Mrs. Lincoln Leaves the White House

18 min

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.

For five weeks, Mrs. Lincoln stayed in her room. Packing was a relief because it kept us so busy that we had little time to grieve.

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.

Letters of condolence came from all parts of the country, and even from foreign rulers. But Mr. Andrew Johnson, who succeeded Mr. Lincoln, never visited the widow. He did not even write a line expressing sympathy for her grief and the loss of her husband. One day, Robert visited Mr. Johnson to tell him that his mother would turn the White House over to him in a few days. Mr. Johnson did not even ask how they were doing. Mrs. Lincoln firmly believes that Mr. Johnson was involved 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?"

While packing, Mrs. Lincoln gave away everything closely connected with the President. She said she could not bear to be reminded of the past. The items went to those regarded as Mr. Lincoln's warmest admirers. All of the gifts passed through my hands. The dress Mrs. Lincoln wore on the night of the assassination went to Mrs. Slade. She was the wife of a longtime, faithful messenger. The cloak, stained with the President's blood, was given to me, along with the bonnet Mrs. Lincoln wore that same memorable night. Later, I received the comb and brush Mr. Lincoln used while living at the White House. I had often used them to comb and brush his hair. When he was nearly ready to go down to a reception, he would turn to me with a teasing look: "Well, Madam Elizabeth, will you brush my bristles down tonight?"

"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.

Then he would sit quietly in an armchair while I arranged his hair. As you can imagine, I was very glad to accept this comb and brush from Mrs. Lincoln. She also gave me the cloak, bonnet, glove worn at the first reception after the second inaugural, and Mr. Lincoln's overshoes. I have since donated all these items to benefit Wilberforce University, a colored college near Xenia, Ohio. The college was destroyed by fire on the night 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."

When Mrs. Lincoln left the White House, many people wondered what her fifty or sixty boxes could contain. That was not counting her twenty trunks. If the government had not been so generous in providing the boxes, she might have needed less transportation. The boxes were loosely packed, and many contained articles not worth carrying away. Mrs. Lincoln loved to hoard old things. Like Toodles, she believed 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:

The bonnets she had brought from Springfield were packed in boxes and transported to Chicago, along with every bonnet she had bought while living in Washington. She said she might find a use for the material someday, and that it was wise to plan for the future. I am sorry to say that Mrs. Lincoln's foresight extended only to cast-off clothing. At the time of the President's death, she owed various stores bills totaling seventy thousand dollars. Mr. Lincoln knew nothing of these bills. The only happy aspect of his assassination was that he died without knowing about them. Had he known how deeply his wife was in debt, it would have embittered the only pleasant moments of his life. I reveal this secret about Mrs. Lincoln's debts to explain why she later struggled financially. Mrs. Lincoln and the children had received a great many presents during Mr. Lincoln's administration. These presents made up a large part of the boxes' contents. As far as I know, the only piece of furniture Mrs. Lincoln took from the White House was a small dressing-stand used by the President. I remember 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.

"Mother, this little stand is so handy and suits me so well. I don't know how I'll get along without it when we move away from here." He said this while standing in front of a mirror, brushing his hair.

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

"Well, father," Mrs. Lincoln replied, "if you like the stand so much, we'll take it with us when we leave."

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

"Not for anything in 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."

"I'd 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."

"That changes things. If you replace this stand with one worth twice as much, and the Commissioner agrees, 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.

Mrs. Lincoln remembered these words. With the Commissioner's permission, she took the stand to Chicago for little Tad. I must add that another stand 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.

People claim that a great deal of furniture was lost from the White House while Mr. Lincoln lived there. That is quite true, and here is how it happened. To put it plainly, Mrs. Lincoln was, in some ways, "penny wise and pound foolish." When she moved into the White House, she fired the steward, who was responsible for managing the household. With the steward gone, no one was in charge, and the servants carried away many pieces of furniture. In this way, the furniture quickly 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.

Robert was often in the room where the boxes were being packed. He tried, without success, to persuade his mother to burn 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."

"Never mind, Robert. I'll find a use for it. You don't 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.

"What's more, I hope I never understand it. I wish to heaven the train car carrying these boxes to Chicago would catch fire and burn all your old stuff." Then he would make an impatient gesture, 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."

"Robert is so impulsive," his mother would say to me after the door closed. "He never thinks about the future. Well, I hope he will outgrow his boyish ideas 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.

