Behind the Scenes; or, Thirty years a slave, and Four Years in the White House
by Elizabeth Keckley · English · Gutenberg #24968 · 343,438 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Behind the Scenes; or, Thirty years a slave, and Four Years in the White House
Author: Elizabeth Keckley
Release date: March 31, 2008 [eBook #24968]
Language: English
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ELIZABETH
KECKLEY
Behind the Scenes,
Or,
Thirty Years a Slave,
and Four Years in the White House
* * * * *
Contents
BEHIND THE SCENES
Preface 3
Chapter I. Where I was born 7
Chapter II. Girlhood and its Sorrows 13
Chapter III. How I gained my Freedom 19
Chapter IV. In the Family of Senator Jefferson Davis 28
Chapter V. My Introduction to Mrs. Lincoln 34
Chapter VI. Willie Lincoln's Death-bed 41
Chapter VII. Washington in 1862-3 50
Chapter VIII. Candid Opinions 57
Chapter IX. Behind the Scenes 62
Chapter X. The Second Inauguration 68
Chapter XI. The Assassination of President Lincoln 77
Chapter XII. Mrs. Lincoln leaves the White House 89
Chapter XIII. The Origin of the Rivalry between
Mr. Douglas and Mr. Lincol 101
Chapter XIV. Old Friends 106
Chapter XV. The Secret History of Mrs. Lincoln's
Wardrobe in New York 119
Appendix--Letters from Mrs. Lincoln to Mrs. Keckley 147
* * * * *
BEHIND THE SCENES.
BY
ELIZABETH KECKLEY,
FORMERLY A SLAVE, BUT MORE RECENTLY MODISTE,
AND FRIEND TO MRS. ABRAHAM LINCOLN.
OR,
THIRTY YEARS A SLAVE, AND FOUR YEARS IN
THE WHITE HOUSE.
NEW YORK:
G. W. Carleton & Co., Publishers.
M DCCC LXVIII.
* * * * *
PREFACE
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.
ELIZABETH KECKLEY.
14 Carroll Place, New York,
March 14, 1868.
CHAPTER I
WHERE I WAS BORN
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:
"SHELBYVILE, Sept. 6, 1833.
"MRS. AGNES HOBBS
"Dear Wife: My dear biloved wife I am more than glad to meet
with opportun[i]ty 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 * * * *
"GEORGE PLEASANT,
"_Hobbs a servant of Grum_."
The last letter that my mother received from my 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.
CHAPTER II
GIRLHOOD AND ITS SORROWS
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 to 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[A] at Charlotte, North
Carolina:--
"HILLSBORO', April 10, 1838.
"MY DEAR MOTHER:--I have been intending 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 next winter, but
she says that she does not intend take me; what reason she
has for leaving me I 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.
"Farewell, darling mother.
"Your affectionate daughter,
"ELIZABETH HOBBS."
[Footnote A: March, 1868.]
CHAPTER III
HOW I GAINED MY FREEDOM
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[e] 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 distrust. 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
help-mate. 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."
"Good-by for a short time," I ventured to add.
"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.
[L.S.] "F. N. STEELE,
"_Commissioner for Missouri_."
"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 hand 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.
[L.S.] "WM. J. HAMMOND, _Clerk_."
"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.
"In testimony whereof I hereto set my hand and 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.
[L.S.] "C. KEEMLE, _Recorder_."
CHAPTER IV
IN THE FAMILY OF SENATOR JEFFERSON DAVIS
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 to 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 [a] 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.
He smiled curiously, but turned and walked 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."
"And which do you think will whip?"
"The South, of course. The South is impulsive, is in earnest, and the
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 lot
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 unquestionably 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.
CHAPTER V
MY INTRODUCTION TO MRS. LINCOLN
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:
"Lizzie, I am invited to dine at Willard's on 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?"
"With confidence. Shall I send her to you?"
"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
today; 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.
"You are Lizzie Keckley, I believe."
I bowed assent.
"The dress-maker that Mrs. McClean recommended?"
"Yes, madam."
"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.
"Mrs. Davis! So you have worked for her, 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."
"But there is plenty of time for you to dress, 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 downstairs, 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.
CHAPTER VI
WILLIE LINCOLN'S DEATH-BED
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:
"WASHINGTON, D. C., October 30, 1861.
DEAR SIR:--I enclose you my first attempt at poetry.
"Yours truly,
"WM. W. LINCOLN.
"_To the Editor of the National Republican._"
LINES ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL EDWARD BAKER.
THERE was no patriot like Baker,
So noble and so true;
He fell as a soldier on the field,
His face to the sky of blue.
His voice is silent in the hall
Which oft his presence graced;
No more he'll hear the loud acclaim
Which rang from place to place.
No squeamish notions filled his breast,
_The Union_ was his theme;
"_No surrender and no compromise_,"
His day-thought and night's dream.
His Country has _her_ part to pay
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 upstairs 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 the
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 hot-house, 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 over-watching.
"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.
CHAPTER VII
WASHINGTON IN 1862-3
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[B] 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."
Robert had a lofty soul, and he could not stoop 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.
[Footnote B: 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.]
CHAPTER VIII
CANDID OPINIONS
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.
The President was lying carelessly upon a 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.
It was well known that Mrs. Lincoln's 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. Johns[t]on. 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.
CHAPTER IX
BEHIND THE SCENES
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 vexations 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? Somehow 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."
CHAPTER X
THE SECOND INAUGURATION
Mrs. Lincoln came to my apartments one day towards the close of the
summer of 1864, to consult me in relation to a dress. And here let me
remark, I never approved of ladies, attached to the Presidential
household, coming to my rooms. I always thought that it would be more
consistent with their dignity to send for me, and let me come to them,
instead of their coming to me. I may have peculiar notions about some
things, and this may be regarded as one of them. No matter, I have
recorded my opinion. I cannot forget the associations of my early life.
Well, Mrs. Lincoln came to my rooms, and, as usual, she had much to say
about the Presidential election.
After some conversation, she asked: "Lizzie, where do you think I will
be this time next summer?"
"Why, in the White House, of course."
"I cannot believe so. I have no hope of the re-election of Mr. Lincoln.
The canvass is a heated one, the people begin to murmur at the war, and
every vile charge is brought against my husband."
"No matter," I replied, "Mr. Lincoln will be re-elected. I am so
confident of it, that I am tempted to ask a favor of you."
"A favor! Well, if we remain in the White House I shall be able to do
you many favors. What is the special favor?"
"Simply this, Mrs. Lincoln--I should like for you to make me a present
of the right-hand glove that the President wears at the first public
reception after his second inaugural."
"You shall have it in welcome. It will be so filthy when he pulls it
off, I shall be tempted to take the tongs and put it in the fire. I
cannot imagine, Lizabeth, what you want with such a glove."
"I shall cherish it as a precious memento of the second inauguration of
the man who has done so much for my race. He has been a Jehovah to my
people--has lifted them out of bondage, and directed their footsteps
from darkness into light. I shall keep the glove, and hand it down to
posterity."
"You have some strange ideas, Lizabeth. Never mind, you shall have the
glove; that is, if Mr. Lincoln continues President after the 4th of
March next."
I held Mrs. Lincoln to her promise. That glove is now in my possession,
bearing the marks of the thousands of hands that grasped the honest hand
of Mr. Lincoln on that eventful night. Alas! it has become a prouder,
sadder memento than I ever dreamed--prior to making the request--it
would be.
In due time the election came off, and all of my predictions were
verified. The loyal States decided that Mr. Lincoln should continue at
the nation's helm. Autumn faded, winter dragged slowly by, and still the
country resounded with the clash of arms. The South was suffering, yet
suffering was borne with heroic determination, and the army continued to
present a bold, defiant front. With the first early breath of spring,
thousands of people gathered in Washington to witness the second
inauguration of Abraham Lincoln as President of the United States. It
was a stirring day in the National Capital, and one that will never fade
from the memory of those who witnessed the imposing ceremonies. The
morning was dark and gloomy; clouds hung like a pall in the sky, as if
portending some great disaster. But when the President stepped forward
to receive the oath of office, the clouds parted, and a ray of sunshine
streamed from the heavens to fall upon and gild his face. It is also
said that a brilliant star was seen at noon-day. It was the noon-day of
life with Mr. Lincoln, and the star, as viewed in the light of
subsequent events, was emblematic of a summons from on high. This was
Saturday, and on Monday evening I went to the White House to dress Mrs.
