upon the public
history of Mrs. Lincoln's unfortunate venture. The
question has been discussed in all the newspapers of
the land, and these discussions are so recent that it
would be useless to introduce them in these pages,
even if I had an inclination to do so. The following,
from the New York Evening Express, briefly tells the
story:
"The attraction for ladies, and the curious and
speculative of the other sex in this city, just now,
is the grand exposition of Lincoln dresses at the
office of Mr. Brady, on Broadway, a few doors
south of Houston street. The publicity given to
the articles on exhibition and for sale has excited
the public curiosity, and hundreds of people,
principally women with considerable leisure
moments at disposal, daily throng the rooms
of Mr. Brady, and give himself and his
shop-woman more to do than either bargained for,
when a lady, with face concealed with a veil,
called and arranged for the sale of the
superabundant clothing of a distinguished and
titled, but nameless lady. Twenty-five dresses, folded
or tossed about by frequent examinations, lie exposed
upon a closed piano, and upon a lounge; shawls rich
and rare are displayed upon the backs of chairs, but
the more exacting obtain a better view and closer
inspection by the lady attendant throwing them
occasionally upon her shoulders, just to oblige, so
that their appearance on promenade might be seen
and admired. Furs, laces, and jewelry are in a glass
case, but the 'four thousand dollars in gold' point
outfit is kept in a paste-board box, and only shown
on special request.
"The feeling of the majority of visitors is adverse
to the course Mrs. Lincoln has thought proper to
pursue, and the criticisms are as severe as the
cavillings are persistent at the quality of some of the
dresses. These latter are labelled at Mrs. Lincoln's
own estimate, and prices range from $25 to $75--
about 50 per cent. less than
cost. Some of them, if not worn long, have been worn
much; they are jagged under the arms and at the
bottom of the skirt, stains are on the lining, and other
objections present themselves to those who oscillate
between the dresses and dollars, 'notwithstanding
they have been worn by Madam Lincoln,' as a lady
who looked from behind a pair of gold spectacles
remarked. Other dresses, however, have scarcely been
worn --one, perhaps, while Mrs. Lincoln sat for her
picture, and from one the basting threads had not yet
been removed. The general testimony is that the
wearing apparel is high-priced, and some of the
examiners say that the cost-figures must have been
put on by the dress-makers; or, if such was not the
case, that gold was 250 when they were purchased,
and is now but 140--so that a dress for which $150 was
paid at the rate of high figures cannot be called cheap
at half that sum, after it has been worn considerable,
and perhaps passed out of fashion. The peculiarity of
the dresses is that the most of them are cut low-necked--a taste which some ladies attribute to Mrs. Lincoln's
appreciation of her own bust.
"On Saturday last an offer was made for all the
dresses. The figure named was less than the
aggregate estimate placed on them. Mr. Brady,
however, having no discretionary power, he declined
to close the bargain, but notified Mrs. Lincoln by mail.
Of course, as yet, no reply has been received. Mrs. L.
desires that the auction should be deferred till the 31st
of the present month, and efforts made to dispose of
the articles at private sale up to that time.
"A Mrs. C--called on Mr. Brady this morning, and
examined minutely each shawl. Before leaving the lady
said that, at the time when there was a hesitancy
about the President issuing the Emancipation
Proclamation, she sent to Mrs. Lincoln an
ashes-of-rose shawl, which was manufactured in
China, forwarded to France, and thence to Mrs. C--,
in New York. The
shawl, the lady remarked, was a very handsome
one, and should it come into the hands of Mr.
Brady to be sold, would like to be made aware
of the fact, so as to obtain possession again. Mr.
Brady promised to acquaint the ashes-of-rose
donor, if the prized article should be among
the two trunks of goods now on the way from
Chicago."
So many erroneous reports were circulated, that I
made a correct statement to one of the editors of the
New York Evening News. The article based upon
the memoranda furnished by me appeared in the
News of Oct. 12, 1867. I reproduce a portion of it in
this connection:
"Mrs. Lincoln feels sorely aggrieved at many of the
harsh criticisms that have been passed upon her for
travelling incognito. She claims that she adopted this
course from motives of delicacy, desiring to avoid
publicity. While here, she spoke to but two former
acquaintances, and these two gentlemen whom she
met on Broadway.
Hundreds passed her who had courted her good
graces when she reigned supreme at the White
House, but there was no recognition. It was not
because she had changed much in personal
appearance, but was merely owing to the heavy crape
veil that hid her features from view.
"She seeks to defend her course while in this city--and with much force, too. Adverting to the fact that
the Empress of France frequently disposes of her
cast-off wardrobe, and publicly too, without being
subjected to any unkind remarks regarding its
propriety, she claims the same immunity here as is
accorded in Paris to Eugenie. As regards her
obscurity while in this city, she says that foreigners of
note and position frequently come to our stores, and
under assumed names travel from point to point
throughout our vast domain, to avoid recognition and
the inconveniences resulting from being known,
though it even be in the form of honors. For herself
she regards quiet preferable to ostentatious show,
which would have cost her much indirectly, if not
directly; and this she felt herself unable to bear,
according to the measure of her present state of
finances.
"In a recent letter to her bosom friend, Mrs.
Elizabeth Keckley, Mrs. Lincoln pathetically remarks,
'Elizabeth, if evil come from this, pray for my
deliverance, as I did it for the best.' This referred to her
action in placing her personal effects before the public
for sale, and to the harsh remarks that have been made
thereon by some whom she had formerly regarded as
her friends.
"As to the articles which belonged to Mr. Lincoln,
they can all be accounted for in a manner satisfactory
even to an over-critical public. During the time Mr.
Lincoln was in office he was the recipient of several
canes. After his death one was given to the Hon.
Charles Sumner; another to Fred. Douglass; another
to the Rev. H. H. Garnet of this city, and another to
Mr. Wm. Slade, the present steward of the White
House,
who, in Mr. Lincoln's lifetime, was his messenger. This
gentleman also received some of Mr. Lincoln's
apparel, among which was his heavy gray shawl.
Several other of the messengers employed about the
White House came in for a share of the deceased
President's effects.
"The shepherd plaid shawl which Mr. Lincoln wore
during the milder weather, and which was rendered
somewhat memorable as forming part of his famous
disguise, together with the Scotch cap, when he
wended his way secretly to the Capitol to be
inaugurated as President, was given to Dr. Abbot, of
Canada, who had been one of his warmest friends.
During the war this gentleman, as a surgeon in the
United States army, was in Washington in charge of a
hospital, and thus became acquainted with the head of
the nation.