After arriving in Chicago, Mrs. Lincoln gave many items she had taken from the White House to 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.

At last everything was packed, and the day came for us to leave for the West. I can never forget that day. It was so different from the day the President's body was carried from the hall with grandeur and solemn ceremony. Then thousands gathered and bowed their heads in reverence as the hearse with its plumes passed by. There was all the splendor of a military display: lowered flags, battalions carrying their weapons upside down, and bands playing funeral music. Now the President's wife was leaving the White House, and hardly a friend was there to say goodbye. She went down the public staircase, got into her carriage, and quietly rode to the station, where we boarded the train. 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.

Plans had been made for me to go to Chicago. When Mrs. Lincoln first suggested her plan, I strongly objected. But I had been with her so long that she had gained great power over me.

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

"I can't go West with you, Mrs. Lincoln," I said when the idea was first suggested.

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

"But you must come to Chicago with me, Elizabeth. I can't 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."

"You forget about my business, Mrs. Lincoln. I cannot leave it. Right now, I have to make Mrs. Douglas's spring wedding wardrobe. I promised to finish it 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."

"Never mind. Mrs. Douglas can find someone else to make her wedding clothes. It may be worth your while to go. I am very poor now, but if Congress grants me money, you will be well rewarded."

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

“It’s not the reward, but...” I began to 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."

"Now don't say another word about it if you don't want to upset me. I've decided that you're going 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:

When Mrs. Douglas learned that Mrs. Lincoln wanted me to travel West with her, she sent me a message:

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

"Don't worry about me. Do all you can for Mrs. Lincoln. My heart goes out to her."

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

When I realized that no excuse would be accepted, I prepared 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:

The green railcar had been chartered especially for us, and we traveled west in it. Dr. Henry accompanied us and was remarkably attentive and kind. On the first night of the trip, Mrs. Lincoln had a severe headache. 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."

"Lizabeth, you are my best and kindest friend, and I love you as my best friend. I wish I could make you comfortable for the rest of your life. If Congress provides for me, you can be sure 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.

The trip was uneventful. We arrived in Chicago without any accidents or delays. Rooms were secured for us at the Tremont House, where we stayed for one week. After that, Mrs. Lincoln decided that living at the hotel was too expensive. So arrangements were made for us to go to the country. Rooms were chosen 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?"

Robert and Tad went with their mother to Hyde Park. We arrived around 3 o'clock on Saturday afternoon. The place had opened only the summer before, and everything had a new look. The accommodations were not first-class. The rooms were small and plainly furnished. It was a lively day for all of us. Robert spent his time unpacking his books and arranging them on shelves in the corner of his small but neat room. I helped him, and he chatted pleasantly the whole time. When we finished, he folded his arms and stood a little distance from the mantel. He looked lost in thought, as if he were reflecting on the great change in his fortunes and comparing the present with the past. He turned to me and 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.

"This is a lovely place, and I think you will enjoy your time here," 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 looked at me with a puzzled smile, then said: "You call it a delightful place! Well, perhaps it is. Since you don't have to stay here, you can say as much as you like about how charming the place is. I suppose I must put up with it, because mother's wishes must come before mine. But honestly, I would almost rather be dead than have to spend 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.

He seemed to mean what he said. He went to the window and looked out with a gloomy expression. I went into Mrs. Lincoln's room and found her lying on 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.

"What a dreary place, Lizzie! And to think I have to live here because I can't afford to live anywhere else. Ah! What a sad change has come to us all." I had listened to her sobbing for eight weeks, so I was never surprised to find her in tears. Tad was the only cheerful one in the group. He was a sunny child, and nothing seemed to dampen his enthusiasm.

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.

Sunday was a very quiet day. That morning, I looked out my window at the beautiful lake, one of the most delightful views from the house. The wind was just strong enough to ripple the broad surface of the water. Each ripple caught a jewel from the sunlight and sent it sparkling toward the sky. Here and there, a sailboat silently glided into view or disappeared below the faint blue line of the horizon. The boats glided and faded away like ghostly shadows that sometimes haunt white snowfields in the cold, peaceful light of a winter moon. As I stood by my window that morning, looking out at the lake, my thoughts rose above earthly things. The reflected sunbeams brought to mind visions of crowns studded with the jewels of eternal life. I wondered how anyone 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 peaceful sleep. I could sleep anywhere, as long as my soul’s great longing was satisfied: 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.