Lincoln for the first grand levee. While arranging Mrs. L.'s hair, the
President came in. It was the first time I had seen him since the
inauguration, and I went up to him, proffering my hand with words of
congratulation.
He grasped my outstretched hand warmly, and held it while he spoke:
"Thank you. Well, Madam Elizabeth"--he always called me Madam
Elizabeth--"I don't know whether I should feel thankful or not. The
position brings with it many trials. We do not know what we are destined
to pass through. But God will be with us all. I put my trust in God." He
dropped my hand, and with solemn face walked across the room and took
his seat on the sofa. Prior to this I had congratulated Mrs. Lincoln,
and she had answered with a sigh, "Thank you, Elizabeth; but now that we
have won the position, I almost wish it were otherwise. Poor Mr. Lincoln
is looking so broken-hearted, so completely worn out, I fear he will not
get through the next four years." Was it a presentiment that made her
take a sad view of the future? News from the front was never more
cheering. On every side the Confederates were losing ground, and the
lines of blue were advancing in triumph. As I would look out my window
almost every day, I could see the artillery going past on its way to the
open space of ground, to fire a salute in honor of some new victory.
From every point came glorious news of the success of the soldiers that
fought for the Union. And yet, in their private chamber, away from the
curious eyes of the world, the President and his wife wore sad, anxious
faces.
I finished dressing Mrs. Lincoln, and she took the President's arm and
went below. It was one of the largest receptions ever held in
Washington. Thousands crowded the halls and rooms of the White House,
eager to shake Mr. Lincoln by his hand, and receive a gracious smile
from his wife. The jam was terrible, and the enthusiasm great. The
President's hand was well shaken, and the next day, on visiting Mrs.
Lincoln, I received the soiled glove that Mr. Lincoln had worn on his
right hand that night.
Many colored people were in Washington, and large numbers had desired to
attend the levee, but orders were issued not to admit them. A gentleman,
a member of Congress, on his way to the White House, recognized Mr.
Frederick Douglass, the eloquent colored orator, on the outskirts of the
crowd.
"How do you do, Mr. Douglass? A fearful jam to-night. You are going in,
of course?"
"No--that is, no to your last question."
"Not going in to shake the President by the hand! Why, pray?"
"The best reason in the world. Strict orders have been issued not to
admit people of color."
"It is a shame, Mr. Douglass, that you should thus be placed under ban.
Never mind; wait here, and I will see what can be done."
The gentleman entered the White House, and working his way to the
President, asked permission to introduce Mr. Douglass to him.
"Certainly," said Mr. Lincoln. "Bring Mr. Douglass in, by all means. I
shall be glad to meet him."
The gentleman returned, and soon Mr. Douglass stood face to face with
the President. Mr. Lincoln pressed his hand warmly, saying: "Mr.
Douglass, I am glad to meet you. I have long admired your course, and I
value your opinions highly."
Mr. Douglass was very proud of the manner in which Mr. Lincoln received
him. On leaving the White House he came to a friend's house where a
reception was being held, and he related the incident with great
pleasure to myself and others.
On the Monday following the reception at the White House, everybody was
busy preparing for the grand inaugural ball to come off that night. I
was in Mrs. Lincoln's room the greater portion of the day. While
dressing her that night, the President came in, and I remarked to him
how much Mr. Douglass had been pleased on the night he was presented to
Mr. Lincoln. Mrs. L. at once turned to her husband with the inquiry,
"Father, why was not Mr. Douglass introduced to me?"
"I do not know. I thought he was presented."
"But he was not."
"It must have been an oversight then, mother; I am sorry you did not
meet him."
I finished dressing her for the ball, and accompanied her to the door.
She was dressed magnificently, and entered the ball-room leaning on the
arm of Senator Sumner, a gentleman that she very much admired. Mr.
Lincoln walked into the ball-room accompanied by two gentlemen. This
ball closed the season. It was the last time that the President and his
wife ever appeared in public.
Some days after, Mrs. Lincoln, with a party of friends, went to City
Point on a visit.
Mrs. Lincoln had returned to Washington prior to the 2d of April. On
Monday, April 3d, Mrs. Secretary Harlan came into my room with material
for a dress. While conversing with her, I saw artillery pass the window;
and as it was on its way to fire a salute, I inferred that good news had
been received at the War Department. My reception-room was on one side
of the street, and my work-room on the other side. Inquiring the cause
of the demonstration, we were told that Richmond had fallen. Mrs. Harlan
took one of my hands in each of her own, and we rejoiced together. I ran
across to my work-room, and on entering it, discovered that the girls in
my employ also had heard the good news. They were particularly elated,
as it was reported that the rebel capital had surrendered to colored
troops. I had promised my employees a holiday when Richmond should fall;
and now that Richmond had fallen, they reminded me of my promise.
I recrossed to my reception-room, and Mrs. Harlan told me that the good
news was enough for her--she could afford to wait for her dress, and to
give the girls a holiday and a treat, by all means. She returned to her
house, and I joined my girls in the joy of the long-promised holiday. We
wandered about the streets of the city with happy faces, and hearts
overflowing with joy. The clerks in the various departments also enjoyed
a holiday, and they improved it by getting gloriously fuddled. Towards
evening I saw S., and many other usually clear-headed men, in the
street, in a confused, uncertain state of mind.
Mrs. Lincoln had invited me to accompany her to City Point. I went to
the White House, and told her that if she intended to return, I would
regard it as a privilege to go with her, as City Point was near
Petersburg, my old home. Mrs. L. said she designed returning, and would
be delighted to take me with her; so it was arranged that I should
accompany her.
A few days after we were on board the steamer, _en route_ for City
Point. Mrs. Lincoln was joined by Mrs. Secretary Harlan and daughter,
Senator Sumner, and several other gentlemen.
Prior to this, Mr. Lincoln had started for City Point, and before we
reached our destination he had visited Richmond, Petersburg, and other
points. We arrived on Friday, and Mrs. Lincoln was much disappointed
when she learned that the President had visited the late Confederate
capital, as she had greatly desired to be with him when he entered the
conquered stronghold. It was immediately arranged that the entire party
on board the River Queen should visit Richmond, and other points, with
the President. The next morning, after the arrangement was perfected, we
were steaming up James River--the river that so long had been
impassable, even to our gunboats. The air was balmy, and the banks of
the river were beautiful, and fragrant with the first sweet blossoms of
spring. For hours I stood on deck, breathing the pure air, and viewing
the landscape on either side of the majestically flowing river. Here
stretched fair fields, emblematic of peace--and here deserted camps and
frowning forts, speaking of the stern vicissitudes of war. Alas! how
many changes had taken place since my eye had wandered over the classic
fields of dear old Virginia! A birthplace is always dear, no matter
under what circumstances you were born, since it revives in memory the
golden hours of childhood, free from philosophy, and the warm kiss of a
mother. I wondered if I should catch a glimpse of a familiar face; I
wondered what had become of those I once knew; had they fallen in
battle, been scattered by the relentless tide of war, or were they still
living as they lived when last I saw them? I wondered, now that Richmond
had fallen, and Virginia been restored to the clustering stars of the
Union, if the people would come together in the bonds of peace; and as I
gazed and wondered, the River Queen rapidly carried us to our
destination.
The Presidential party were all curiosity on entering Richmond. They
drove about the streets of the city, and examined every object of
interest. The Capitol presented a desolate appearance--desks broken, and
papers scattered promiscuously in the hurried flight of the Confederate
Congress. I picked up a number of papers, and, by curious coincidence,
the resolution prohibiting all free colored people from entering the
State of Virginia. In the Senate chamber I sat in the chair that
Jefferson Davis sometimes occupied; also in the chair of the
Vice-President, Alexander H. Stephens. We paid a visit to the mansion
occupied by Mr. Davis and family during the war, and the ladies who
were in charge of it scowled darkly upon our party as we passed through
and inspected the different rooms. After a delightful visit we returned
to City Point.
