Willie Lincoln's Deathbed

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. Lincoln returned to Washington in November, and duty called me back to the White House. The war was now underway, and every day brought dramatic news from the front. There, the Gray fought the Blue, and bright sabers flashed in the sunlight. The angry sounds of battle rang out, with the deep roar of cannon and the terrifying rattle of musket fire. New graves were being dug every day. Brothers forgot their mother's early blessing and sought to kill one another. Friends raised deadly knives against friends. Oh, the front, with its stirring scenes of battle! Oh, the front, with its gruesome heaps of dead! The life of the nation was at stake. With the land full of sorrow, there could be little gaiety in the capital. My days passed quietly. I soon learned that some people desperately wanted to get inside the White House's inner circle. No President and his family had ever aroused as much curiosity as those now living there. Mr. Lincoln had grown up in the wilds of the West, and malicious rumors had said much about him and his wife. Polite society was shocked, and the tendency to exaggerate made people even more curious. As soon as people learned that I was Mrs. Lincoln's dressmaker, they crowded around me and pretended to be my friends. They hoped to persuade me to reveal the family's private secrets. One day a woman came to my rooms in a carriage and ordered a dress. I will not call her a lady. She insisted on paying me part of the price in advance. She visited me every day and was exceedingly kind. When she came to take her dress away, she cautiously remarked:

"Mrs. Keckley, you know Mrs. Lincoln?"

"Mrs. Keckley, do you know Mrs. Lincoln?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"You are her modiste; are you not?"

"You're her dressmaker, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"You know her very well; do you not?"

"You know her very well, don't you?"

"I am with her every day or two."

"I am with her every day or two."

"Don't you think you would have some influence with her?"

"Don't you think you could have some influence over 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 can’t say. I assume Mrs. Lincoln would listen to anything I suggested. But whether my suggestion would influence her 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 am sure you could influence her, Mrs. Keckley. Now listen. I have a proposal. I very much want to live in the White House. I have heard so much about Mr. Lincoln’s kindness that I would like to be near him. If I can’t get into the White House any other way, I am willing to work as a servant. My dear Mrs. Keckley, will you recommend me to Mrs. Lincoln as a friend of yours who is out of work? Will you ask her to hire me as a chambermaid? If you do, you will 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:

I looked at the woman in amazement. A bribe to betray my employer's trust! I turned to her with a scornful look and 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."

"Madam, you are wrong about my character. I would throw myself into the Potomac River before betraying a friend's trust. I am not that dishonorable. Excuse me, but there is the door. I hope 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."

She jumped to her feet, deeply confused, and walked through the door. She murmured, "Very well. You will live to regret what you did 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.

"Never, never!" I exclaimed, and slammed the door behind her. I later learned that the woman was an actress. She wanted to enter the White House as a servant, learn its secrets, and then publish a scandal for the world to read. I do not give her name because such publicity would hurt her sensitive friends. They would share her disgrace without being responsible for her faults. I mention the incident only to show how often unscrupulous people approached me. Needless to say, 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:

Mrs. Lincoln's first public appearance that winter was at the New Year's Day reception. Shortly afterward, a splendid formal reception was held. The next day, I went to the White House. While I was fitting a dress on 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?"

"Lizabeth" (she had learned to drop the E), "Lizabeth, I have an idea. It's wartime, and we must save as much money as possible. You know the President is expected to give a series of state dinners every winter. These dinners are very expensive, and I want to avoid that expense. My idea is to give three large receptions instead of the state dinners. What do you think, Lizabeth?"

"I think that you are right, Mrs. Lincoln."

"I think you're 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."

"I'm glad to hear you say that. If I can get Mr. Lincoln to see the matter the same way, I will 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.

Before I left her room that day, Mr. Lincoln came in. She immediately explained the situation to him. He thought about it for a few moments before answering.

"Mother, I am afraid your plan will not work."

"Mother, I'm afraid your plan won't work."

"But it will work, if you will only determine that it shall work."

"But it will work if you just decide that it shall work."

"It is breaking in on the regular custom," he mildly replied.

"It goes against the usual custom," he replied gently.

"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."

"But you forget, father, this is wartime, and we can set old customs aside just this once. You must admit the idea saves money."

"Yes, mother, but we must think of something besides economy."

