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The best way to estimate the value of Lincoln is to think what the
condition of America would be to-day, if he had never lived--never
been President. His nomination and first election were mainly
accidents, experiments. Severely view'd, one cannot think very much
of American Political Parties, from the beginning, after the
Revolutionary War, down to the present time. Doubtless, while they
have had their uses--have been and are "the grass on which the cow
feeds"--and indispensable economies of growth--it is undeniable that
under flippant names they have merely identified temporary passions,
or freaks, or sometimes prejudice, ignorance, or hatred. The only
thing like a great and worthy idea vitalizing a party, and making it
heroic, was the enthusiasm in '64 for re-electing Abraham Lincoln, and
the reason behind that enthusiasm.

How does this man compare with the acknowledg'd "Father of his
country"? Washington was model'd on the best Saxon, and Franklin--of
the age of the Stuarts (rooted in the Elizabethan period)--was
essentially a noble Englishman, and just the kind needed for the
occasions and the times of 1776-'83. Lincoln, underneath his
practicality, was far less European, was quite thoroughly Western,
original, essentially non-conventional, and had a certain sort of
out-door or prairie stamp. One of the best of the late commentators on
Shakspere, (Professor Dowden,) makes the height and aggregate of his
quality as a poet to be, that he thoroughly blended the ideal with
the practical or realistic. If this be so, I should say that what
Shakspere did in poetic expression, Abraham Lincoln essentially did in
his personal and official life. I should say the invisible foundations
and vertebra of his character, more than any man's in history, were
mystical, abstract, moral and spiritual--while upon all of them was
built, and out of all of them radiated, under the control of the
average of circumstances, what the vulgar call _horse-sense_, and
a life often bent by temporary but most urgent materialistic and
political reasons.

He seems to have been a man of indomitable firmness (even obstinacy)
on rare occasions, involving great points; but he was generally very
easy, flexible, tolerant, almost slouchy, respecting minor matters. I
note that even those reports and anecdotes intended to level him
down, all leave the tinge of a favorable impression of him. As to
his religious nature, it seems to me to have certainly been of the
amplest, deepest-rooted, loftiest kind.

Already a new generation begins to tread the stage, since the persons
and events of the secession war. I have more than once fancied to
myself the time when the present century has closed, and a new one
open'd, and the men and deeds of that contest have become somewhat
vague and mythical-fancied perhaps in some great Western city, or
group collected together, or public festival, where the days of old,
of 1863, and '4 and '5 are discuss'd--some ancient soldier sitting
in the background as the talk goes on, and betraying himself by his
emotion and moist eyes--like the journeying Ithacan at the banquet of
King Alcinoiis, when the bard sings the contending warriors and their
battles on the plains of Troy:

"So from the sluices of Ulysses' eyes
Fast fell the tears, and sighs succeeded sighs."

I have fancied, I say, some such venerable relic of this time of ours,
preserv'd to the next or still the next generation of America. I have
fancied, on such occasion, the young men gathering around; the awe,
the eager questions: "What! have you seen Abraham Lincoln--and heard
him speak--and touch'd his hand? Have you, with your own eyes, look'd
on Grant, and Lee, and Sherman?"

Dear to Democracy, to the very last! And among the paradoxes generated
by America, not the least curious was that spectacle of all the kings
and queens and emperors of the earth, many from remote distances,
sending tributes of condolence and sorrow in memory of one rais'd
through the commonest average of life--a rail-splitter and
flat-boatman!

Consider'd from contemporary points of view--who knows what the future
may decide?--and from the points of view of current Democracy and The
Union, (the only thing like passion or infatuation in the man was the
passion for the Union of These States,) Abraham Lincoln seems to me
the grandest figure yet, on all the crowded canvas of the Nineteenth
Century.

NEW ORLEANS IN 1848

_Walt Whitman gossips of his sojourn here years ago as a newspaper
writer. Notes of his trip up the Mississippi and to New York._

Among the letters brought this morning (Camden, New Jersey, Jan. 15,
1887,) by my faithful post-office carrier, J.G., is one as follows:

"NEW ORLEANS, Jan. 11, '87.--We have been informed that when you were
younger and less famous than now, you were in New Orleans and perhaps
have helped on the _Picayune_. If you have any remembrance of the
_Picayune's_ young days, or of journalism in New Orleans of that era,
and would put it in writing (verse or prose) for the _Picayune's_
fiftieth year edition, Jan. 25, we shall be pleased," etc.