That night, in the cabin of the River Queen, smiling faces gathered
around the dinner-table. One of the guests was a young officer attached
to the Sanitary Commission. He was seated near Mrs. Lincoln, and, by way
of pleasantry, remarked: "Mrs. Lincoln, you should have seen the
President the other day, on his triumphal entry into Richmond. He was
the cynosure of all eyes. The ladies kissed their hands to him, and
greeted him with the waving of handkerchiefs. He is quite a hero when
surrounded by pretty young ladies."
The young officer suddenly paused with a look of embarrassment. Mrs.
Lincoln turned to him with flashing eyes, with the remark that his
familiarity was offensive to her. Quite a scene followed, and I do not
think that the Captain who incurred Mrs. Lincoln's displeasure will ever
forget that memorable evening in the cabin of the River Queen, at City
Point.
Saturday morning the whole party decided to visit Petersburg, and I was
only too eager to accompany them.
When we arrived at the city, numbers crowded around the train, and a
little ragged negro boy ventured timidly into the car occupied by Mr.
Lincoln and immediate friends, and in replying to numerous questions,
used the word "tote."
"Tote," remarked Mr. Lincoln; "what do you mean by tote?"
"Why, massa, to tote um on your back."
"Very definite, my son; I presume when you tote a thing, you carry it.
By the way, Sumner," turning to the Senator, "what is the origin of
tote?"
"Its origin is said to be African. The Latin word _totum_, from _totus_,
means all--an entire body--the whole."
"But my young friend here did not mean an entire body, or anything of
the kind, when he said he would tote my things for me," interrupted the
President.
"Very true," continued the Senator. "He used the word tote in the
African sense, to carry, to bear. Tote in this sense is defined in our
standard dictionaries as a colloquial word of the Southern States, used
especially by the negroes."
"Then you regard the word as a good one?"
"Not elegant, certainly. For myself, I should prefer a better word; but
since it has been established by usage, I cannot refuse to recognize
it."
Thus the conversation proceeded in pleasant style.
Getting out of the car, the President and those with him went to visit
the forts and other scenes, while I wandered off by myself in search of
those whom I had known in other days. War, grim-visaged war, I soon
discovered had brought many changes to the city so well known to me in
the days of my youth. I found a number of old friends, but the greater
portion of the population were strange to me. The scenes suggested
painful memories, and I was not sorry to turn my back again upon the
city. A large, peculiarly shaped oak tree, I well remember, attracted
the particular attention of the President; it grew upon the outskirts of
Petersburg, and as he had discovered it on his first visit, a few days
previous to the second, he insisted that the party should go with him to
take a look at the isolated and magnificent specimen of the stately
grandeur of the forest. Every member of the party was only too willing
to accede to the President's request, and the visit to the oak was made,
and much enjoyed.
On our return to City Point from Petersburg the train moved slowly, and
the President, observing a terrapin basking in the warm sunshine on the
wayside, had the conductor stop the train, and one of the brakemen bring
the terrapin in to him. The movements of the ungainly little animal
seemed to delight him, and he amused himself with it until we reached
James River, where our steamer lay. Tad stood near, and joined in the
happy laugh with his father.
For a week the River Queen remained in James River, anchored the greater
portion of the time at City Point, and a pleasant and memorable week was
it to all on board. During the whole of this time a yacht lay in the
stream about a quarter of a mile distant, and its peculiar movements
attracted the attention of all on board. General Grant and Mrs. Grant
were on our steamer several times, and many distinguished officers of
the army also were entertained by the President and his party.
Mr. Lincoln, when not off on an excursion of any kind, lounged about
the boat, talking familiarly with every one that approached him.
The day before we started on our journey back to Washington, Mr. Lincoln
was engaged in reviewing the troops in camp. He returned to the boat in
the evening, with a tired, weary look.
"Mother," he said to his wife, "I have shaken so many hands to-day that
my arms ache tonight. I almost wish that I could go to bed now."
As the twilight shadows deepened the lamps were lighted, and the boat
was brilliantly illuminated; as it lay in the river, decked with
many-colored lights, it looked like an enchanted floating palace. A
military band was on board, and as the hours lengthened into night it
discoursed sweet music. Many officers came on board to say good-by, and
the scene was a brilliant one indeed. About 10 o'clock Mr. Lincoln was
called upon to make a speech. Rising to his feet, he said:
"You must excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. I am too tired to speak
to-night. On next Tuesday night I make a speech in Washington, at which
time you will learn all I have to say. And now, by way of parting from
the brave soldiers of our gallant army, I call upon the band to play
Dixie. It has always been a favorite of mine, and since we have captured
it, we have a perfect right to enjoy it." On taking his seat the band at
once struck up with Dixie, that sweet, inspiring air; and when the music
died away, there were clapping of hands and other manifestations of
applause.
At 11 o'clock the last good-by was spoken, the lights were taken down,
the River Queen rounded out into the water and we were on our way back
to Washington. We arrived at the Capital at 6 o'clock on Sunday evening,
where the party separated, each going to his and her own home. This was
one of the most delightful trips of my life, and I always revert to it
with feelings of genuine pleasure.
CHAPTER XI
THE ASSASSINATION OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN
I had never heard Mr. Lincoln make a public speech, and, knowing the man
so well, was very anxious to hear him. On the morning of the Tuesday
after our return from City Point, Mrs. Lincoln came to my apartments,
and before she drove away I asked permission to come to the White House
that night and hear Mr. Lincoln speak.
"Certainly, Lizabeth; if you take any interest in political speeches,
come and listen in welcome."
"Thank you, Mrs. Lincoln. May I trespass further on your kindness by
asking permission to bring a friend with me?"
"Yes, bring your friend also. By the way, come in time to dress me
before the speaking commences."
"I will be in time. You may rely upon that. Good morning," I added, as
she swept from my room, and, passing out into the street, entered her
carriage and drove away.
About 7 o'clock that evening I entered the White House. As I went
up-stairs I glanced into Mr. Lincoln's room through the half-open door,
and seated by a desk was the President, looking over his notes and
muttering to himself. His face was thoughtful, his manner abstracted,
and I knew, as I paused a moment to watch him, that he was rehearsing
the part that he was to play in the great drama soon to commence.
Proceeding to Mrs. Lincoln's apartment, I worked with busy fingers, and
in a short time her toilette was completed.
Great crowds began to gather in front of the White House, and loud calls
were made for the President. The band stopped playing, and as he
advanced to the centre window over the door to make his address, I
looked out, and never saw such a mass of heads before. It was like a
black, gently swelling sea. The swaying motion of the crowd, in the dim
uncertain light, was like the rising and falling of billows--like the
ebb and flow of the tide upon the stranded shore of the ocean. Close to
the house the faces were plainly discernible, but they faded into mere
ghostly outlines on the outskirts of the assembly; and what added to the
weird, spectral beauty of the scene, was the confused hum of voices that
rose above the sea of forms, sounding like the subdued, sullen roar of
an ocean storm, or the wind soughing through the dark lonely forest. It
was a grand and imposing scene, and when the President, with pale face
and his soul flashing through his eyes, advanced to speak, he looked
more like a demigod than a man crowned with the fleeting days of
mortality.
The moment the President appeared at the window he was greeted with a
storm of applause, and voices re-echoed the cry, "A light! a light!"
A lamp was brought, and little Tad at once rushed to his father's side,
exclaiming:
"Let me hold the light, Papa! let me hold the light!"
Mrs. Lincoln directed that the wish of her son be gratified, and the
lamp was transferred to his hands. The father and son standing there in
the presence of thousands of free citizens, the one lost in a chain of
eloquent ideas, the other looking up into the speaking face with a
proud, manly look, formed a beautiful and striking tableau.
There were a number of distinguished gentlemen, as well as ladies, in
the room, nearly all of whom remarked the picture.
I stood a short distance from Mr. Lincoln, and as the light from the
lamp fell full upon him, making him stand out boldly in the darkness, a
sudden thought struck me, and I whispered to the friend at my side:
"What an easy matter would it be to kill the President, as he stands
there! He could be shot down from the crowd, and no one be able to tell
who fired the shot."
I do not know what put such an idea into my head, unless it was the
sudden remembrance of the many warnings that Mr. Lincoln had received.
The next day, I made mention to Mrs. Lincoln of the idea that had
impressed me so strangely the night before, and she replied with a sigh:
"Yes, yes, Mr. Lincoln's life is always exposed. Ah, no one knows what
it is to live in constant dread of some fearful tragedy. The President
has been warned so often, that I tremble for him on every public
occasion. I have a presentiment that he will meet with a sudden and
violent end. I pray God to protect my beloved husband from the hands of
the assassin."