"His watch, his penknife, his gold pencil, and his
glasses are now in possession of his son Robert.
Nearly all else than these few things have passed
out of the family, as Mrs. Lincoln did not wish to
retain them. But all were freely given away, and not an
article was parted with for money.
"The Rev. Dr. Gurley of Washington was the
spiritual adviser of the President and his family. They
attended his church. When little 'Willie' died, he
officiated at the funeral. He was a most intimate friend
of the family, and when Mr. Lincoln lay upon his
death-bed Mr. Gurley was by his side. He, as his
clergyman, performed the funeral rites upon the body
of the deceased President, when it lay cold in death at
the City of Washington. He received the hat worn last
by Mr. Lincoln, as we have before stated, and it is
still retained by him.
"The dress that was worn by Mrs. Lincoln on the
night of the assassination was presented to Mrs.
Wm. Slade. It is a black silk with a little white stripe.
Most of the other articles that adorned Mrs. Lincoln
on that fatal night became the property of Mrs.
Keckley. She has the most
of them carefully stowed away, and intends keeping
them during her life as mementos of a mournful event.
The principal articles among these are the earrings,
the bonnet, and the velvet cloak. The writer of this
saw the latter on Thursday. It bears most palpable
marks of the assassination, being completely
bespattered with blood, that has dried upon its
surface, and which can never be removed.
"A few words as regard the disposition and habits
of Mrs. Lincoln. She is no longer the sprightly body
she was when her very presence illumed the White
House with gayety. Now she is sad and sedate,
seeking seclusion, and maintaining communication
merely with her most intimate personal friends. The
most of her time she devotes to instructive reading
within the walls of her boudoir. Laying her book aside
spasmodically, she places her hand upon her
forehead, as if ruminating upon something
momentous. Then her hand wanders amid her
heavy tresses, while she ponders for but a few
seconds--then, by a sudden start, she approaches her
writing-stand, seizes a pen, and indites a few hasty
lines to some trusty friend, upon the troubles that
weigh so heavily upon her. Speedily it is sent to the
post-office; but, hardly has the mail departed from the
city before she regrets her hasty letter, and would give
much to recall it. But, too late, it is gone, and probably
the secrets it contains are not confidentially kept by
the party to whom it was addressed, and soon it
furnishes inexhaustible material for gossip-loving
people.
"As some citizens have expressed themselves
desirous of aiding Mrs. Lincoln, a subscription-book
was opened at the office of her agent, Mr. Brady, No.
609 Broadway, this morning. There is no limitation as
to the amount which may be given, though there was
a proposition that a dollar should be contributed by
each person who came forward to inspect the goods.
Had each person
who handled these articles given this sum, a
handsome amount would already have been realized.
"The colored people are moving in this matter.
They intend to take up collections in their churches
for the benefit of Mrs. Lincoln. They are enthusiastic,
and a trifle from every African in this city would, in the
aggregate, swell into an immense sum, which would be
doubly acceptable to Mrs. Lincoln. It would satisfy
her that the black people still have the memory of her
deceased husband fresh in their minds.
"The goods still remain exposed to sale, but it is
now announced that they will be sold at public
auction on the 30th of this month, unless they be
disposed of before that at private sale."
It is stated in the article that the "colored people
are moving in this matter." The colored people were
surprised to hear of Mrs. Lincoln's poverty, and the
news of her distress called forth
strong sympathy from their warm, generous hearts.
Rev. H. H. Garnet, of New York City, and Mr. Frederick
Douglass, of Rochester, N. Y., proposed to lecture in
behalf of the widow of the lamented President, and
schemes were on foot to raise a large sum of
money by contribution. The colored people
recognized Abraham Lincoln as their great friend, and
they were anxious to show their kind interest in the
welfare of his family in some way more earnest and
substantial than simple words. I wrote Mrs. Lincoln
what we proposed to do, and she promptly replied,
declining to receive aid from the colored people. I
showed her letter to Mr. Garnet and Mr. Douglass,
and the whole project was at once abandoned. She
afterwards consented to receive contributions from
my people, but as the services of Messrs. Douglass,
Garnet, and others had been refused when
first offered, they declined to take an active
part in the scheme; so nothing was ever done.
The following letters were written before Mrs.
Lincoln declined to receive aid from the colored
people:
"183 BLEECKER ST., NEW YORK, October 16th, 1867.
"J. H. BRADY, ESQ.:--
"I have just received your favor, together with the
circulars. I will do all that lies in my power, but I fear
that will not be as much as you anticipate. I think,
however, that a contribution from the colored people
of New York will be worth something in a moral point
of view, and likely that will be the most that will be
accomplished in the undertaking. I am thoroughly with
you in the work, although but little may be done.
"I am truly yours,
"HENRY HIGHLAND GARNET.
"P. S.--I think it would be well if you would drop a line
to Mr. Frederick Douglass, at Rochester, New York.
MY DEAR MRS. KECKLEY:--You judge me
rightly--I am willing to do what I can to place the
widow of our martyr President in the affluent position
which her relation to that good man and to the
country entitles her to. But I doubt the wisdom of
getting up a series of lectures for that purpose; that is
just the last thing that should be done. Still, if the
thing is done, it should be done on a grand scale. The
best speakers in the country should be secured for
the purpose. You should not place me at the head nor
at the foot of the list, but sandwich me between, for
thus out of the way, it would not give color to the
idea. I am to speak in Newark on Wednesday evening
next, and will endeavor to see you on the subject. Of
course, if it would not be too much to ask, I would
gladly see Mrs. Lincoln, if this could be done in a
quiet way without the reporters getting hold of it, and
using it in some way to the prejudice of that already
much abused lady. As I
shall see you soon, there is less reason to write you
at length.
"I am, dear madam,
"With high respect,
"Very truly yours,
"FREDERICK DOUGLASS."
POTTSVILLE, Oct. 29, 1867.
MY DEAR MRS.
KECKLEY:--You know the drift
of my views concerning the subscription for Mrs.
Lincoln. Yet I wish to place them more distinctly
before you, so that, if you have occasion to refer to
me in connection with the matter, you can do so with
accuracy and certainty.
"It is due Mrs. Lincoln that she should be
indemnified, as far as money can do so, for the loss of
her beloved husband. Honor, gratitude, and a manly
sympathy, all say yes to this. I am willing to go
farther than this, and say that Mrs. Lincoln herself
should be the judge of the amount which shall be
deemed sufficient, believing that
she would not transcend reasonable limits. The
obligation resting on the nation at large is great and
increasing, but especially does it become colored men
to recognize that obligation. It was the hand of
Abraham Lincoln that broke the fetters of our enslaved
people, and let them out of the house of bondage.