Robert spent the day in his room with his books. I stayed in Mrs. Lincoln's room, talking with her about the present and the past and making plans for the future. She did not communicate with any relatives or old friends, by letter or otherwise. She said she wanted to live in seclusion for the summer. Familiar faces, she said, would only bring back memories of scenes she wanted to forget. And she was sure that new faces could not sympathize with her distress or make her situation more comfortable.

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

On Monday morning, Robert was getting ready to ride into Chicago because he had business in the city.

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

"Where you going, brother Bob?" Tad usually called Robert brother Bob.

"Only into town!" was the brief reply.

"Just into town!" was the brief reply.

"Mayn't I go with you?"

"Can't I go with you?"

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

"Ask mother. I think she'll say no."

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

Just then, Mrs. Lincoln came in, and Tad ran to her and eagerly asked:

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

"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."

"Go to town? No, you must stay and keep me company. Besides, I've decided that you'll have a lesson every day. I'm going to start with you today."

"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 don't want to study my lesson. I won't study it," the impulsive boy interrupted. "I don't want to study 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.

"I suppose you want to grow up to be a great fool. Hush, Tad. You can't go to town until you've recited a lesson," said his mother, looking determined.

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

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

"Yes; if Robert will wait for you."

"Yes, if Robert will wait for you."

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

"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."

“No, I can’t wait, but the landlord is going in this afternoon. You can go with him. You must do as Mother tells you, Tad. You’re getting to be a big boy now, and you must start school next fall. You wouldn’t 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.

"Where's my book, Ma? Get my book quickly. I'll say my lesson," he said, jumping around the room like an energetic boy.

"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.

"Be quiet, Tad. Here is your book, and we will begin the first lesson now," his mother said as she sat down in an armchair.

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.

Tad’s parents had always indulged him, especially his father. He had a slight speech impediment and had never been required to attend school. As a result, he had learned very little from books. I knew his education had been neglected. But I had no idea how little he knew until his first lesson at Hyde Park.

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

He pulled a low chair beside his mother and opened his book. Then he began to slowly spell the first word, "A-P-E."

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

"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.

"Monkey," came the immediate reply. The word was illustrated by a small woodcut of an ape, which looked very much like a monkey to Tad. The picture guided his pronunciation, not the sounds of the individual letters.

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

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

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

"Does spell monkey! Isn't that a monkey?" Tad asked, pointing triumphantly to the picture.

"No, it is not a monkey."

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

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

"An ape."

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

"An ape! It ain't 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."

"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 because 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."

"But, Tad, listen to me. An ape is a type of 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.

"It shouldn't look like a monkey, then. Here, Yib," he said. He always called me Yib. "Isn't this a monkey, and doesn't A-p-e spell monkey? Ma doesn't know anything about it." He eagerly and excitedly thrust his book into my face.

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."

I could no longer hold back and burst out laughing. Tad looked very offended, and I quickly said: "I'm sorry, Master Tad. I hope you'll excuse my rudeness."

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?"

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

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

"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.

"You don't know as much as Ma. Neither of you knows anything." 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.

Robert entered the room, and they asked him about the question. After explaining it many times, he convinced Tad that A-p-e does not spell monkey. The rest of the lesson went more smoothly.

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.

Whenever I think of this incident, I am tempted to laugh. Then I remember how differently people would have judged Tad if he had been a negro boy, not the President's son, and had been so difficult to teach. He would have been called thick-skulled and held up as an example of the inferiority of his race. I know many full negro boys who can read and write. They are no older than Tad Lincoln was when he insisted that A-p-e spelled monkey. Do not imagine that I mean to criticize little Tad's intelligence. Not at all. He is a bright boy, a son who will honor his father's genius and greatness. I only mean that some incidents are about as damaging to one side of the question as to the other. If a colored boy seems slow, a white boy sometimes does too. If a whole race is judged by one example of apparent slowness, 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.

I returned to Washington with Mrs. Lincoln's best wishes for my business. Nothing eventful happened on the journey. After resting for a few days, I went to the White House to conduct some business for Mrs. Lincoln. I did not want to enter the house because everything there brought back bitter memories of the past. When I came out, I hoped I had crossed its threshold for the last time. Some of my friends asked if I had sent my business cards to Mr. Johnson's family. I told them I had not, because I did not want to work for the President's family. Mr. Johnson was no friend to Mr. Lincoln. And he had failed to show Mrs. Lincoln even common courtesy in her time of greatest sorrow.