Mr. Lincoln was fond of pets. He had two goats that knew the sound of
his voice, and when he called them they would come bounding to his side.
In the warm bright days, he and Tad would sometimes play in the yard
with these goats, for an hour at a time. One Saturday afternoon I went
to the White House to dress Mrs. Lincoln. I had nearly completed my task
when the President came in. It was a bright day, and walking to the
window, he looked down into the yard, smiled, and, turning to me, asked:
"Madam Elizabeth, you are fond of pets, are you not?"
"O yes, sir," I answered.
"Well, come here and look at my two goats. I believe they are the
kindest and best goats in the world. See how they sniff the clear air,
and skip and play in the sunshine. Whew! what a jump," he exclaimed as
one of the goats made a lofty spring. "Madam Elizabeth, did you ever
before see such an active goat?" Musing a moment, he continued: "He
feeds on my bounty, and jumps with joy. Do you think we could call him a
bounty-jumper? But I flatter the bounty-jumper. My goat is far above
him. I would rather wear his horns and hairy coat through life, than
demean myself to the level of the man who plunders the national treasury
in the name of patriotism. The man who enlists into the service for a
consideration, and deserts the moment he receives his money but to
repeat the play, is bad enough; but the men who manipulate the grand
machine and who simply make the bounty-jumper their agent in an
outrageous fraud are far worse. They are beneath the worms that crawl in
the dark hidden places of earth."
His lips curled with haughty scorn, and a cloud was gathering on his
brow. Only a moment the shadow rested on his face. Just then both goats
looked up at the window and shook their heads as if they would say "How
d'ye do, old friend?"
"See, Madam Elizabeth," exclaimed the President in a tone of enthusiasm,
"my pets recognize me. How earnestly they look! There they go again;
what jolly fun!" and he laughed outright as the goats bounded swiftly to
the other side of the yard. Just then Mrs. Lincoln called out, "Come,
Lizabeth; if I get ready to go down this evening I must finish dressing
myself, or you must stop staring at those silly goats."
Mrs. Lincoln was not fond of pets, and she could not understand how Mr.
Lincoln could take so much delight in his goats. After Willie's death,
she could not bear the sight of anything he loved, not even a flower.
Costly bouquets were presented to her, but she turned from them with a
shudder, and either placed them in a room where she could not see them,
or threw them out of the window. She gave all of Willie's
toys--everything connected with him--away, as she said she could not
look upon them without thinking of her poor dead boy, and to think of
him, in his white shroud and cold grave, was maddening. I never in my
life saw a more peculiarly constituted woman. Search the world over, and
you will not find her counterpart. After Mr. Lincoln's death, the goats
that he loved so well were given away--I believe to Mrs. Lee, _nee_ Miss
Blair, one of the few ladies with whom Mrs. Lincoln was on intimate
terms in Washington.
During my residence in the Capital I made my home with Mr. and Mrs.
Walker Lewis, people of my own race, and friends in the truest sense of
the word.
The days passed without any incident of particular note disturbing the
current of life. On Friday morning, April 14th--alas! what American does
not remember the day--I saw Mrs. Lincoln but for a moment. She told me
that she was to attend the theatre that night with the President, but I
was not summoned to assist her in making her toilette. Sherman had swept
from the northern border of Georgia through the heart of the Confederacy
down to the sea, striking the death-blow to the rebellion. Grant had
pursued General Lee beyond Richmond, and the army of Virginia, that had
made such stubborn resistance, was crumbling to pieces. Fort Sumter had
fallen;--the stronghold first wrenched from the Union; and which had
braved the fury of Federal guns for so many years, was restored to the
Union; the end of the war was near at hand, and the great pulse of the
loyal North thrilled with joy. The dark war-cloud was fading, and a
white-robed angel seemed to hover in the sky, whispering "Peace--peace
on earth, good-will toward men!" Sons, brothers, fathers, friends,
sweethearts were coming home. Soon the white tents would be folded, the
volunteer army be disbanded, and tranquillity again reign. Happy, happy
day!--happy at least to those who fought under the banner of the Union.
There was great rejoicing throughout the North. From the Atlantic to the
Pacific, flags were gayly thrown to the breeze, and at night every city
blazed with its tens of thousand lights. But scarcely had the fireworks
ceased to play, and the lights been taken down from the windows, when
the lightning flashed the most appalling news over the magnetic wires.
"The President has been murdered!" spoke the swift-winged messenger, and
the loud huzza died upon the lips. A nation suddenly paused in the midst
of festivity, and stood paralyzed with horror--transfixed with awe.
Oh, memorable day! Oh, memorable night! Never before was joy so
violently contrasted with sorrow.
At 11 o'clock at night I was awakened by an old friend and neighbor,
Miss M. Brown, with the startling intelligence that the entire Cabinet
had been assassinated, and Mr. Lincoln shot, but not mortally wounded.
When I heard the words I felt as if the blood had been frozen in my
veins, and that my lungs must collapse for the want of air. Mr. Lincoln
shot! the Cabinet assassinated! What could it mean? The streets were
alive with wondering, awe-stricken people. Rumors flew thick and fast,
and the wildest reports came with every new arrival. The words were
repeated with blanched cheeks and quivering lips. I waked Mr. and Mrs.
Lewis, and told them that the President was shot, and that I must go to
the White House. I could not remain in a state of uncertainty. I felt
that the house would not hold me. They tried to quiet me, but gentle
words could not calm the wild tempest. They quickly dressed themselves,
and we sallied out into the street to drift with the excited throng. We
walked rapidly towards the White House, and on our way passed the
residence of Secretary Seward, which was surrounded by armed soldiers,
keeping back all intruders with the point of the bayonet. We hurried on,
and as we approached the White House, saw that it too was surrounded
with soldiers. Every entrance was strongly guarded, and no one was
permitted to pass. The guard at the gate told us that Mr. Lincoln had
not been brought home, but refused to give any other information. More
excited than ever, we wandered down the street. Grief and anxiety were
making me weak, and as we joined the outskirts of a large crowd, I began
to feel as meek and humble as a penitent child. A gray-haired old man
was passing. I caught a glimpse of his face, and it seemed so full of
kindness and sorrow that I gently touched his arm, and imploringly
asked:
"Will you please, sir, to tell me whether Mr. Lincoln is dead or not?"
"Not dead," he replied, "but dying. God help us!" and with a heavy step
he passed on.
"Not dead, but dying! then indeed God help us!"
We learned that the President was mortally wounded--that he had been
shot down in his box at the theatre, and that he was not expected to
live till morning; when we returned home with heavy hearts. I could not
sleep. I wanted to go to Mrs. Lincoln, as I pictured her wild with
grief; but then I did not know where to find her, and I must wait till
morning. Never did the hours drag so slowly. Every moment seemed an age,
and I could do nothing but walk about and hold my arms in mental agony.
Morning came at last, and a sad morning was it. The flags that floated
so gayly yesterday now were draped in black, and hung in silent folds at
half-mast. The President was dead, and a nation was mourning for him.
Every house was draped in black, and every face wore a solemn look.
People spoke in subdued tones, and glided whisperingly, wonderingly,
silently about the streets.
About eleven o'clock on Saturday morning a carriage drove up to the
door, and a messenger asked for "Elizabeth Keckley."
"Who wants her?" I asked.
"I come from Mrs. Lincoln. If you are Mrs. Keckley, come with me
immediately to the White House."
I hastily put on my shawl and bonnet, and was driven at a rapid rate to
the White House. Everything about the building was sad and solemn. I was
quickly shown to Mrs. Lincoln's room, and on entering, saw Mrs. L.
tossing uneasily about upon a bed. The room was darkened, and the only
person in it besides the widow of the President was Mrs. Secretary
Welles, who had spent the night with her. Bowing to Mrs. Welles, I went
to the bedside.
"Why did you not come to me last night, Elizabeth--I sent for you?" Mrs.
Lincoln asked in a low whisper.
"I did try to come to you, but I could not find you," I answered, as I
laid my hand upon her hot brow.
I afterwards learned, that when she had partially recovered from the
first shock of the terrible tragedy in the theatre, Mrs. Welles asked:
"Is there no one, Mrs. Lincoln, that you desire to have with you in this
terrible affliction?"