When he was slain, our great benefactor fell, and left
his wife and children to the care of those for whom he
gave up all. Shame on the manor woman who, under
such circumstances, would grudge a few paltry dollars,
to smooth the pathway of such a widow! All this, and
more, I feel and believe. But such is the condition of
this question, owing to party feeling, and personal
animosities now mixed up with it, that we are
compelled to consider these in the effort we are making
to obtain subscriptions.
"Now, about the meeting in Cooper Institute; I hold
that that meeting should only be held in concert with
other movements. It is bad generalship
to put into the field only a fraction of your army
when you have no means to prevent their being cut to
pieces. It is gallant to go forth single-handed, but is it
wise? I want to see something more than the spiteful
Herald behind me when I step forward in this cause
at the Cooper Institute. Let Mr. Brady out with his
circulars, with his list of commanding names, let the
Herald and Tribune give a united blast upon their
bugles, let the city be placarded, and the doors of
Cooper Institute be flung wide open, and the people,
without regard to party, come up to the discharge of
this national duty.
"Don't let the cause be made ridiculous by failure
at the outset. Mr. Garnet and I could bear any
mortification of this kind; but the cause could not.
And our cause must not be damaged by any such
generalship, which would place us in the van
unsupported.
"I shall be at home by Saturday; please write me
and let me know how matters are proceeding.
"MY DEAR MRS. KECKLEY:--It is just possible
that I may not take New York in my route homeward.
In that case please write me directly at Rochester, and
let me know fully how the subscription business is
proceeding. The meeting here last night was a grand
success. I speak again this evening, and perhaps at
Reading tomorrow evening. My kind regards to all
who think of me at 21, including Mrs. Lawrence.
"Very truly yours,
"FREDK. DOUGLASS."
ROCHESTER, Nov. 10, 1867.
"MY DEAR MRS. KECKLEY:--I very easily read
your handwriting. With practice you will not
only write legibly but elegantly; so no more apologies
for bad writing. Penmanship has always been one of
my own deficiencies, and I know how to sympathize
with you.
"I am just home, and find your letter awaiting me.
You should have received an earlier answer but for
this absence. I am sorry it will be impossible for me to
see you before I go to Washington. I am leaving home
this week for Ohio, and shall go from Ohio to
Washington. I shall be in New York a day or two after
my visit to Washington, and will see you there. Any
public demonstration in which it will be desirable for
me to take part, ought to come off the last of this
month or the first of next. I thank you sincerely for the
note containing a published letter of dear Mrs. Lincoln;
both letters do credit to the excellent lady. I prize her
beautiful letter to me very highly. It is the letter of a
refined and spirited lady, let the world say what it will
of her. I would write her a word of acknowledgment
but
for fear to burden her with correspondence. I am glad
that Mr. Garnet and yourself saw Mr. Greeley, and
that he takes the right view of the matter; but we want
more than right views, and delay is death to the
movement. What you now want is action and
co-operation. If Mr. Brady does not for any reason find
himself able to move the machinery, somebody else
should be found to take his place; he made a good
impression on me when I saw him, but I have not
seen the promised simultaneous movement of which
we spoke when together. This whole thing should be
in the hands of some recognized solid man in New
York. No man would be better than Mr. Greeley; no
man in the State is more laughed at, and yet no man is
more respected and trusted; a dollar placed in his
hands would be as safe for the purpose as in a
burglar-proof safe, and what is better still, everybody
believes this. This testimonial must be more than a negro
testimonial. It is a great national duty. Mr. Lincoln did
everything for the black man, but he did it not for the
black man's sake, but for the nation's sake. His life was
given for the nation; but for being President, Mr.
Lincoln would have been alive, and Mrs. Lincoln
would have been a wife, and not a widow as now. Do
all you can, dear Mrs. Keckley--nobody can do more
than you in removing the mountains of prejudice
towards that good lady, and opening the way of
success in the plan.
"I am, dear madam, very truly yours,
"FREDERICK DOUGLASS."
Many persons called at 609 Broadway to examine
Mrs. Lincoln's wardrobe, but as curiosity prompted
each visit, but few articles were sold. Messrs. Brady
& Keyes were not very energetic, and, as will be seen
by the letters of Mrs. Lincoln, published in the
Appendix, that lady ultimately lost all confidence in
them. It was proposed to send circulars, stating Mrs.
Lincoln's
wants, and appealing to the generosity of the people
for aid, broad-cast over the country; but the scheme
failed. Messrs. Brady & Keyes were unable to obtain
the names of prominent men, whom the people had
confidence in, for the circular, to give character and
responsibility to the movement--so the whole thing
was abandoned. With the Rev. Mr. Garnet, I called on
Mr. Greeley, at the office of the Tribune, in
connection with this scheme. Mr. Greeley received us
kindly, and listened patiently to our proposals--then
said:
"I shall take pleasure in rendering you what
assistance I can, but the movement must be
engineered by responsible parties. Messrs. Brady &
Keyes are not the men to be at the head of it.
Nobody knows who they are, or what they are. Place
the matter in the hands of those that the people know
and have some confidence in, and then there will be a
chance for success."
believed it to be good advice, and bowed ourselves
out of his room. When Messrs. Brady & Keyes were
informed of the result of our interview, they became
very much excited, and denounced Mr. Greeley as "an
old fool." This put an end to the circular movement.
The enterprise was nipped in the bud, and with the
bud withered Mrs. Lincoln's last hope for success. A
portion of the wardrobe was then taken to Providence,
to be exhibited, but without her consent. Mr. Brady
remarked that the exhibition would bring in money,
and as money must be raised, this was the last resort.
He was of the impression that Mrs. Lincoln would
approve of any movement, so it ended in success.
This, at least, is a charitable view to take of the
subject. Had the exhibition succeeded in Providence, it
is my opinion that the agents of Brady & Keyes would
now be travelling over the country, exposing Mrs.
Lincoln's wardrobe to the view of the curious, at so
much per head. As is well known, the city
authorities refused to allow the exhibition to take
place in Providence; therefore Mr. Brady returned
to New York with the goods, and the travelling
show scheme, like the circular scheme, was
abandoned. Weeks lengthened into months, and
at Mrs. Lincoln's urgent request I remained in
New York, to look after her interests. When
she left the city I engaged quiet lodgings in a
private family, where I remained about two
months, when I moved to 14 Carroll Place, and
became one of the regular boarders of the house.