In response to which: I went down to New Orleans early in 1848 to work
on a daily newspaper, but it was not the _Picayune_, though I saw
quite a good deal of the editors of that paper, and knew its personnel
and ways. But let me indulge my pen in some gossipy recollections of
that time and place, with extracts from my journal up the Mississippi
and across the great lakes to the Hudson.

Probably the influence most deeply pervading everything at that time
through the United States, both in physical facts and in sentiment,
was the Mexican War, then just ended. Following a brilliant campaign
(in which our troops had march'd to the capital city, Mexico, and
taken full possession,) we were returning after our victory. From the
situation of the country, the city of New Orleans had been our channel
and _entrepot_ for everything, going and returning. It had the best
news and war correspondents; it had the most to say, through its
leading papers, the _Picayune_ and _Delta_ especially, and its voice
was readiest listen'd to; from it "Chapparal" had gone out, and his
army and battle letters were copied everywhere, not only in the United
States, but in Europe. Then the social cast and results; no one who
has never seen the society of a city under similar circumstances can
understand what a strange vivacity and _rattle_ were given throughout
by such a situation. I remember the crowds of soldiers, the gay young
officers, going or coming, the receipt of important news, the many
discussions, the returning wounded, and so on.

I remember very well seeing Gen. Taylor with his staff and other
officers at the St. Charles Theatre one evening (after talking with
them during the day.) There was a short play on the stage, but the
principal performance was of Dr. Colyer's troupe of "Model Artists,"
then in the full tide of their popularity. They gave many fine groups
and solo shows. The house was crowded with uniforms and shoulder-straps.
Gen. T. himself, if I remember right, was almost the only officer in
civilian clothes; he was a jovial, old, rather stout, plain man, with
a wrinkled and dark-yellow face, and, in ways and manners, show'd the
least of conventional ceremony or etiquette I ever saw; he laugh'd
unrestrainedly at everything comical. (He had a great personal
resemblance to Fenimore Cooper, the novelist, of New York.) I remember
Gen. Pillow and quite a cluster of other militaires also present.

One of my choice amusements during my stay in New Orleans was going
down to the old French Market, especially of a Sunday morning. The
show was a varied and curious one; among the rest, the Indian and
negro hucksters with their wares. For there were always fine specimens
of Indians, both men and women, young and old. I remember I nearly
always on these occasions got a large cup of delicious coffee with a
biscuit, for my breakfast, from the immense shining copper kettle of a
great Creole mulatto woman (I believe she weigh'd 230 pounds.) I never
have had such coffee since. About nice drinks, anyhow, my recollection
of the "cobblers" (with strawberries and snow on top of the large
tumblers,) and also the exquisite wines, and the perfect and mild
French brandy, help the regretful reminiscence of my New Orleans
experiences of those days. And what splendid and roomy and leisurely
bar-rooms! particularly the grand ones of the St. Charles and St.
Louis. Bargains, auctions, appointments, business conferences, &c.,
were generally held in the spaces or recesses of these bar-rooms.

I used to wander a midday hour or two now and then for amusement
on the crowded and bustling levees, on the banks of the river. The
diagonally wedg'd-in boats, the stevedores, the piles of cotton
and other merchandise, the carts, mules, negroes, etc., afforded
never-ending studies and sights to me. I made acquaintances among the
captains, boatmen, or other characters, and often had long talks
with them--sometimes finding a real rough diamond among my chance
encounters. Sundays I sometimes went forenoons to the old Catholic
Cathedral in the French quarter. I used to walk a good deal in this
arrondissement; and I have deeply regretted since that I did not
cultivate, while I had such a good opportunity, the chance of better
knowledge of French and Spanish Creole New Orleans people. (I have
an idea that there is much and of importance about the Latin race
contributions to American nationality in the South and Southwest that
will never be put with sympathetic understanding and tact on record.)