"Yes, send for Elizabeth Keckley. I want her just as soon as she can be
brought here."
Three messengers, it appears, were successively despatched for me, but
all of them mistook the number and failed to find me.
Shortly after entering the room on Saturday morning, Mrs. Welles excused
herself, as she said she must go to her own family, and I was left alone
with Mrs. Lincoln.
She was nearly exhausted with grief, and when she became a little quiet,
I asked and received permission to go into the Guests' Room, where the
body of the President lay in state. When I crossed the threshold of the
room, I could not help recalling the day on which I had seen little
Willie lying in his coffin where the body of his father now lay. I
remembered how the President had wept over the pale beautiful face of
his gifted boy, and now the President himself was dead. The last time I
saw him he spoke kindly to me, but alas! the lips would never move
again. The light had faded from his eyes, and when the light went out
the soul went with it. What a noble soul was his--noble in all the noble
attributes of God! Never did I enter the solemn chamber of death with
such palpitating heart and trembling footsteps as I entered it that day.
No common mortal had died. The Moses of my people had fallen in the hour
of his triumph. Fame had woven her choicest chaplet for his brow. Though
the brow was cold and pale in death, the chaplet should not fade, for
God had studded it with the glory of the eternal stars.
When I entered the room, the members of the Cabinet and many
distinguished officers of the army were grouped around the body of their
fallen chief. They made room for me, and, approaching the body, I lifted
the white cloth from the white face of the man that I had worshipped as
an idol--looked upon as a demi-god. Notwithstanding the violence of the
death of the President, there was something beautiful as well as grandly
solemn in the expression of the placid face. There lurked the sweetness
and gentleness of childhood, and the stately grandeur of godlike
intellect. I gazed long at the face, and turned away with tears in my
eyes and a choking sensation in my throat. Ah! never was man so widely
mourned before. The whole world bowed their heads in grief when Abraham
Lincoln died.
Returning to Mrs. Lincoln's room, I found her in a new paroxysm of
grief. Robert was bending over his mother with tender affection, and
little Tad was crouched at the foot of the bed with a world of agony in
his young face. I shall never forget the scene--the wails of a broken
heart, the unearthly shrieks, the terrible convulsions, the wild,
tempestuous outbursts of grief from the soul. I bathed Mrs. Lincoln's
head with cold water, and soothed the terrible tornado as best I could.
Tad's grief at his father's death was as great as the grief of his
mother, but her terrible outbursts awed the boy into silence. Sometimes
he would throw his arms around her neck, and exclaim, between his broken
sobs, "Don't cry so, Mamma! don't cry, or you will make me cry, too! You
will break my heart."
Mrs. Lincoln could not bear to hear Tad cry, and when he would plead to
her not to break his heart, she would calm herself with a great effort,
and clasp her child in her arms.
Every room in the White House was darkened, and every one spoke in
subdued tones, and moved about with muffled tread. The very atmosphere
breathed of the great sorrow which weighed heavily upon each heart. Mrs.
Lincoln never left her room, and while the body of her husband was being
borne in solemn state from the Atlantic to the broad prairies of the
West, she was weeping with her fatherless children in her private
chamber. She denied admittance to almost every one, and I was her only
companion, except her children, in the days of her great sorrow.
There were many surmises as to who was implicated with J. Wilkes Booth
in the assassination of the President. A new messenger had accompanied
Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln to the theatre on that terrible Friday night. It
was the duty of this messenger to stand at the door of the box during
the performance, and thus guard the inmates from all intrusion. It
appears that the messenger was carried away by the play, and so
neglected his duty that Booth gained easy admission to the box. Mrs.
Lincoln firmly believed that this messenger was implicated in the
assassination plot.
One night I was lying on a lounge near the bed occupied by Mrs. Lincoln.
One of the servants entering the room, Mrs. L. asked:
"Who is on watch to-night?"
"The new messenger," was the reply.
"What! the man who attended us to the theatre on the night my dear, good
husband was murdered! He, I believe, is one of the murderers. Tell him
to come in to me."
The messenger had overheard Mrs. Lincoln's words through the half-open
door, and when he came in he was trembling violently.
She turned to him fiercely: "So you are on guard to-night--on guard in
the White House after helping to murder the President!"
"Pardon me, but I did not help to murder the President. I could never
stoop to murder--much less to the murder of so good and great a man as
the President."
"But it appears that you _did_ stoop to murder."
"No, no! don't say that," he broke in. "God knows that I am innocent."
"I don't believe you. Why were you not at the door to keep the assassin
out when he rushed into the box?"
"I did wrong, I admit, and I have bitterly repented it, but I did not
help to kill the President. I did not believe that any one would try to
kill so good a man in such a public place, and the belief made me
careless. I was attracted by the play, and did not see the assassin
enter the box."
"But you should have seen him. You had no business to be careless. I
shall always believe that you are guilty. Hush! I shan't hear another
word," she exclaimed, as the messenger essayed to reply. "Go now and
keep your watch," she added, with an imperious wave of her hand. With
mechanical step and white face the messenger left the room, and Mrs.
Lincoln fell back on her pillow, covered her face with her hands, and
commenced sobbing.
Robert was very tender to his mother in the days of her sorrow.
He suffered deeply, as his haggard face indicated, but he was ever manly
and collected when in the presence of his mother. Mrs. Lincoln was
extremely nervous, and she refused to have anybody about her but myself.
Many ladies called, but she received none of them. Had she been less
secluded in her grief, perhaps she would have had many warmer friends
to-day than she has. But far be it from me to harshly judge the sorrow
of any one. Could the ladies who called to condole with Mrs. Lincoln,
after the death of her husband, and who were denied admittance to her
chamber, have seen how completely prostrated she was with grief, they
would have learned to speak more kindly of her. Often at night, when Tad
would hear her sobbing, he would get up, and come to her bed in his
white sleeping-clothes: "Don't cry, Mamma; I cannot sleep if you cry!
Papa was good, and he has gone to heaven. He is happy there. He is with
God and brother Willie. Don't cry, Mamma, or I will cry too."
The closing appeal always proved the most effectual, as Mrs. Lincoln
could not bear to hear her child cry.
Tad had been petted by his father, but petting could not spoil such a
manly nature as his. He seemed to realize that he was the son of a
President--to realize it in its loftiest and noblest sense. One morning,
while being dressed, he looked up at his nurse, and said: "Pa is dead.
I can hardly believe that I shall never see him again. I must learn to
take care of myself now." He looked thoughtful a moment, then added,
"Yes, Pa is dead, and I am only Tad Lincoln now, little Tad, like other
little boys. I am not a President's son now. I won't have many presents
any more. Well, I will try and be a good boy, and will hope to go some
day to Pa and brother Willie, in heaven." He was a brave, manly child,
and knew that influence had passed out of their hands with the death of
his father, and that his position in life was altered. He seemed to feel
that people petted him, and gave him presents, because they wanted to
please the President of the United States. From that period forward he
became more independent, and in a short time learned to dispense with
the services of a nurse. While in Chicago, I saw him get out his clothes
one Sunday morning and dress himself, and the change was such a great
one to me--for while in the White House, servants obeyed his every nod
and bid--that I could scarcely refrain from shedding tears. Had his
father lived, I knew it would have been different with his favorite boy.
Tad roomed with Robert, and he always took pride in pleasing his
brother.
After the Committee had started West with the body of the President,
there was quite a breeze of excitement for a few days as to where the
remains should be interred. Secretary Stanton and others held frequent
conferences with Robert, Mr. Todd, Mrs. Lincoln's cousin, and Dr. Henry,
an old schoolmate and friend of Mr. Lincoln. The city authorities of
Springfield had purchased a beautiful plat of ground in a prosperous
portion of the city, and work was rapidly progressing on the tomb, when
Mrs. Lincoln made strenuous objection to the location. She declared that
she would stop the body in Chicago before it should be laid to rest in
the lot purchased for the purpose by the City of Springfield. She gave
as a reason, that it was her desire to be laid by the side of her
husband when she died, and that such would be out of the question in a
public place of the kind. As is well known, the difficulty was finally
settled by placing the remains of the President in the family vault at
Oak Ridge, a charming spot for the home of the dead.