Mrs. Lincoln's venture proved so disastrous that
she was unable to reward me for my services, and
I was compelled to take in sewing to pay for my
daily bread. My New York expedition has made
me richer in experience, but poorer in purse.
During the entire winter I have worked early
and late, and practised the closest economy.
Mrs. Lincoln's business demanded much of my
time, and it was a constant source of trouble to
me. When Mrs. L. left for the West, I expected
to be able to return to Washington in one week from
the day; but unforeseen difficulties arose, and I have
been detained in the city for several months. As I am
writing the concluding pages of this book, I have
succeeded in closing up Mrs. Lincoln's imprudent
business arrangement at 609 Broadway. The firm of
Brady & Keyes is dissolved, and Mr. Keyes has
adjusted the account. The story is told in a few
words. On the 4th of March I received the following
invoice from Mr. Keyes:
"March 4, '68.
"Invoice of articles sent to Mrs. A. Lincoln:
downs, but still am stout of heart. The labor of a
lifetime has brought me nothing in a pecuniary way. I
have worked hard, but fortune, fickle dame, has not
smiled upon me. If poverty did not weigh me down as
it does, I would not now be toiling by day with my
needle, and writing by night, in the plain little room on
the fourth floor of No. 14 Carroll Place. And yet I have
learned to love the garret-like room. Here, with Mrs.
Amelia Lancaster as my only companion, I have
spent many pleasant hours, as well as sad ones, and
every chair looks like an old friend. In memory I have
travelled through the shadows and the sunshine of
the past, and the bare walls are associated with the
visions that have come to me from the long-ago. As I
love the children of memory, so I love every article in
this room, for each has become a part of memory itself.
Though poor in worldly goods, I am rich in
friendships, and friends are a recompense for all the
woes of the darkest pages of life. For
"MY DEAR LIZZIE:--I am writing this morning with a
broken heart after a sleepless night of great mental
suffering. R. came up last evening like a maniac, and
almost threatening his life, looking like death, because
the letters of the World were published in yesterday's
paper. I could not refrain from weeping when I saw
him so miserable. But yet, my dear good Lizzie, was it
not to protect myself and help others--and was not my
motive and action of the purest kind?
Pray for me that this cup of affliction may pass
from me, or be sanctified to me. I weep whilst
I am writing. * * * * I pray for death this
morning. Only my darling Taddie prevents my
taking my life. I shall have to endure a round of
newspaper abuse from the Republicans because
I dared venture to relieve a few of my wants.
Tell Mr. Brady and Keyes not to have a line of
mine once more in print. I am nearly losing my
reason.
"Your friend,
"M. L."
"CHICAGO, Oct. 8.
"MY DEAR LIZZIE:--Bowed down with suffering
and anguish, again I write you. As we might have
expected, the Republicans are falsifying me, and
doing just as they did when they prevented the
Congressional appropriation. Mrs.--knows
something about these same people. As her husband
is living they dare not utter all
they would desire to speak. You know yourself
how innocently I have acted, and from the best
and purest motives. They will howl on to
prevent my disposing of my things. What a vile,
vile set they are! The Tribune here, Mr. White's
paper, wrote a very beautiful editorial yesterday
in my behalf; yet knowing that I have been
deprived of my rights by the party, I suppose
I would be mobbed if I ventured out. What
a world of anguish this is--and how I have been
made to suffer! * * * You would not
recognize me now. The glass shows me a pale,
wretched, haggard face, and my dresses are
like bags on me. And all because I was doing
what I felt to be my duty. Our minister, Mr. Swazey,
called on me yesterday and said I had done perfectly
right. Mrs. F--says every one speaks in the same
way. The politicians, knowing they have deprived me
of my just rights, would prefer to see me starve, rather
than dispose of my things. They will prevent the
sale of anything, so I have telegraphed for them.
I hope you have received from B. the letters
I have consigned to his care. See to this. Show
none of them. Write me every day.
"M. L."
"CHICAGO, Wednesday, October 9th.
"MY DEAR LIZZIE:--It appears as if the fiends had let
loose, for the Republican papers are tearing me to
pieces in this border ruffian West. If I had committed
murder in every city in this blessed Union, I could not
be more traduced. And you know how innocent I have
been of the intention of doing wrong. A piece in the
morning Tribune, signed 'B,' pretending to be a lady,
says there is no doubt Mrs. L.--is deranged--has been
for years past, and will end her life in a lunatic asylum.
They would doubtless like me to begin it now. Mr. S.,
a very kind, sympathizing minister, has been with me
this morning, and has now gone to see Mr. Medill,
of the Tribune, to know if
he sanctioned his paper
publishing such an article. * * * Pray
for me, dear Lizzie, for I am very miserable and
broken-hearted. Since writing this, I have just
received a letter from Mr. Keyes, begging and
pleading with me to allow them to use my name
for donations. I think I will consent. * *
"Truly yours,
M. L."
"CHICAGO, Sunday, Oct. 13.
"MY DEAR LIZZIE:--I am greatly disappointed,
having only received one letter from you since we
parted, which was dated the day after. Day after day I
sent to Mrs. F. for letters. After your promise of
writing to me every other day, I can scarcely
understand it. I hope to-morrow will bring me a letter
from you. How much I miss you cannot be expressed.
I hope you have arrived safely in Washington, and
will tell me everything. * * * Was there ever such
cruel newspaper abuse lavished upon an un-offending
woman as has been showered upon my devoted
head? The people of this ungrateful country are like
the 'dogs in the manger;' will neither do anything
themselves, nor allow me to improve my own
condition. What a Government we have! All their
abuse lavished upon me only lowers themselves in
the estimation of all true-hearted people. The
Springfield Journal had an editorial a few days since,
with the important information that Mrs. Lincoln had
been known to be deranged for years, and should be
pitied for all her strange acts. I should have been
all right if I had allowed them to take possession of
the White House. In the comfortable stealings by
contracts from the Government, these low creatures
are allowed to hurl their malicious wrath at me, with
no one to defend me or protect me, if I should starve.
These people injure themselves far more than they
could do me, by their lies and villany. Their aim is to
prevent my goods being sold, or
anything being done for me. In this, I very
much fear, they have succeeded.