Let me say, for better detail, that through several months (1848) I
work'd on a new daily paper, _The Crescent_; my situation rather a
pleasant one. My young brother, Jeff, was with me; and he not only
grew very homesick, but the climate of the place, and especially the
water, seriously disagreed with him. From this and other reasons
(although I was quite happily fix'd) I made no very long stay in the
South. In due time we took passage northward for St. Louis in the
"Pride of the West" steamer, which left her wharf just at dusk. My
brother was unwell, and lay in his berth from the moment we left
till the next morning; he seem'd to me to be in a fever, and I felt
alarm'd. However, the next morning he was all right again, much to my
relief.

Our voyage up the Mississippi was after the same sort as the voyage,
some months before, down it. The shores of this great river are very
monotonous and dull--one continuous and rank flat, with the exception
of a meagre stretch of bluff, about the neighborhood of Natchez,
Memphis, &c. Fortunately we had good weather, and not a great crowd of
passengers, though the berths were all full. The "Pride" jogg'd along
pretty well, and put us into St. Louis about noon Saturday. After
looking around a little I secured passage on the steamer "Prairie
Bird," (to leave late in the afternoon,) bound up the Illinois river
to La Salle, where we were to take canal for Chicago. During the day
I rambled with my brother over a large portion of the town, search'd
after a refectory, and, after much trouble, succeeded in getting some
dinner.

Our "Prairie Bird" started out at dark, and a couple of hours after
there was quite a rain and blow, which made them haul in along shore
and tie fast. We made but thirty miles the whole night. The boat was
excessively crowded with passengers, and had withal so much freight
that we could hardly turn around. I slept on the floor, and the night
was uncomfortable enough. The Illinois river is spotted with little
villages with big names, Marseilles, Naples, etc.; its banks are low,
and the vegetation excessively rank. Peoria, some distance up, is a
pleasant town; I went over the place; the country back is all rich
land, for sale cheap. Three or four miles from P., land of the first
quality can be bought for $3 or $4 an acre. (I am transcribing from my
notes written at the time.)

Arriving at La Salle Tuesday morning, we went on board a canal-boat,
had a detention by sticking on a mud bar, and then jogg'd along at
a slow trot, some seventy of us, on a moderate-sized boat. (If the
weather hadn't been rather cool, particularly at night, it would have
been insufferable.) Illinois is the most splendid agricultural
country I ever saw; the land is of surpassing richness; the place par
excellence for farmers. We stopt at various points along the canal,
some of them pretty villages.

It was 10 o'clock A.M. when we got in Chicago, too late for the
steamer; so we went to an excellent public house, the "American
Temperance," and I spent the time that day and till next morning,
looking around Chicago.

At 9 the next forenoon we started on the "Griffith" (on board of
which I am now inditing these memoranda,) up the blue waters of Lake
Michigan. I was delighted with the appearance of the towns along
Wisconsin. At Milwaukee I went on shore, and walk'd around the place.
They say the country back is beautiful and rich. (It seems to me that
if we should ever remove from Long Island, Wisconsin would be the
proper place to come to.) The towns have a remarkable appearance
of good living, without any penury or want. The country is so good
naturally, and labor is in such demand.

About 5 o'clock one afternoon I heard the cry of "a woman over-board."
It proved to be a crazy lady, who had become so from the loss of her
son a couple of weeks before. The small boat put off, and succeeded in
picking her up, though she had been in the water 15 minutes. She was
dead. Her husband was on board. They went off at the next stopping
place. While she lay in the water she probably recover'd her reason,
as she toss'd up her arms and lifted her face toward the boat.

_Sunday Morning, June 11_.--We pass'd down Lake Huron yesterday and
last night, and between 4 and 5 o'clock this morning we ran on the
"flats," and have been vainly trying, with the aid of a steam tug and
a lumbering lighter, to get clear again. The day is beautiful and the
water clear and calm. Night before last we stopt at Mackinaw, (the
island and town,) and I went up on the old fort, one of the oldest
stations in the Northwest. We expect to get to Buffalo by to-morrow.
The tug has fasten'd lines to us, but some have been snapt and the
others have no effect. We seem to be firmly imbedded in the sand.
(With the exception of a larger boat and better accommodations, it
amounts to about the same thing as a becalmment I underwent on the
Montauk voyage, East Long Island, last summer.) _Later_.--We are off
again--expect to reach Detroit before dinner.