After the President's funeral Mrs. Lincoln rallied, and began to make
preparations to leave the White House. One day she suddenly exclaimed:
"God, Elizabeth, what a change! Did ever woman have to suffer so much
and experience so great a change? I had an ambition to be Mrs.
President; that ambition has been gratified, and now I must step down
from the pedestal. My poor husband! had he never been President, he
might be living to-day. Alas! all is over with me!"
Folding her arms for a few moments, she rocked back and forth, then
commenced again, more vehemently than ever: "My God, Elizabeth, I can
never go back to Springfield! no, never, until I go in my shroud to be
laid by my dear husband's side, and may Heaven speed that day! I should
like to live for my sons, but life is so full of misery that I would
rather die." And then she would go off into a fit of hysterics.
CHAPTER XII
MRS. LINCOLN LEAVES THE WHITE HOUSE
For five weeks Mrs. Lincoln was confined to her room. Packing afforded
quite a relief, as it so closely occupied us that we had not much time
for lamentation.
Letters of condolence were received from all parts of the country, and
even from foreign potentates, but Mr. Andrew Johnson, the successor of
Mr. Lincoln, never called on the widow, or even so much as wrote a line
expressing sympathy for her grief and the loss of her husband. Robert
called on him one day to tell him that his mother would turn the White
House over to him in a few days, and he never even so much as inquired
after their welfare. Mrs. Lincoln firmly believes that Mr. Johnson was
concerned in the assassination plot.
In packing, Mrs. Lincoln gave away everything intimately connected with
the President, as she said that she could not bear to be reminded of the
past. The articles were given to those who were regarded as the warmest
of Mr. Lincoln's admirers. All of the presents passed through my hands.
The dress that Mrs. Lincoln wore on the night of the assassination was
given to Mrs. Slade, the wife of an old and faithful messenger. The
cloak, stained with the President's blood, was given to me, as also was
the bonnet worn on the same memorable night. Afterwards I received the
comb and brush that Mr. Lincoln used during his residence at the White
House. With this same comb and brush I had often combed his head. When
almost ready to go down to a reception, he would turn to me with a
quizzical look: "Well, Madam Elizabeth, will you brush my bristles down
to-night?"
"Yes, Mr. Lincoln."
Then he would take his seat in an easy-chair, and sit quietly while I
arranged his hair. As may well be imagined, I was only too glad to
accept this comb and brush from the hands of Mrs. Lincoln. The cloak,
bonnet, comb, and brush, the glove worn at the first reception after the
second inaugural, and Mr. Lincoln's over-shoes, also given to me, I have
since donated for the benefit of Wilberforce University, a colored
college near Xenia, Ohio, destroyed by fire on the night that the
President was murdered.
There was much surmise, when Mrs. Lincoln left the White House, what her
fifty or sixty boxes, not to count her score of trunks, could contain.
Had the government not been so liberal in furnishing the boxes, it is
possible that there would have been less demand for so much
transportation. The boxes were loosely packed, and many of them with
articles not worth carrying away. Mrs. Lincoln had a passion for
hoarding old things, believing, with Toodles, that they were "handy to
have about the house."
The bonnets that she brought with her from Springfield, in addition to
every one purchased during her residence in Washington, were packed in
the boxes, and transported to Chicago. She remarked that she might find
use for the material some day, and it was prudent to look to the future.
I am sorry to say that Mrs. Lincoln's foresight in regard to the future
was only confined to cast-off clothing, as she owed, at the time of the
President's death, different store bills amounting to seventy thousand
dollars. Mr. Lincoln knew nothing of these bills, and the only happy
feature of his assassination was that he died in ignorance of them. Had
he known to what extent his wife was involved, the fact would have
embittered the only pleasant moments of his life. I disclose this secret
in regard to Mrs. Lincoln's debts, in order to explain why she should
subsequently have labored under pecuniary embarrassment. The children,
as well as herself, had received a vast number of presents during Mr.
Lincoln's administration, and these presents constituted a large item in
the contents of the boxes. The only article of furniture, so far as I
know, taken away from the White House by Mrs. Lincoln, was a little
dressing-stand used by the President. I recollect hearing him say one
day:
"Mother, this little stand is so handy, and suits me so well, that I do
not know how I shall get along without it when we move away from here."
He was standing before a mirror, brushing his hair, when he made the
remark.
"Well, father," Mrs. Lincoln replied, "if you like the stand so well, we
will take it with us when we go away."
"Not for the world," he exclaimed; but she interrupted him:
"I should like to know what difference it makes if we put a better one
in its place."
"That alters the question. If you will put a stand in its place worth
twice as much as this one, and the Commissioner consents, then I have no
objection."
Mrs. Lincoln remembered these words, and, with the consent of the
Commissioner, took the stand to Chicago with her for the benefit of
little Tad. Another stand, I must not forget to add, was put in its
place.
It is charged that a great deal of furniture was lost from the White
House during Mr. Lincoln's occupation of it. Very true, and it can be
accounted for in this way: In some respects, to put the case very
plainly, Mrs. Lincoln was "penny wise and pound foolish." When she moved
into the White House, she discharged the Steward, whose business it was
to look after the affairs of the household. When the Steward was
dismissed, there was no one to superintend affairs, and the servants
carried away many pieces of furniture. In this manner the furniture
rapidly disappeared.
Robert was frequently in the room where the boxes were being packed, and
he tried without avail to influence his mother to set fire to her vast
stores of old goods. "What are you going to do with that old dress,
mother?" he would ask.
"Never mind, Robert, I will find use for it. You do not understand this
business."
"And what is more, I hope I never may understand it. I wish to heaven
the car would take fire in which you place these boxes for
transportation to Chicago, and burn all of your old plunder up;" and
then, with an impatient gesture, he would turn on his heel and leave the
room.
"Robert is so impetuous," his mother would say to me, after the closing
of the door. "He never thinks about the future. Well, I hope that he
will get over his boyish notions in time."
Many of the articles that Mrs. Lincoln took away from the White House
were given, after her arrival in Chicago, for the benefit of charity
fairs.
At last everything was packed, and the day for departure for the West
came. I can never forget that day; it was so unlike the day when the
body of the President was borne from the hall in grand and solemn state.
Then thousands gathered to bow the head in reverence as the plumed
hearse drove down the line. There was all the pomp of military
display--drooping flags, battalions with reversed arms, and bands
playing dirge-like airs. Now, the wife of the President was leaving the
White House, and there was scarcely a friend to tell her good-by. She
passed down the public stairway, entered her carriage, and quietly drove
to the depot where we took the cars. The silence was almost painful.
It had been arranged that I should go to Chicago. When Mrs. Lincoln
first suggested her plan, I strongly objected; but I had been with her
so long, that she had acquired great power over me.
"I cannot go West with you, Mrs. Lincoln," I said, when the idea was
first advanced.
"But you must go to Chicago with me, Elizabeth; I cannot do without
you."
"You forget my business, Mrs. Lincoln. I cannot leave it. Just now I
have the spring trousseau to make for Mrs. Douglas, and I have promised
to have it done in less than a week."
"Never mind. Mrs. Douglas can get some one else to make her trousseau.
You may find it to your interest to go. I am very poor now, but if
Congress makes an appropriation for my benefit, you shall be well
rewarded."
"It is not the reward, but--" I commenced, by way of reply, but she
stopped me:
"Now don't say another word about it, if you do not wish to distress me.
I have determined that you shall go to Chicago with me, and you _must_
go."
When Mrs. Douglas learned that Mrs. Lincoln wished me to accompany her
West, she sent me word:
"Never mind me. Do all you can for Mrs. Lincoln. My heart's sympathy is
with her."
Finding that no excuse would be accepted, I made preparations to go to
Chicago with Mrs. L.
The green car had specially been chartered for us, and in this we were
conveyed to the West. Dr. Henry accompanied us, and he was remarkably
attentive and kind. The first night out, Mrs. Lincoln had a severe
headache; and while I was bathing her temples, she said to me:
"Lizabeth, you are my best and kindest friend, and I love you as my best
friend. I wish it were in my power to make you comfortable for the
balance of your days. If Congress provides for me, depend upon it, I
will provide for you."