"Write me, my dear friend, your candid opinion
about everything. I wished to be made better
off, quite as much to improve your condition as
well as for myself. * * * Two weeks
ago, dear Lizzie, we were in that den of discomfort
and dirt. Now we are far asunder. Every other day,
for the past week, I have had a chill, brought on by
excitement and suffering of mind. In the midst of it
I have moved into my winter quarters, and am now
very comfortably situated. My parlor and bedroom
are very sweetly furnished. I am lodged in a
handsome house, a very kind, good, quiet family,
and their meals are excellent. I consider myself
fortunate in all this. I feel assured that the Republicans,
who, to cover up their own perfidy and neglect, have
used every villanous falsehood in their power to injure
me--I fear they have more than succeeded, but if their
day of reckoning does not come in this world, it
will surely in the next. * * * *
"Saturday.--I have determined to shed no
more tears over all their cruel falsehoods, yet, just
now, I feel almost forsaken by God and man--
except by the latter to be vilified. Write me all that
Keyes and Brady think of the result. For myself,
after such abuse, I expect nothing. Oh! that I could
see you. Write me, dear Lizzie, if only a line; I
cannot understand your silence. Here-after direct
your letters to Mrs. A. Lincoln, 460 West Washington
street, Chicago, Ill., care of D. Cole. Remember
460. I am always so anxious to hear from you, I
am feeling so friendless in the world. I remain always
your affectionate friend.
M. L."
POSTSCRIPT TO LETTER OF OCT. 24.
"I cannot send this letter off without writing you
two little incidents that have occurred within the past
week. We may call it justice rendered for evil words,
to say the least. There is a paper published in Chicago
called the Republican,
owned and published by Springfield men. Each
morning since my return it has been thrown at my
door, filled with abuse of myself. Four days ago a
piece appeared in it, asking 'What right had Mrs. L. to
diamonds and laces?' Yesterday morning an article
appeared in the same paper, announcing that the day
previous, at the house of Mr. Bunn (the owner of the
paper), in Springfield, Illinois--the house had been
entered at 11 in the morning, by burglars, and had been
robbed of five diamond rings, and a quantity of fine
laces. This morning's paper announces the recovery of
these articles. Mr. Bunn, who made his hundreds of
thousands off our government, is running this paper,
and denouncing the wife of the man from whom he
obtained his means. I enclose you the article about the
recovery of the goods. A few years ago he had a small
grocery in S----. These facts can be authenticated.
Another case in point: The evening I left my house to
come here, the young daughter of one of my neighbors
in the same block, was in a house not a square off,
and in a childish manner was regretting that I
could not retain my house. The man in the
house said: 'Why waste your tears and regrets
on Mrs. Lincoln?' An hour afterward the husband
and wife went out to make a call, doubtless to gossip
about me; on their return they found their young boy
had almost blinded himself with gunpowder. Who
will say that the cry of the 'widow and fatherless' is
disregarded in His sight! If man is not merciful, God
will be in his own time.
M. L."
CHICAGO, October 29.
"MY DEAR LIZZIE:--I received a very pleasant
note from Mr. F. Douglass on yesterday. I will reply to
it this morning, and enclose it to you to hand or send
him immediately. In this morning's Tribune there was
a little article evidently designed to make capital
against me just now--that three of my
brothers were in the Southern army during the war. If
they had been friendly with me they might have said
they were half brothers of Mrs. L., whom she had not
known since they were infants; and as she left
Kentucky at an early age her sympathies were entirely
Republican--that her feelings were entirely with the
North during the war, and always. I never failed to urge
my husband to be an extreme Republican, and now, in
the day of my trouble, you see how this very party is
trying to work against me. Tell Mr. Douglass, and every
one, how deeply my feelings were enlisted in the
cause of freedom. Why harp upon these half brothers,
whom I never knew since they were infants, and
scarcely then, for my early home was truly at a
boarding school. Write to him all this, and talk it to
every one else. If we succeed I will soon send you
enough for a very large supply of trimming material for
the winter.
MY DEAR LIZZIE:--Your letter of last Wednesday is
received, and I cannot refrain from expressing my
surprise that before now K. and B. did not go out in
search of names, and have sent forth all those
circulars. Their conduct is becoming mysterious. We
have heard enough of their talk--it is time now they
should be acting. Their delay, I fear, has ruined the
business. The circulars should all have been out
before the election. I cannot understand their
slowness. As Mr. Greeley's home is in New York, he
could certainly have been found had he been sought;
and there are plenty of other good men in New York, as
well as himself. I venture to say, that before the
election not a circular will be sent out. I begin to think
they are making a political business of my clothes, and
not for my benefit either. Their delay in acting is
becoming very suspicious. Their slow, bad
management is ruining every prospect of success. I
fear you are only losing
your time in New York, and that I shall be left
in debt for what I am owing the firm. I have
written to K. and B., and they do nothing that I
request. I want neither Mr. Douglass nor
Garnet to lecture in my behalf. The conduct in
New York is disgusting me with the whole
business. I cannot understand what they have been
about. Their delay has only given the enemies
time to gather strength; what does it all mean?
Of course give the lady at 609 permission to sell
the dresses cheaper. * * * I am feeling
wretchedly over the slowness and do-nothing
style of B. & K. I believe in my heart I am
being used as a tool for party purposes; and they
do not design sending out a circular. * * *
"Your friend,
M. L."
CHICAGO, Nov. 9, 1867.
MY DEAR LIZZIE:--* * * Did you receive
a letter a few days since, with one enclosed for F.
Douglass? also a printed letter of mine, which I
wished him to read? Do write me every other day at
least, I am so nervous and miserable. And Lizzie,
dear, I fear we have not the least chance of success.
Do remain in New York a little longer, and occupy
yourself with the sewing of your friends. Then I shall
be able to learn something about my business. In
your heart you know there will be no success. Why
do you not candidly express yourself to me? Write
me, if only a few lines, and that very frequently. R.
called up on yesterday, with Judge Davis. * * *
R. goes with Judge D. on Tuesday, to
settle the estate, which will give us each about
$25,000, with the income I told you of, $1,700 a year
for each of us. You made a mistake about my house
costing $2,700--it was $1,700. The $22,000 Congress
gave me I spent for house and furniture, which, owing
to the smallness of my income, I was obliged to leave.
I mention about the division of the estate to you, dear
Lizzie, because when it is done the papers will harp upon
it. You can explain everything in New York; please do
so to every one. Please see H. G., if it should come out
in the papers. I had hoped, if something was gained,
to have immediately placed you in more pleasant
circumstances. Do urge F. D. to add his name to the
circular; also get them to have Beecher's. There must
not be an hour's delay in this. R. is very spiteful at
present, and I think hurries up the division to
cross my purposes. He mentioned yesterday
that he was going to the Rocky Mountains so
soon as Edgar Welles joined him. He is very
deep. * * * Write me, do, when you
receive this. Your silence pains me.
