This removal of Lincoln's residence from a village of 20 houses to a "city" of 2500 inhabitants placed him in strikingly new relations and necessities as to dress, manners, society, and politics; and yet here again, as in the case of

his removal from his father's cabin to New Salem six years before, peculiar conditions rendered the transition less abrupt than would appear at first thought. Springfield, notwithstanding its greater population and prospective dignity as the capital, was in many respects no great improvement on New Salem. It had no public buildings; its streets and sidewalks were unpaved; its stores, in spite of all their flourish of advertisements, were staggering under the hard times of 1837-39; and general stagnation of business imposed a rigid economy on all classes. If we may credit tradition, this was one of the most serious crises in Lincoln's life. His intimate friend, William Butler, related to the writer that, having attended a session of the legislature at Vandalia, he and Lincoln returned together at its close to Springfield, by the usual mode of horseback travel. At one of their stopping-places over night, Lincoln in one of his gloomy moods told Butler the story of the almost hopeless prospects which lay immediately before him that the session was over, his salary all drawn, and his money all spent ; that he had no resources, and no work; that he did not know where to turn to earn even a week's board. Butler bade him be of good cheer, and without any formal proposition or agreement took him and his belongings to his own house, and domesticated him there as a permanent guest, with Lincoln's tacit compliance, rather than any definite consent. Later Lincoln shared a room and genial companionship, which ripened into closest intimacy, in the store of his friend Joshua F. Speed, all without charge or expense; and these brotherly offerings helped the young lawyer over present necessities which might otherwise have driven him to muscular handiwork at weekly or monthly wages.

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From this time onward, in daily conversation, in argument at the bar, in political consultation and discussion, Lincoln's life gradually broadened into contact and contest with the

Here we must turn back and again take up the analysis of his personal traits. And first as to dress and manners. It is a significant fact that the only alleged descriptions of his appearance in those early days (and they are evidently inferential rather than literal) are those which represent him as the tall, raw, country stripling in the pioneer garb in which he made his advent in Illinois and New Salem. And according to the rule that he is the best dressed man whose costume is the least noticeable, we must conclude that Lincoln's dress was always, both by compulsion and choice, of that commonplace respectability equally free from shabbiness on the one hand, and pretentious effort at display of gentility on the other. We may also draw the same inference from the character of his contemporaries and associates. Stuart, Logan, Browning, Douglas, Trumbull, Shields, Baker, Hardin, Peck, Davis, and a host of other prominent Illinoisans were his friends, companions, opponents, rivals; and there is neither record nor tradition that in society, or on the stump, or in the local or superior courts of the State, there was any marked distinction or contrast between him and them. Several of these passed through gradations of privation, fortune, and influence similar to his own; and if we would institute a closer comparison, any old inhabitant of Springfield could testify that his first law-partner, John T. Stuart, was always a better, and his second law-partner, Stephen T. Logan, always a worse dressed man than Lincoln himself. The simple truth is, that with those men, in those days, dress was a matter of altogether minor consideration, and played a very unimportant part as the measure of a man's worth or influence. Convenience and comfort, not display, were its ends. These early law-practitioners, who followed circuit courts from county to county, worrying through snow and mud, fording swollen streams, sleeping on cabin floors, could not remain fastidious about cos

tume; and the judges and juries were more impressed by the wit or argument of counsel than by the condition of his toilet.

And following Lincoln's career from his congressional service onward, through the years when he devoted himself exclusively to law, through the slavery discussion provoked by the Nebraska bill, through the great senatorial campaign with Douglas, through the campaign of 1860, and all his presidential service at Washington, we find, as to dress, that he simply continued the habits which the conditions of his early life impressed upon him. Always and everywhere he was sufficiently well-dressed to command the respect of those before whom he appeared; and quite as certainly he was never clad to that degree of fastidious elegance which would have entirely satisfied the superior being whose dictum regulates the curve of a trouser-leg. Standing side by side with Doug las in the joint debates, or on the platform of the Cooper Institute under the critical eyes of William Cullen Bryant, who presided, or towering before the multitude of great soldiers and civilians on the battlefield of Gettysburg, pronouncing his memorable address, he suffered no wise in comparison as to personal appearance with Douglas the senator, or Bryant the poet, or Edward Everett the polished statesman, diplomat, and orator.