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:

I had promised to make a spring trousseau for Mrs. Senator Douglas as soon as I returned from Chicago. So I called on her to fulfill my promise. She seemed pleased to see me. As she greeted me, she asked with obvious 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."

"Why, Keckley, is that you? I didn't know you were coming back. I heard you planned to stay with Mrs. Lincoln all summer." She always called me Keckley.

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

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

"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."

"Simply this: She is already struggling financially. She could only pay my expenses and could not pay me for my time."

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

"You surprise me. I thought she had been left well-off."

"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."

"Apparently, many people think so. But I assure you, Mrs. Lincoln is now spending as little as possible. 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:

The next day, I gathered my assistants, and my business continued as usual. Orders came in faster than I could fill them. One day in mid-June, I was hard at work in the cutting room. The girl who answered the door came in:

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

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

"Who is she?"

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

"I don't know. I didn't learn her name."

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

"Does her face look 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."

"No, she's a stranger. I don't think she's ever been here before. She came in an open carriage with a black woman as her 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:

"It may be the wife of one of Johnson's new secretaries. Please go downstairs, Mrs. Keckley," my workers exclaimed together. I went downstairs and entered the parlor. A plainly dressed lady stood up and asked:

"Is this the dressmaker?"

"Yes, I am a dressmaker."

"Mrs. Keckley?"

"Yes."

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

"You were Mrs. Lincoln's former dressmaker, weren't you?"

"Yes, I worked for Mrs. Lincoln."

"Are you very busy now?"

"Very, indeed."

"Very much so."

"Can you do anything for me?"

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

"That depends on what needs to be done and when."

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

"Well, let's say one dress now, and several more 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."

"I can make one dress for you now, but no more. It will take me at least three weeks to finish it."

"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."

“That will do. I am Mrs. Patterson, President Johnson’s daughter. My sister, Mrs. Stover, will be here in three weeks. The dress is for her. We are the same size, so you can fit the dress on me.”

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

We agreed on the terms, and I measured Mrs. Patterson. She said good morning, got into her carriage, and drove away.

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

When I went upstairs to the workroom, the girls were eager to know who my visitor was.

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

"It was Mrs. Patterson, President Johnson's daughter," I answered when asked several questions.

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

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

"I have taken her order."

"I've 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'm afraid Johnson will be a poor Moses, and I wouldn't work for anyone in his family," said one of the girls. None of them seemed to like Mr. Lincoln's successor.

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

I finished Mrs. Patterson's dress, and she was pleased with it. I later learned that both Mrs. Patterson and Mrs. Stover were kindhearted, plain, and unassuming women who made no claim to elegance. One day I called at the White House about some work I was doing for them. I found Mrs. Patterson busy at a sewing machine. It was a new sight for me at the White House. During all my time with Mrs. Lincoln, I do not recall ever seeing her with a needle in her hand. The last work I did for the Johnsons was two dresses, one for each sister. Later, Mrs. Patterson wrote to ask me to cut and fit a dress for her. I replied that I never cut and fitted dresses to be sewn outside my workroom. This brought our business relationship 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.

The months passed, and my business prospered. I often received letters from Mrs. Lincoln. As the anniversary of her husband's death approached, her letters grew sadder. Before I left Chicago, she had made me promise to join her in the West if Congress granted her money. I was to accompany her on her first visit to the President's tomb. The grant was a condition of my visit because she could not pay my expenses without help from Congress. Congress did not grant the money, so I could not join Mrs. Lincoln at the appointed time. She wrote to tell me her plan. She and Tad would leave Chicago in the morning, reach Springfield at night, and stay at a hotel. The next day, they would drive out to Oak Ridge and take the train back to Chicago that evening. That way, she would avoid meeting any of her old friends. She later wrote that she had carried out the plan. As the second anniversary approached, President Johnson and his party were "swinging round the circle." They were to visit Chicago, and Mrs. Lincoln was especially anxious to be away when they arrived. So she hurried off to Springfield and spent the time weeping over the tomb where her husband's sacred ashes rest.

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.

During all this time, I was asked many questions about Mrs. Lincoln. Some were prompted by friendship, but more were prompted by curiosity. I fear my brief answers were not always satisfactory.