"Truly yours,
"M. L."
"CHICAGO,
NOV. 9.
"MY DEAR LIZZIE:--I closed and sent off my letter
before I had finished all I had to say. Do not hint to K.
or B., or any one else my doubts of
them, only watch them. As to S. so many falsehoods
are told in the papers that all the stuff about his wife
and himself may be untrue. I hope it may prove so. I
received a letter from Keyes this morning. I believe I
wrote you that I had. How hard it is that I cannot see
and talk with you in this time of great, great trouble. I
feel as if I had not a friend in the world save yourself.
* * I sometimes wish myself out of this world of sorrow
and care. I fear my fine articles at B.'s are getting pulled
to pieces and soiled. I do not wish you to leave N. Y.
without having the finest articles packed up and returned
to me. The single white camel's hair shawl and
the two Paisleys I wish returned to me, if none of them
are sold. Do you think there is the least chance of their
being sold? I will give you a list of the articles I wish
returned to me from Mr. Brady's before you leave New
York for Washington.
"1 Camel's hair shawl, double black centre.
Page 348
1 Camel's hair shawl, double white centre.
1 Single white camel's hair shawl.
2 Paisley shawls--white.
1 Pair bracelets and diamond ring.
1 Fine lace handkerchief.
3 Black lace shawls.
2 Black lama shawls.
1 Dress, silk unmade, white and black.
1 White boa.
1 Russian sable boa.
1 Russian sable cape.
1 A. sable cape, cuffs and muff.
1 Chinchilla set.
"The lace dress, flounce, and shawl, if there is
no possibility of their being sold. Also all other
fine articles return me, save the dresses which,
with prices lowered, may be sold. * *
received, and believe me, I duly appreciate your great
interest in my affairs. I hope the day may arrive when
I can return your kindness in more than words. As
you are aware of my beloved husband's great
indulgence to me in pecuniary matters, thereby
allowing me to indulge in bestowing favors on those
whom I considered worthy of it, it is in this respect I
feel chiefly the humiliation of my small circumscribed
income. If Congress, or the Nation, had given me the
four years' salary, I should have been able to live as
the widow of the great President Lincoln should, with
sufficient means to give liberally to all benevolent
objects, and at my death should have left at least half
of it to the freedmen, for the liberty of whom his
precious sacred life was sacrificed. The men who
prevented this being done by their villanous
unscrupulous falsehoods, are no friends of the colored
race, and, as you well know, have led Johnson on in
his wicked course.
come to all such, if not in this world, in the great
hereafter, to which those hoary-headed sinners are so
rapidly hastening, with an innocent conscience. I did
not feel it necessary to raise my weak woman's voice
against the persecutions that have assailed me
emanating from the tongues of such men as Weed &
Co. I have felt that their infamous false lives was a
sufficient vindication of my character. They have
never forgiven me for standing between my pure and
noble husband and themselves, when, for their own
vile purposes, they would have led him into error. All
this the country knows, and why should I dwell longer
on it? In the blissful home where my worshipped
husband dwells God is ever merciful, and it is the
consolation of my broken heart that my darling
husband is ever retaining the devoted love which he
always so abundantly manifested for his wife and
children in this life. I feel assured his watchful, loving
eyes are always watching over us, and he is fully
aware of the wrong
and injustice permitted his family by a country he lost
his life in protecting. I write earnestly,
because I feel very deeply. It appears to me a very
remarkable coincidence, that most of the good feeling
regarding my straitened circumstances proceeds from
the colored people, in whose cause my noble
husband was so largely interested. Whether we are
successful or not, Mr. F. Douglass and Mr. Garnet will
always have my most grateful thanks. They are very
noble men. If any favorable results should crown their
efforts, you may well believe at my death, whatever
sum it may be, will be bequeathed to the colored
people, who are very near my heart. In yesterday's
paper it was announced that Gov. Andrew's family
were having $100,000 contributed to them. Gov. A.
was a good man, but what did he do compared to
President Lincoln? Right and left the latter gave, when
he had but little to bestow, and in consequence his
family are now feeling it; yet for my life I would not
recall a dollar he ever gave. Yet his favorite expression,
when I have playfully alluded to the 'rainy day' that
might be in store for himself and his own on several
occasions, he has looked at me so earnestly and
replied, 'Cast your bread upon the waters.' Although
the petty sum of $22,000 was an insufficient return for
Congress to make me, and allowanced to its
meagreness by men who traduced and vilified the
loved wife of the great man who made them, and from
whom they amassed great fortunes--for Weed, and
Seward, and R. did this last. And yet, all this was
permitted by an American people, who owed their
remaining a nation to my husband! I have dwelt too
long on this painful subject, but when I have been
compelled from a pitiful income to make a
boarding-house of my home, as I now am doing,
think you that it does not rankle in my heart?
"Fortunately, with my husband's great, great love
for me--the knowledge of this future for his
petted and idolized wife was spared him, and yet I feel
in my heart he knows it all. Mr. Sumner, the intimate
friend of better days, called to see me two or three
weeks since--he who had been an habitué of the White
House--both the rooms of the President and my own
reception-room, in either place he was always sure of
a heartfelt welcome; my present situation must have
struck a painful chord in his noble, sympathizing
heart. And yet, when I endeavored to ameliorate my
condition, the cry has been so fearful against me as to
cause me to forget my own identity, and suppose I
had plundered the nation, indeed, and committed
murder. This, certainly, cannot be America, 'the land
of the free,' the 'home of the brave.' The evening
before Mr. Sumner's last call I had received Mr.
Douglass's letter; I mentioned the circumstance to Mr.
Sumner, who replied: 'Mr. Frederick Douglass is a very
noble, talented man, and I know of no one who writes
a more beautiful letter.' I am sending you a long letter,
Lizzie, but I rely a great deal on your indulgence. My
fear is that you will not be able to decipher the scrawl
written so hastily.
"I remain, truly yours,
"MARY LINCOLN."
"CHICAGO, Nov. 17.
MY DEAR LIZZIE:--By the time you receive this
note, you will doubtless find the papers raving over
the large income which we are each said to have.
Knowing exactly the amount we each will have, which
I have already informed you, I was going to say, I
have been shocked at the fabulous sum set down to
each, but I have learned not to be surprised at
anything. Of course it is gotten up to defeat success.