The trip was devoid of interest. We arrived in Chicago without accident
or delay, and apartments were secured for us at the Tremont House, where
we remained one week. At the expiration of this time Mrs. Lincoln
decided that living at the hotel was attended with too much expense, so
it was arranged that we should go to the country. Rooms were selected at
Hyde Park, a summer resort.
Robert and Tad accompanied their mother to Hyde Park. We arrived about 3
o'clock in the afternoon of Saturday. The place had just been opened the
summer before, and there was a newness about everything. The
accommodations were not first-class, the rooms being small and plainly
furnished. It was a lively day for us all. Robert occupied himself
unpacking his books, and arranging them on the shelves in the corner of
his small but neat room. I assisted him, he talking pleasantly all the
while. When we were through, he folded his arms, stood off a little
distance from the mantel, with an abstracted look as if he were thinking
of the great change in his fortunes--contrasting the present with the
past. Turning to me, he asked: "Well, Mrs. Keckley, how do you like our
new quarters?"
"This is a delightful place, and I think you will pass your time
pleasantly," I answered.
He looked at me with a quizzical smile, then remarked: "You call it a
delightful place! Well, perhaps it is. Since you do not have to stay
here, you can safely say as much about the charming situation as you
please. I presume that I must put up with it, as mother's pleasure must
be consulted before my own. But candidly, I would almost as soon be
dead as be compelled to remain three months in this dreary house."
He seemed to feel what he said, and going to the window, he looked out
upon the view with moody countenance. I passed into Mrs. Lincoln's room,
and found her lying upon the bed, sobbing as if her heart would break.
"What a dreary place, Lizzie! And to think that I should be compelled to
live here, because I have not the means to live elsewhere. Ah! what a
sad change has come to us all." I had listened to her sobbing for eight
weeks, therefore I was never surprised to find her in tears. Tad was the
only cheerful one of the party. He was a child of sunshine, and nothing
seemed to dampen the ardor of his spirits.
Sunday was a very quiet day. I looked out of my window in the morning,
upon the beautiful lake that formed one of the most delightful views
from the house. The wind was just strong enough to ripple the broad
bosom of the water, and each ripple caught a jewel from the sunshine,
and threw it sparkling up towards the sky. Here and there a sail-boat
silently glided into view, or sank below the faint blue line that marked
the horizon--glided and melted away like the spectral shadows that
sometimes haunt the white snow-fields in the cold, tranquil light of a
winter's moon. As I stood by my window that morning, looking out upon
the lake, my thoughts were etherealized--the reflected sunbeams
suggested visions of crowns studded with the jewels of eternal life, and
I wondered how any one could call Hyde Park a dreary place. I had seen
so much trouble in my life, that I was willing to fold my arms and sink
into a passive slumber--slumber anywhere, so the great longing of the
soul was gratified--rest.
Robert spent the day in his room with his books, while I remained in
Mrs. Lincoln's room, talking with her, contrasting the present with the
past, and drawing plans for the future. She held no communication, by
letter or otherwise, with any of her relatives or old friends, saying
that she wished to lead a secluded life for the summer. Old faces, she
claimed, would only bring back memories of scenes that she desired to
forget; and new faces, she felt assured, could not sympathize with her
distress, or add to the comforts of her situation.
On Monday morning, Robert was getting ready to ride into Chicago, as
business called him to the city.
"Where you goin', brother Bob?"--Tad generally called Robert, brother
Bob.
"Only into town!" was the brief reply.
"Mayn't I go with you?"
"Ask mother. I think that she will say no."
Just then Mrs. Lincoln came in, and Tad ran to her, with the eager
question:
"Oh, Ma! can't I go to town with brother Bob? I want to go so badly."
"Go to town! No; you must stay and keep me company. Besides, I have
determined that you shall get a lesson every day, and I am going to
commence to-day with you."
"I don't want to get a lesson--I won't get a lesson," broke in the
impetuous boy. "I don't want to learn my book; I want to go to town!"
"I suppose you want to grow up to be a great dunce. Hush, Tad; you shall
not go to town until you have said a lesson;" and the mother looked
resolute.
"May I go after I learn my book?" was the next question.
"Yes; if Robert will wait for you."
"Oh, Bob will wait; won't you, Bob?"
"No, I cannot wait; but the landlord is going in this afternoon, and you
can go with him. You must do as mother tells you, Tad. You are getting
to be a big boy now, and must start to school next fall; and you would
not like to go to school without knowing how to read."
"Where's my book, Ma? Get my book quick. I will say my lesson," and he
jumped about the room, boisterously, boy-like.
"Be quiet, Tad. Here is your book, and we will now begin the first
lesson," said his mother, as she seated herself in an easy-chair.
Tad had always been much humored by his parents, especially by his
father. He suffered from a slight impediment in his speech, and had
never been made to go to school; consequently his book knowledge was
very limited. I knew that his education had been neglected, but had no
idea he was so deficient as the first lesson at Hyde Park proved him to
be.
Drawing a low chair to his mother's side, he opened his book, and began
to slowly spell the first word, "A-P-E."
"Well, what does A-p-e spell?"
"Monkey," was the instant rejoinder. The word was illustrated by a small
wood-cut of an ape, which looked to Tad's eyes very much like a monkey;
and his pronunciation was guided by the picture, and not by the sounds
of the different letters.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed his mother. "A-p-e does not spell monkey."
"Does spell monkey! Isn't that a monkey?" and Tad pointed triumphantly
to the picture.
"No, it is not a monkey."
"Not a monkey! what is it, then?"
"An ape."
"An ape! 'taint an ape. Don't I know a monkey when I see it?"
"No, if you say that is a monkey."
"I do know a monkey. I've seen lots of them in the street with the
organs. I know a monkey better than you do, 'cause I always go out into
the street to see them when they come by, and you don't."
"But, Tad, listen to me. An ape is a species of the monkey. It looks
like a monkey, but it is not a monkey."
"It shouldn't look like a monkey, then. Here, Yib"--he always called me
Yib--"isn't this a monkey, and don't A-p-e spell monkey? Ma don't know
anything about it;" and he thrust his book into my face in an earnest,
excited manner.
I could not longer restrain myself, and burst out laughing. Tad looked
very much offended, and I hastened to say: "I beg your pardon, Master
Tad; I hope that you will excuse my want of politeness."
He bowed his head in a patronizing way, and returned to the original
question: "Isn't this a monkey? Don't A-p-e spell monkey?"
"No, Tad; your mother is right. A-p-e spells ape."
"You don't know as much as Ma. Both of you don't know anything;" and
Master Tad's eyes flashed with indignation.
Robert entered the room, and the question was referred to him. After
many explanations, he succeeded in convincing Tad that A-p-e does not
spell monkey, and the balance of the lesson was got over with less
difficulty.
Whenever I think of this incident I am tempted to laugh; and then it
occurs to me that had Tad been a negro boy, not the son of a President,
and so difficult to instruct, he would have been called thick-skulled,
and would have been held up as an example of the inferiority of race. I
know many full negro boys, able to read and write, who are not older
than Tad Lincoln was when he persisted that A-p-e spelt monkey. Do not
imagine that I desire to reflect upon the intellect of little Tad. Not
at all; he is a bright boy, a son that will do honor to the genius and
greatness of his father; I only mean to say that some incidents are
about as damaging to one side of the question as to the other. If a
colored boy appears dull, so does a white boy sometimes; and if a whole
race is judged by a single example of apparent dulness, another race
should be judged by a similar example.
I returned to Washington, with Mrs. Lincoln's best wishes for my success
in business. The journey was devoid of incident. After resting a few
days, I called at the White House, and transacted some business for Mrs.
Lincoln. I had no desire to enter the house, for everything about it
bitterly reminded me of the past; and when I came out of the door, I
hoped that I had crossed the threshold for the last time. I was asked by
some of my friends if I had sent my business cards to Mr. Johnson's
family, and my answer was that I had not, as I had no desire to work for
the President's family. Mr. Johnson was no friend to Mr. Lincoln, and he
had failed to treat Mrs. Lincoln, in the hour of her greatest sorrow,
with even common courtesy.
Having promised to make a spring trousseau for Mrs. Senator Douglas as
soon as I should return from Chicago, I called on her to meet the
engagement. She appeared pleased to see me, and in greeting me, asked,
with evident surprise:
"Why, Keckley"--she always called me Keckley--"is this you? I did not
know you were coming back. It was reported that you designed remaining
with Mrs. Lincoln all summer."