"Yes, mother, but we must think about more than saving money."

"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 do have another thought. Public receptions are more democratic than stupid state dinners. They are more in keeping with the spirit of our country’s institutions, as you would say in a campaign speech. There are many visitors in the city, including foreigners and others. We can entertain them at our receptions, but we cannot invite them 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."

"I think you're right, mother. You make a good case. I think we'll 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.

So the decision was made, and arrangements began for the first reception. It was now January, and invitations were sent out 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:

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 being out in it gave him a severe cold that turned into a fever. He was very sick, and I was called to his bedside. It was sad to see the poor boy suffer. He had always been delicate, and he could not fight off the disease. The days dragged wearily by, and he grew weaker and more like a shadow. He was his mother's favorite child, and she doted on him. It broke her heart to see him suffer. When he was well enough to be up, he was almost always by her side. Whenever I went into her room, I almost always found blue-eyed Willie there. He would be reading an open book or curled up in a chair with pencil and paper in hand. He had a clear love of literature and was a studious boy. A short time before his death, he wrote this simple little poem:

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—

As Willie continued to grow worse, Mrs. Lincoln decided to withdraw her invitations and postpone the reception. Mr. Lincoln thought it would be better not to withdraw the invitations. At least, he advised consulting the doctor before taking any steps. So Dr. Stone was called in. He said Willie was better and that there was every reason to expect an early recovery. Since the invitations had been sent, he thought it best to go ahead with the reception. He insisted that Willie was in no immediate danger. Mrs. Lincoln followed their advice, and no postponement was announced. On the evening of the reception, Willie suddenly grew worse. His mother sat by his bedside for a long time, holding his feverish hand and watching his labored breathing. The doctor said there was no cause for alarm. I arranged Mrs. Lincoln's hair, then helped her dress. Her dress was white satin, trimmed with black lace. It had a very long train. As she swept through the room, Mr. Lincoln stood with his back to the fire. His hands were behind him, and his eyes were on the carpet. His face had a thoughtful, solemn look. The rustling of the satin dress caught his attention. He looked at the dress for a few moments, then spoke in his quaint, quiet way:

"Whew! our cat has a long tail to-night."

"Whew! Our cat has a long tail tonight."

Mrs. Lincoln did not reply. The President added:

Mrs. Lincoln did not answer. 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.

"Mother, I think your dress would look better if some of the tail were closer to the head." He glanced at her bare arms and neck. She had beautiful arms and a beautiful neck, and low-cut dresses looked good on her. She turned away with an offended, dignified look. Soon she took the President's arm, and they went downstairs 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!"

The reception was large and splendid. The rich notes of the Marine Band, playing in the rooms below, reached the sickroom as soft, muted murmurs. They sounded like the wild, faint sobbing of distant spirits. Some of the young people suggested dancing, but Mr. Lincoln firmly refused. The splendid scene could not drive away the sadness on Mrs. Lincoln's face. Several times that evening, she came upstairs and stood by the suffering boy's bedside. She loved him with a mother's heart, and she was deeply worried. The night passed slowly. Morning came, and Willie was worse. He lingered for a few days, then died. God called the beautiful spirit home, and the house of joy became a house of mourning. I was exhausted from keeping watch and was not in the room when Willie died. But I was sent for immediately. I helped wash and dress him, then laid him on the bed. Mr. Lincoln came in. I had never seen a man so overcome with grief. He came to the bed and lifted the cover from his child's face. He gazed at him long and intently, 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.

Great sobs kept him from speaking. He buried his head in his hands, and his tall body shook with emotion. I stood at the foot of the bed, my eyes full of tears. I watched him in silent, awestruck wonder. His grief had left him weak and helpless, like a child. I had never imagined that his rugged nature could be so deeply moved. I will never forget those solemn moments. A man of genius and greatness was weeping over the one he had loved and lost. The scene has both a grandeur and a simplicity that will never fade. To me, it is immortal. I truly believe I will 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.

Mrs. Lincoln's grief could not be comforted. The sight of her dead boy's pale face threw her into convulsions. Her love had wrapped itself around him like a vine. Now that he was dressed for burial, it was as if the vine were being torn from her heart by its roots. She often said that Willie would be her hope and support in old age if Providence spared him. But Providence had not spared him. The light faded from his eyes, and the dew of death gathered on his forehead.