You will now see the necessity for those circulars
being issued weeks since. I enclose you a scrap from
yesterday's Times of C., marked No. 1; also No. 2,
to-day's Times. The sum of $11,000 has been subtracted
in twenty-four hours from the same
paper. If it continues for a few days longer, it will soon
be right. It is a secesh paper--says Congress gave me
$25,000 as a present, besides $20,000 of remaining
salary. The $25,000 you know to be utterly false. You
can show this note to B. & K., also the scraps sent.
Let no one see them but themselves, and then burn
them. It is all just as I expected--that when the division
took place, a 'mountain would be made of a mole-hill.'
And I fear it will succeed in injuring the premeditated
plans. If the war rages, the Evening News might
simply say that the sum assigned each was false, that
$75,000 was the sum the administrator, Judge Davis,
filed his bonds for. But by all means my authority
must not be given. And then the Evening News can
descant on the $25,000 each, with income of $1,700
each, and Mrs. Lincoln's share, she not being able to
touch any of her sons' portion. My word or testimony
must not appear in the article; only the paper must
speak
decidedly. It must be managed very judiciously, and
without a day's delay.
Yours truly,
"M. L."
Nov 17--(Private for yourself).
LIZZIE:--Show the note enclosed with this to B. &
K.; do not let them retain it an instant after reading,
nor the printed articles. I knew these falsehoods
would be circulated when the estate was divided.
What has been the cause of the delay about the
circulars? I fear, between ourselves, we have reason
to distrust those men, ----. Whatever is raised by the
colored people, I solemnly give my word, at my death
it shall all, every cent, be returned to them. And out of
the sum, if it is $50,000, you
shall have $5,000 at my
death; and I cannot live long, suffering as I am now
doing. If $25,000 is raised by your people, you shall
have the sum at my death; and in either event, the
$25,000 raised, or $50,000, I will give you $300
a year, and the promised sum at my death. It
will make your life easier. I have more faith in
F. D.'s and G.'s efforts, than in B. & K., I assure
you. This division has been trumped up just
now through spite. * * I have written to
Judge Davis for an exact statement, which I
will send to you when received. Write if any
thing is doing. * * *
Truly,
"M. L."
CHICAGO, November 21.
"MY DEAR LIZZIE:--Your letter of Tuesday is just
received. I have just written B. a note of thanks for his
kindness; also requesting the articles of which I gave
you a list. Do see Keyes about it; K. will have it done.
And will you see that they are forwarded to me
before you leave New York? K. sent me a telegram on
yesterday that eight names were on the circulars, and
that
they would be sent out immediately. What success do
you think they will have? By all means assure K. & B.
I have great confidence in them. These circulars must
bring some money. Your letter made me quite sad.
Talk to K. & B. of the grateful feelings I express towards
them. Do pet up B., and see my things returned to me.
Can you not, dear Lizzie, be employed in sewing for some
of your lady friends in New York until December 1st? If I
ever get any money you will be well remembered, be
assured. R. and a party of young men leave for the
Rocky Mountains next Monday, to be absent three
weeks. If the circulars are sent out, of course the
blasts will be blown over again. So R. is out of the
way at the time, and money comes in, I will not care.
Write the hour you receive this. I hope they will send
out 150,000 circulars. Urge K. & B. to do this.
"MY DEAR LIZZIE:--Although I am suffering
with a fearful headache to-day, yet, as your note
of Wednesday is received, I must write. I am
grieved to find that you are so wretchedly
low-spirited. * * * On Wednesday, the 20th
of November, K. sent me the telegram I send you.
If he is not in earnest, what does it mean? What
is the rate of expenses that B. has gone to in my
business, that he dares to withhold my immense
amount of goods? Do you believe they intend
sending out those circulars? Of course you will
be well rewarded if we have any success, but as to
$500 'now,' I have it not for myself, or any one
else. Pray, what does B. propose to charge for
his expenses? I pray God there will be some
success, although, dear Lizzie, entirely between
ourselves, I fear I am in villanous hands. As to
money, I haven't it for myself just now, even if
nothing comes in. When I get my things back,
if ever, from----, I will send you some of those
dresses to dispose of at Washington for your own
benefit. If we get something, you will find that
promises and performance for
this life will be
forth-coming. * * * * It is mysterious
why B. NEVER writes, and K. once, perhaps, in
three weeks. All this is very strange. * *
"M. L."
CHICAGO,
Sunday, Nov. 24th.
"MY DEAR LIZZIE:--I wrote you on yesterday and am
aware it was not a pleasant letter, although I wrote
what I fear will turn out to be truths. It will be two
weeks to-morrow since the legally attested consent
from me was received by B. and K., and yet names
have not been obtained for it, when last heard from.
* * However, we will soon see for ourselves. If you
and I are honest in our motives and intentions, it
is no reason all the world is so. * * *
If I should gain nothing pecuniarily by the loud
cry that has been made over my affairs, it has
been a losing game indeed. * * * *
And the laugh of the world will be against me if it
turns out as I now think; there is no doubt it will be all
failure. If they had issued those circulars when they
should have done, before the election, then it would
have been all right. Alas! alas! what a mistake it has all
been! I have thought seriously over the whole
business, and know what I am about. I am grateful for
the sympathy of Mr. F. Douglass and Mr. Garnet. I
see that F. D. is advertised to lecture in Chicago some
time this winter. Tell him, for me, he must call and see
me; give him my number. If I had been able to retain a
house, I should have offered him apartments when he
came to C.; as it is, I have to content myself with
lodgings. An ungrateful country this! I very much fear
the malignity of Seward, Weed, and R. will operate in
Congress the coming winter, and that I will be
denounced there, with their infamous and villanous
falsehoods. The
father of wickedness and lies will get those men
when they 'pass away;' and such fiends as
they are, always linger in this mortal sphere.
The agitation of mind has very much impaired
my health. * * * * Why, why was
not I taken when my darling husband was
called from my side? I have been allowed no
rest by those who, in my desolation, should have
protected me. * * * * How dearly I
should love to see you this very sad day. Never, dear
Lizzie, think of my great nervousness the night before
we parted; I had been so harassed with my fears. * * * *
"Always yours,
"M. L."
"December 26.
MY DEAR LIZZIE:--Your letters just received.
I have just written to K. to withdraw the C. Go to him
yourself the moment you receive this. The idea of
Congress doing anything is
ridiculous. How much----could effect if he chose,
through others. Go to B. & K. the moment you receive
this.
"Yours,
M. L."
CHICAGO,
December 27.