If a few instances occurred where visitors found him in a faded dressing-gown and with slippers down at the heel, such incidents were due, not to carelessness or neglect, but to the fact that they had thrust themselves upon him at unseasonable and unexpected hours. So also there were some critics who, coming with the intention to find fault, could see nothing but awkwardness in his movements and wrinkles in his clothes. In the fifteen hundred days during which he occupied the White House, receiving daily visits at almost all hours, often from seven in the morning to midnight, from all classes and conditions of American citizens, as well as from many distinguished foreigners, there was never any eccentric or habitual incongruity of his garb with his station.

There, as in his father's cabin, or New Salem, or Vandalia, or Springfield, the man Lincoln never gave a fraction of thought or a moment of care to any question of dress. He followed the ordinary fashion and wore what the tailor, hatter, and boot-maker made for him. And so clad, the humblest citizens stood in his presence without awe, and the highest dignitaries with perfect respect. The world has yet to learn that General Scott, or Lord Lyons, or Bishop Simpson, or Prince Napoleon, or Archbishop Hughes, or the Comte de Paris, or Chief-justice Taney ever felt humiliated by the dress or want of dignity of President Lincoln in state

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ceremonial or private audience. The eyes of these men were not upon the tailor's suit of broadcloth, but upon the President and the man, and in such a scrutiny Lincoln outranked any mortal who ever questioned him eye to eye in his long and strange career from New Salem to the Blue Room of the White House.

As with his dress, so with his manner. Tempered and modified by the gravity of added years, and an ever-widening experience among varied social classes and conditions in many parts of the Union, it nevertheless retained to the last a strong impress of the essential characteristics of the frontier- simplicity, directness, and sincere heartiness. He never learned and never used meaningless or misleading conventional phrases. He would say, "I am glad to see you." He would never say, "I am charmed to see you." He always greeted his visitors with a cordial shake of the hand and a winning look or smile, unless, as very rarely happened, his mind was weighed down with a preoccupation of overwhelming care and suspense. He always listened with patience, even when the request of his petitioner might be frivolous or foolish. That he was fond of wit, and jest, and laughter, the world already knows. He gave others courtesy, kindness, and consideration to the last degree, and never by word or look assumed that he demanded them for himself.

In saying that Lincoln never gave a thought to personal appearance, I must not omit to mention that this, like all rules, has at least one exception. During the month of October in the campaign of 1860, he received a letter from a little girl twelve years old, then residing at Westfield, New York, which he read with unusual interest. How it came to be written was pleasantly narrated by the person who wrote it, and was printed in the newspapers about a dozen years ago. She says:

My father, who was a stanch Republican, brought one day to me who followed in his footsteps and was a zealous champion of Mr. Lincolna picture of "Lincoln and Hamlin," one of those coarse, exaggerated likenesses which it seems to be the fate of our long-suffering people to have thrust before them in such contests. You are familiar with Mr. Lincoln's physiognomy, and remember the high forehead over those sadly pathetic eyes, the angular lower face, with the deepcut lines about the mouth. As I regarded the picture I said to my mother: "He would look better if he wore whiskers, and I mean to write and tell him so." She laughingly consented, and

I

proceeded to give him my name, age, place of dency, opinion of his personal appearance, and residence, my views of his fitness for the presi that I thought it would be much improved if he would cultivate whiskers, adding, as an inducement, that if he would, I would try my best to coax my two Democratic brothers to cast their

to hasten the coming of the coupé, and when he mounted the steps she felt her pulses beat more quickly.

Her mother entered presently with the flowers.

"From Mrs. Hilbrough, with inquiries," Mrs. Callender read from the card as she arranged the flowers in a vase on the low marble table under the pier-glass.