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.

During one of her outbursts of grief, the President kindly bent over his wife. He took her arm and gently led her to the window. With a dignified, solemn gesture, he pointed to the psychiatric hospital.

"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."

"Mother, do you see that large white building on the hill over there? Try to control your grief, or it will drive you mad. Then 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—

Mrs. Lincoln was so 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 mourning cloth was everywhere. It contrasted strangely with the bright, cheerful colors of just a few days earlier. Party dresses were put away. Everyone who entered the White House spoke quietly when they thought of the sweet boy at rest.

"Under the sod and the dew."

"Under the grass 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.

Before this, I had lost my son. He left Wilberforce and went to battle with the three-month troops. He was killed in Missouri, on the battlefield where the brave General Lyon fell. It was a sad blow to me. When Mrs. Lincoln heard of my loss, she wrote me a kind, womanly letter full of precious 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:

Nathaniel Parker Willis was a warmhearted poet who has since died. He 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.

"This little fellow knew some of his father's friends, and I happened to be one of them. He always found me in a crowd, shook my hand, and said something pleasant. For a boy of ten, this was, to say the least, endearing to a stranger. But he was more than just affectionate. His composure, or aplomb, as the French call it, was extraordinary. One day, I was passing the White House. Willie was outside on the sidewalk with a playmate. Mr. Seward drove in with Prince Napoleon and two members of his party in the carriage. In a playfully grand gesture, the Secretary took off his hat, and Prince Napoleon did the same. All of them gave the young Prince President a ceremonious salute. The boy and the Secretary were evidently on familiar terms. Willie was not at all thrown by the tribute. He drew himself up to his full height, gracefully took off his little cap, and bowed low to the ground, like a little ambassador. They drove past, and he went on playing without a care. His quick wit and good judgment clearly came naturally to him. His friendly, open face was no less sincere and fearless for its touch of mischief. In this mix of qualities, he was very much like 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.

"Despite all the splendor around this little fellow in his new home, he was bravely and beautifully himself, and nothing else. Like a wildflower transplanted from the prairie to a greenhouse, he kept his prairie ways. He remained pure and simple, unchanged until he died. His most striking quality seemed to be his fearless, kind honesty. He was happy to let everything else be as different as it pleased, but remained true to his own wholehearted nature. I found myself irresistibly drawn to studying him. He was one of those sweet mysteries of childhood with which the world is blessed in rare places. When he died, I was away from Washington, visiting my own children. The news of his death came to me like a funeral bell heard unexpectedly at a celebration."

"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.

"On the day of the funeral, I arrived early to take one last close look at the dear boy. He had been embalmed so he could be sent home to the West, to rest beneath the soil of his own valley. The coffin lid was to be closed before the service. The family had just said goodbye to him, and the servants and nurses were seeing him for the last time. They wept and sobbed freely, for every one of them adored him. He lay pale in the sleep of death, his eyes closed and his brown hair parted as we had known it. But otherwise he was unchanged. He was dressed as if for the evening, with his hands crossed on his chest and a bunch of exquisite flowers in one hand. While we were looking at him, a message came from his mother asking that the flowers be saved for her. She was sick in bed, worn out by grief and too many sleepless nights.

"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."

"The funeral was very moving. Among the entertainments in the East Room, the boy had been a wonderfully lively change, especially for those now gathered there. People remembered his bright face and his quick greetings and replies in every part of that crimson-curtained hall, built only for pleasure. Of all the people in the crowds each night, he was surely the last anyone expected death to claim first. He was his father's favorite. They were close and often seen hand in hand. And there sat his father, a man whose mental burden amazed the world. Now he was bowed down by the weight on both his heart and his mind. He staggered under the blow of losing his child. His powerful advisers sat around him. From where I stood, I could see McClellan's eyes fill with tears as he bowed during the prayer. Chase and Seward's stern faces showed their grief. Senators, ambassadors, and soldiers all struggled to hold back tears. These great men grieved with the President as a suffering man and a brother. I am sure the nation is now praying that God will give him strength for all his burdens."

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.

Mrs. Lincoln greatly admired this sketch. I copy it from the scrapbook where she pasted it herself, shedding many tears.