"DEAR LIZZIE:--I wrote you a few lines on
yesterday. I have twice written to Mr. K. to
have the C. stopped. Go and see him on
the subject. I believe any more newspaper
attacks would lay me low * * *
As influence
has passed away from me with my husband,
my slightest act is misinterpreted. 'Time
makes all things right.' I am positively suffering
for a decent dress. I see Mr. A. and some
recent visitors eyeing my clothing askance. * *
Do send my black merino dress to me very soon; I
must dress better in the future. I tremble at the bill that
B. & K. may send me, I am so illy prepared to meet any
expense. All my articles not sold must be sent to me. I
leave this place
early in the spring; had you better not go with me
and share my fortunes, for a-year or more?
* * Write.
"Yours, etc.,
M. L."
"CLIFTON HOUSE, January 12.
MY DEAR LIZZIE:--Your last letter was received
a day or two since. I have moved my quarters to this
house, so please direct all your letters here. Why did
you not urge them not to take my goods to Providence?
For heaven's sake see K. & B. when you receive this,
and have them immediately returned to me, with their
bill. I am so miserable I feel like taking my own life.
My darling boy, my Taddie alone, I fully believe,
prevents the deed. Your letter announcing that
my clothes* were to be paraded in Europe--those
* The clothes
that I have given for the benefit of
Wilberforce College. They have been deeded to Bishop Payne,
who will do with them as he thinks best, for the cause to which
they are dedicated. The letter on page 366 will explain more
fully.
I gave you--has almost turned me wild. R.
would go raving distracted if such a thing was
done. If you have the least regard for our reason,
pray write to the bishop that it must not be done.
How little did I suppose you would do such a
thing; you cannot imagine how much my
overwhelming sorrows would be increased. May kind
Heaven turn your heart, and have you write that
this exhibition must not be attempted. R. would
blast us all if you were to have this project carried
out. Do remember us in our unmitigated
anguish, and have those clothes, worn on those
fearful occasions, recalled. * * I am positively
dying with a broken heart, and the probability
is that I shall be living but a very short
time. May we all meet in a better world, where
such grief is unknown. Write me all about
yourself. I should like you to have about four
black widow's caps, just such as I had made in,
the fall in New York, sent to me. * * *
Of course you would not suppose, if I had you
come out here and work for me six weeks, I
would not pay your expenses and pay you as you
made each dress. The probability is that I shall
need few more clothes; my rest, I am inclined to
believe, is near at hand. Go to B. & K., and
have my clothes sent me without further publicity.
* * * I am feeling too weak to
write more to-day. Why are you so silent? For
the sake of humanity, if not me and my children,
do not have those black clothes displayed in
Europe. The thought has almost whitened
every hair of my head. Write when you receive this.
"Your friend,
M. L."
NEW YORK CITY, Jan. 1st, 1868.
"BISHOP PAYNE, D. D.--DEAR SIR:--Allow me to
donate certain valuable relies, to be exhibited for the
benefit of Wilberforce University, where my son was
educated, and whose life was sacrificed for liberty.
These sacred relies were presented
to me by Mrs. Lincoln, after the assassination of our
beloved President. Learning that you were struggling
to get means to complete the college that was burned
on the day our great emancipator was assassinated,
prompted me to donate, in trust to J. P. Ball (agent for
Wilberforce College), the identical cloak and bonnet
worn by Mrs. Lincoln on that eventful night. On the
cloak can be seen the life-blood of Abraham Lincoln.
This cloak could not be purchased from me, though
many have been the offers for it. I deemed it too
sacred to sell, but donate it for the cause of educating
the four millions of slaves liberated by our President,
whose private character I revere. You well know that I
had every chance to learn the true man, being
constantly in the White House during his whole
administration. I also donate the glove* worn on his
precious hand at the last inaugural reception. This
glove
* I have since concluded to retain the glove as a
precious souvenir of our beloved President.
bears the marks of thousands who shook his hand
on that last and great occasion. This, and many
other relies, I hope you will receive in the name
of the Lincoln fund. I also donate the dress
worn by Mrs. Lincoln at the last inaugural
address of President Lincoln. Please receive these
from.--
Your sister in Christ,
"L. KECKLEY."
"CLIFTON HOUSE, Jan. 15, 1868.
"MY DEAR LIZZIE:--You will think I am sending you
a deluge of letters. I am so very sad today, that I feel
that I must write you. I went out last evening with
Tad, on a little business, in a street car, heavily veiled,
very imprudently having my month's living in my
pocket-book--and, on return, found it gone. The loss I
deserve for being so careless, but it comes very hard
on poor me. Troubles and misfortunes are fast
overwhelming me; may the end soon come. I lost $82,
and quite a new pocket-book. I am
very, very anxious about that bill B. & K. may bring in.
Do go, dear Lizzie, and implore them to be moderate,
for I am in a very narrow place. Tell them, I pray you,
of this last loss. As they have not been successful
(BETWEEN OURSELVES), and only given me great
sorrow and trouble, I think their demand should be
very small. (Do not mention this to them.) Do, dear
Lizzie, go to 609, and talk to them on this subject. Let
my things be sent to me immediately, and do see to it,
that nothing is left behind. I can afford to lose nothing
they have had placed in their hands. I am literally
suffering for my black dress. Will you send it to me
when you receive this? I am looking very shabby. I
hope you have entirely recovered. Write when you
receive this.
"Very truly yours,
M. L."
CHICAGO, Feb. 7.
"MR. BRADY:--I hereby authorize Mrs. Keckley to
request my bill from you; also my goods.
An exact account must be given of everything, and all
goods unsold returned to me. Pray hand Mrs. Keckley
my bill, without fail, immediately. "
Respectfully,
"MRS. LINCOLN."
"SATURDAY,
Feb. 29.
"DEAR LIZZIE:--I am only able to sit up long enough to
write you a line and enclose this check to Mr. K. Give it
to him when he gives you up my goods, and require
from him an exact inventory of them. I will write you
to-morrow. The hour you receive this go to him, get my
goods, and do not give him the check until you get
the goods, and be sure you get a receipt for the check
from him. * * In his account given ten days since, he
said we had borrowed $807; now he writes for $820.
Ask him what this means, and get him to deduct the
$13. I cannot understand it. A letter received from K.
this morning says if the check is not received the first
of the
week, my goods will be sold so do delay not an hour to
see him. * * My diamond ring he writes has been sold;
the goods sold have amounted to $824, and they
appropriate all this for their expenses. A precious set,
truly. My diamond ring itself cost more than that sum,
and I charged them not to sell it under $700. Do get my
things safely returned to me. * * * *
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