"Mrs. Hilbrough?" said Phillida, with a feeling of disappointment. "But that was Charley Millard's man."

"No, that is the man Mrs. Hilbrough has sent ever since you were taken ill," said the mother. "He speaks in a peculiar English way; did you hear him? You've got a better color this evening, I declare."

Mama, that is Charley's man," persisted Phillida. "I saw him at the Graydon. And the flowers he has brought all along are in Charley's taste-just what he used to send me, and not anything out of Mrs. Hilbrough's conservatory. Give me a sip of water, please." Phillida's color had all departed now.

Having drunk the water, she leaned against her chair-back and closed her eyes. Continuous and assiduous attention from Mrs. Hilbrough was more than she had expected; and now that the messenger was proved to be Millard's own man, she doubted whether there were not some mystery about the matter, the more that the flowers sent were precisely Millard's favorites.

The next day Phillida sat alone looking into the street, as the twilight of a cloudy evening was falling earlier than usual, when Agatha came into the room to light two burners, with a notion that darkness might prove depressing to her sister. Phillida turned to watch the process of lighting the gas, as an invalid is prone to seek a languid diversion in the least things. When the gas was burning she looked out of the window again, and at the same moment the door-bell sounded. To save Sarah's deserting the dinner on the range, Agatha answered it. Phillida, with a notion that she might have a chance to verify her recognition of Millard's valet, kept her eyes upon the portion of the front steps that was visible where she sat. She saw Millard himself descend the steps and pass in front of her window. He chanced to look up, and his agitation was visible even from where she sat as he suddenly lifted his hat and bowed, and then hurried away.

The night that followed was a restless one, and it was evident in the morning that Dr. Gunstone must be called again. Mrs. Callender found Phillida so weak that she hesitated to speak to her of a note she had received in the morning mail. It might do good, it might do harm, to let her know its contents. Agatha

was consulted, and she turned the scale of Mrs. Callender's decision.

"Phillida dear," said the mother, "I don't know whether I ought to mention it to you or not. You are very weak this morning. But Charley Millard has asked for permission to make a brief call. Could you bear to see him?"

Phillida's face showed her deeply moved. After a pause and a struggle she said: "Charley is sorry for me, that is all. He thinks I may die, and he feels grateful for my attention to his aunt. But if he had to begin over again he would never fall in love with me."

"You don't know that, Phillida. You are depressed; you underestimate yourself.”

"With his advantages he could take his choice, almost," said Phillida. "It's very manly of him to be so constant to an unfortunate and broken-hearted person like me. But I will not have him marry me out of pity."

"I'm afraid you are depressed by your weakness. I don't think you ought to refuse to see him if you feel able," said the mother.

"I am not able to see him. It is easier to refuse in this way than after I have been made ill by too much feeling. I am not going to subject Charley to the mortification of taking into his circle a wife that will be always remembered as —as a sort of quack-doctor."

Saying this, Phillida broke down and wept. When Agatha heard of her decision she came in and scolded her sister roundly for a goose. This made Phillida weep again; but there was a firmness of will at the base of her character that held her determination unchanged. About an hour later she begged her mother to write the answer at her dictation. It read:

"Miss Callender wishes me to say that she is not able to bear an interview. With the utmost respect for Mr. Millard and with a grateful appreciation of his kind attention during her illness, she feels sure that it is better not to renew their acquaintance."

After this letter was sent off Phillida's strength began to fail, and the mother and sister were thrown into consternation. In the afternoon Dr. Gunstone came again. He listened to the heart, he examined the lungs, he made inquisition for symptoms, and paused baffled. The old doctor understood the mind-cure perfectly; balked in his search for physical causes he said to Mrs. Callender:

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Perhaps if I could speak with Miss Callender alone a few moments it might be better." "I have no secrets from mama," protested Phillida.

"That's right, my child," said Dr. Gunstone, gravely; "but you can talk with more freedom to one person than to two. I want to see your mother alone, also, when I have talked with you."