"Mrs. Lincoln would have been glad to have kept me with her had she been
able."
"Able! What do you mean by that?"
"Simply this: Already she is laboring under pecuniary embarrassment, and
was only able to pay my expenses, and allow me nothing for my time."
"You surprise me. I thought she was left in good circumstances."
"So many think, it appears. Mrs. Lincoln, I assure you, is now
practising the closest economy. I must do something for myself, Mrs.
Douglas, so I have come back to Washington to open my shop."
The next day I collected my assistants, and my business went on as
usual. Orders came in more rapidly than I could fill them. One day, in
the middle of the month of June, the girl who was attending the door
came into the cutting-room, where I was hard at work:
"Mrs. Keckley, there is a lady below, who wants to see you."
"Who is she?"
"I don't know. I did not learn her name."
"Is her face familiar? Does she look like a regular customer?"
"No, she is a stranger. I don't think she was ever here before. She came
in an open carriage, with a black woman for an attendant."
"It may be the wife of one of Johnson's new secretaries. Do go down,
Mrs. Keckley," exclaimed my work-girls in a chorus. I went below, and on
entering the parlor, a plainly dressed lady rose to her feet, and asked:
"Is this the dressmaker?"
"Yes, I am a dressmaker."
"Mrs. Keckley?"
"Yes."
"Mrs. Lincoln's former dressmaker, were you not?"
"Yes, I worked for Mrs. Lincoln."
"Are you very busy now?"
"Very, indeed."
"Can you do anything for me?"
"That depends upon what is to be done, and when it is to be done."
"Well, say one dress now, and several others a few weeks later."
"I can make one dress for you now, but no more. I cannot finish the one
for you in less than three weeks."
"That will answer. I am Mrs. Patterson, the daughter of President
Johnson. I expect my sister, Mrs. Stover, here in three weeks, and the
dress is for her. We are both the same size, and you can fit the dress
to me."
The terms were satisfactorily arranged, and after measuring Mrs.
Patterson, she bade me good morning, entered her carriage, and drove
away.
When I went up-stairs into the work-room, the girls were anxious to
learn who my visitor was.
"It was Mrs. Patterson, the daughter of President Johnson," I answered,
in response to several questions.
"What! the daughter of our good Moses. Are you going to work for her?"
"I have taken her order."
"I fear that Johnson will prove a poor Moses, and I would not work for
any of the family," remarked one of the girls. None of them appeared to
like Mr. Lincoln's successor.
I finished the dress for Mrs. Patterson, and it gave satisfaction. I
afterwards learned that both Mrs. Patterson and Mrs. Stover were
kindhearted, plain, unassuming women, making no pretensions to elegance.
One day when I called at the White House, in relation to some work that
I was doing for them, I found Mrs. Patterson busily at work with a
sewing-machine. The sight was a novel one to me for the White House, for
as long as I remained with Mrs. Lincoln, I do not recollect ever having
seen her with a needle in her hand. The last work done for the Johnsons
by me were two dresses, one for each of the sisters. Mrs. Patterson
subsequently wrote me a note, requesting me to cut and fit a dress for
her; to which I replied that I never cut and fitted work to be made up
outside of my work-room. This brought our business relations to an
abrupt end.
The months passed, and my business prospered. I continually received
letters from Mrs. Lincoln, and as the anniversary of her husband's death
approached, she wrote in a sadder strain. Before I left Chicago she had
exacted the promise that should Congress make an appropriation for her
benefit, I must join her in the West, and go with her to visit the tomb
of the President for the first time. The appropriation was made one of
the conditions of my visit, for without relief from Congress she would
be unable to bear my expenses. The appropriation was not made; and so I
was unable to join Mrs. Lincoln at the appointed time. She wrote me that
her plan was to leave Chicago in the morning with Tad, reach Springfield
at night, stop at one of the hotels, drive out to Oak Ridge the next
day, and take the train for Chicago the same evening, thus avoiding a
meeting with any of her old friends. This plan, as she afterwards wrote
me, was carried out. When the second anniversary approached, President
Johnson and party were "swinging round the circle," and as they were to
visit Chicago, she was especially anxious to be away from the city when
they should arrive; accordingly she hurried off to Springfield, and
spent the time in weeping over the tomb where repose the hallowed ashes
of her husband.
During all this time I was asked many questions about Mrs. Lincoln, some
prompted by friendship, but a greater number by curiosity; but my brief
answers, I fear, were not always accepted as the most satisfactory.
CHAPTER XIII
THE ORIGIN OF THE RIVALRY BETWEEN MR. DOUGLAS AND MR. LINCOLN
Mrs. Lincoln from her girlhood up had an ambition to become the wife of
a President. When a little girl, as I was told by one of her sisters,
she was disposed to be a little noisy at times, and was self-willed. One
day she was romping about the room, making more noise than the nerves of
her grandmother could stand. The old lady looked over her spectacles,
and said, in a commanding tone:
"Sit down, Mary. Do be quiet. What on earth do you suppose will become
of you if you go on this way?"
"Oh, I will be the wife of a President some day," carelessly answered
the petted child.
Mrs. Lincoln, as Miss Mary Todd, was quite a belle in Springfield,
Illinois, and from all accounts she was fond of flirting. She generally
managed to keep a half-dozen gentlemen biting at the hook that she
baited so temptingly for them. The world, if I mistake not, are not
aware that the rivalry between Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Stephen A. Douglas
commenced over the hand of Miss Mary Todd. The young lady was ambitious,
and she smiled more sweetly upon Mr. Douglas and Mr. Lincoln than any of
her other admirers, as they were regarded as rising men. She played her
part so well that neither of the rivals for a long time could tell who
would win the day. Mr. Douglas first proposed for her hand, and she
discarded him. The young man urged his suit boldly:
"Mary, you do not know what you are refusing. You have always had an
ambition to become the wife of a President of the United States. Pardon
the egotism, but I fear that in refusing my hand to-night you have
thrown away your best chance to ever rule in the White House."
"I do not understand you, Mr. Douglas."
"Then I will speak more plainly. You know, Mary, that I am ambitious
like yourself, and something seems to whisper in my ear, 'You will be
President some day.' Depend upon it, I shall make a stubborn fight to
win the proud position."
"You have my best wishes, Mr. Douglas; still I cannot consent to be your
wife. I shall become Mrs. President, or I am the victim of false
prophets, but it will not be as Mrs. Douglas."
I have this little chapter in a romantic history from the lips of Mrs.
Lincoln herself.
At one of the receptions at the White House, shortly after the first
inauguration, Mrs. Lincoln joined in the promenade with Senator Douglas.
He was holding a bouquet that had been presented to her, and as they
moved along he said:
"Mary, it reminds me of old times to have you lean upon my arm."
"You refer to the days of our youth. I must do you the credit, Mr.
Douglas, to say, that you were a gallant beau."
"Not only a beau, but a lover. Do you remember the night our flirtation
was brought to an end?"
"Distinctly. You now see that I was right. I am Mrs. President, but not
Mrs. Douglas."
"True, you have reached the goal before me, but I do not despair. Mrs.
Douglas--a nobler woman does not live--if I am spared, may possibly
succeed you as Mrs. President."
A few evenings after Mr. Douglas had been discarded, Mr. Lincoln made a
formal proposal for the hand of Miss Todd, but it appears that the young
lady was not willing to capitulate at once. She believed that she could
send her lover adrift to-day and win him back to-morrow.
"You are bold, Mr. Lincoln."
"Love makes me bold."
"You honor me, pardon me, but I cannot consent to be your wife."
"Is this your final answer, Miss Todd?" and the suitor rose nervously to
his feet.
"I do not often jest, Mr. Lincoln. Why should I reconsider to-morrow my
decision of to-day."
"Excuse me. Your answer is sufficient. I was led to hope that I might
become dearer to you than a friend, but the hope, it seems, has proved
an idle one. I have the honor to say good night, Miss Todd," and pale,
yet calm, Mr. Lincoln bowed himself out of the room.
He rushed to his office in a frantic state of mind. Dr. Henry, his most
intimate friend, happened to come in, and was surprised to see the young
lawyer walking the floor in an agitated manner.
"What is the matter, Lincoln? You look desperate."
"Matter! I am sick
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