CHAPTER XIV

THE YOUNG LAWYER LINCOLN's Guest AT WASHINGTON

OH, I will turn back, I must turn back to the girl

I left behind me;

Oh, that girl, that girl, that pretty little girl, the girl I left behind me."

This was the refrain of a popular song of the day, with a lilting, haunting air, that had become mentally and spiritually contagious.

Thousands of young men were leaving their homes for the perils and vicissitudes of war and it afforded them a vehicle for the expression of their emotions. Too, it fitted well the passion of patriotism and was at once an inspiration to battle nobly for the right, and a reminder of the loving hearts at home that were holding them in fond remembrance and eagerly waiting, to grant them the fruition that war for a season had denied them. Moreover their fidelity to country gave validity to other vows; for if they were ready to die for their country, how much more readily would they lay down their lives for the wives and sweethearts whom they had left in the awed cities and quiet countrysides of the faraway North? And so every passing breeze, and even the night silences, seemed to throb with the passionate strain:

"That girl, that girl, that pretty little giri——”

The hurrying train would hardly emerge from its cadences at one station before it would encounter it again at the

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next, for at every station the flower of its manhood were hurrying to the theater of war.

Of ardent patriotism there was no lack. Tears—ah, there were plenty of them; but they were not tears of entreaty or dissuation. Venerable parents were cheerfully giving to the Government their sole stay and support; wives were proudly sending their husbands to fight for God, and Home, and Native-Land; sisters were wreathing their departing brothers with garlands, whether for victory or funeral they knew not, only proud that they were such brave and worthy men; and sweethearts with a heavenly love they no longer strove to conceal buckling sword and sabre with their own fair, soft hands, and bidding their trembling but unfearing lovers go and battle with the valor of heroes, and warning them not to return except with shields triumphant, or borne upon them. Mother, wife, sister, daughter, sweetheart-they were everywhere, giving the last kiss and embrace, the last loving admonition, the last little token of remembrance, usually a small pocket Testament with a handworked bookmark and, hid somewhere between the leaves, a lock of the giver's hair, waving the last loving farewell, and—

"Oh, that girl, that girl, that pretty little girl”

On the train segregation and propinquity kindle enthusiasm to a yet higher strain. Now they're off to war, are soldiers indeed, and the most slovenly "stands erect; his slouch becomes a walk, he steps right onward, martial in his air, his form and movement." Some are pale and thinclerks, accountants, men used to indoor life-timid and shrinking they seem, but "give them great meals of beef, and iron and steel; they will eat like wolves, and fight like 'devils." The talk is all of war, and they're already in the full swing and rhythm of easy and familiar comradeship. They've become members of a glorious brotherhood and

with a sort of swagger, both ludicrous and delightful, speak of "good old Abe,” and “Little Mac the cracker-jack,” and "Cock-eyed old Ben Butler," and what they'll do to "Jeff Davis and his blooming Confederacy."

So the talk runs on and on till at last the shifting scenes become strange, and the shadows of night shut them in. Their voices sink lower, and the conversation becomes less martial. A feeling of loneliness steals over them, memories of home and loved ones displace their former thoughts of siege and battle, a faint touch of homesickness deepens the gloom, and

"Oh, that girl, that girl, that pretty little girl—

Amid such bustle and confusion, blaring bands and strident songs of love and patriotic valor, the young lawyer journeyed to Washington. He felt reproached, condemned, desolate. To these valiant champions of the Union he was an alien. They seemed separate from him by the diameter of the Universe. He could understand them but they couldn't understand him. Of all the young soldiers not one spoke to him. Why should they? He was not their comrade; he had not put life and love and treasure on the altar as they had done. He felt himself barred from their high work and destiny-almost a man without a country. Their very language, many of the military terms, he did not understand. They related the military history of men, his own countrymen, down to dates and minute details, with which he was unfamiliar. He knew all about the Greek and Persian wars, the wars of Rome and Carthage, the conflicts of France and England, Russia and Germany; he could pass instant examination on their methods and leaders; but concerning this war, in his own country and between his own countrymen, he felt himself shamefully ignorant. He was a college man, lawyer, traveler, yet these young men from shop and store

and farm, some of them many years younger than himself, surpassed him in knowledge and enthusiasın. He thought how enviable their lot-sustained by a great purpose, engaged in a noble cause, and for each at home the love and prayers of the woman of his choice-while for him there was not a single pleasant reflection: a childhood sordid and depressing, a young manhood of incessant toil and privation, and, finally, of the two women for whom he cared and might have learned to love, one hated him, and the other placed an impassable barrier between them. But it is always darkest just before the dawn.

When the young lawyer the following day reached Washington he found it a vast military camp, soldiers, soldiers everywhere, soldiers afoot, soldiers mounted, sailors armed and uniformed cap-a-pie. The flag he had so rarely seen at New Richmond was always in sight, while martial music added to the pomp and blazonry of war. Almost in sight and sound were two mighty armies: McClellan 168,318 strong, Johnston 150,000, and a battle was daily expected. Indeed, the President was entreating McClellan to attack Johnston at once and try conclusions with him.

As soon as possible the young lawyer secured an audience with the President. It was at the White House after the offices were closed for the day.

"Well, Sammy," the President said cheerily, "I see you're not yet lost, strayed, or stolen."

"No, Mr. President,” replied the young lawyer, returning the President's greeting. "Had I strayed or been lost the good people of Southern Illinois would have duly returned me to my place of abode; and as for being stolen—well, you know I am not a President or Prince-Royal, and so I stand in no peril of abduction."

The President chuckled softly and replied, "Yes, Sammy, every position has its drawbacks, even mine; and come folks

think my friends down South would like to abduct me, and add me to their menagerie," referring to the epithet "Gorilla" that was being applied to him by many Southern newspapers.

It pleased the young lawyer to note that not even the recalcitration of McClellan, the bickerings of the politicians, or the jealousies of Chase and Seward had robbed Mr. Lincoln of his cheerful serenity, or his abounding good humor.

Mr. Lincoln made inquiry regarding many of his old-time friends: Fithian, and Linder, and Eden, and Marshall, and Casey, and Tanner, and Pollock, and others, some of them his political opponents, but with whom he had practiced law; pausing occasionally to tell a funny story or relate a humorous incident, often at his own expense; his dark, yellow, wrinkled face lighting up, his small dark-blue eyes dancing with merriment, and his voice, naturally shrill and piping, becoming mellow and musical with good humor.

"And now, Sammy, tell me about New Richmond. Dipend! I think almost as often of New Richmond as I do of that other Richmond," nodding toward Richmond, Virginia, “and I guess one's about as secesh as the other," all in the best of humor.

The young lawyer then told of the favor with which Felix Palfrey had been received and entertained, the boomerang against the Southern Confederacy his machinations had proved, and the final turn of the tide of sentiment toward Mr. Lincoln and the Union Cause, all of which greatly interested the War-President.

"The people of Southern Illinois," said the President, "are most amiable and lovable and their very weaknesses, though sometimes exceedingly amusing, often possess an infinite charm. A man like Felix Palfrey would especially appeal to them: a certain foreign distinction, charming Southern