We did not stop at Detroit. We are now on Lake Erie, jogging along at
a good round pace. A couple of hours since we were on the river above.
Detroit seem'd to me a pretty place and thrifty. I especially liked
the looks of the Canadian shore opposite and of the little village
of Windsor, and, indeed, all along the banks of the river. From the
shrubbery and the neat appearance of some of the cottages, I think it
must have been settled by the French. While I now write we can see a
little distance ahead the scene of the battle between Perry's fleet
and the British during the last war with England. The lake looks to me
a fine sheet of water. We are having a beautiful day.

_June 12_.--We stopt last evening at Cleveland, and though it was
dark, I took the opportunity of rambling about the place; went up in
the heart of the city and back to what appear'd to be the courthouse.
The streets are unusually wide, and the buildings appear to be
substantial and comfortable. We went down through Main street and
found, some distance along, several squares of ground very prettily
planted with trees and looking attractive enough. Return'd to the boat
by way of the lighthouse on the hill.

This morning we are making for Buffalo, being, I imagine, a little
more than half across Lake Erie. The water is rougher than on Michigan
or Huron. (On St. Clair it was smooth as glass.) The day is bright and
dry, with a stiff head wind.

We arriv'd in Buffalo on Monday evening; spent that night and a
portion of next day going round the city exploring. Then got in the
cars and went to Niagara; went under the falls--saw the whirlpool and
all the other sights.

Tuesday night started for Albany; travel'd all night. From the time
daylight afforded us a view of the country all seem'd very rich and
well cultivated. Every few miles were large towns or villages.

Wednesday late we arriv'd at Albany. Spent the evening in exploring.
There was a political meeting (Hunker) at the capitol, but I pass'd
it by. Next morning I started down the Hudson in the "Alida;" arriv'd
safely in New York that evening.

_From the New Orleans Picayune, Jan. 25, 1887._

SMALL MEMORANDA

_Thousands lost--here one or two preserv'd_

ATTORNEY GENERAL'S OFFICE, _Washington, Aug. 22, 1865_.--As I write
this, about noon, the suite of rooms here is fill'd with Southerners,
standing in squads, or streaming in and out, some talking with the
Pardon Clerk, some waiting to see the Attorney General, others
discussing in low tones among themselves. All are mainly anxious about
their pardons. The famous 13th exception of the President's Amnesty
Proclamation of ----, makes it necessary that every secessionist,
whose property is worth $20,000 or over, shall get a special pardon,
before he can transact any legal purchase, sale, &c. So hundreds and
thousands of such property owners have either sent up here, for the
last two months, or have been, or are now coming personally here,
to get their pardons. They are from Virginia, Georgia, Alabama,
Mississippi, North and South Carolina, and every Southern State. Some
of their written petitions are very abject. Secession officers of the
rank of Brigadier General, or higher, also need these special pardons.
They also come here. I see streams of the $20,000 men, (and some
women,) every day. I talk now and then with them, and learn much that
is interesting and significant. All the southern women that come (some
splendid specimens, mothers, &c.) are dress'd in deep black.

Immense numbers (several thousands) of these pardons have been pass'd
upon favorably; the Pardon Warrants (like great deeds) have been
issued from the State Department, on the requisition of this office.
But for some reason or other, they nearly all yet lie awaiting the
President's signature. He seems to be in no hurry about it, but lets
them wait.

The crowds that come here make a curious study for me. I get along,
very sociably, with any of them--as I let them do all the talking;
only now and then I have a long confab, or ask a suggestive question
or two.

If the thing continues as at present, the property and wealth of the
Southern States is going to legally rest, for the future, on these
pardons. Every single one is made out with the condition that the
grantee shall respect the abolition of slavery, and never make an
attempt to restore it.

_Washington, Sept. 8, 9, &c., 1865_.--The arrivals, swarms, &c., of
the $20,000 men seeking pardons, still continue with increas'd numbers
and pertinacity. I yesterday (I am a clerk in the U. S. Attorney
General's office here) made out a long list from Alabama, nearly 200,
recommended for pardon by the Provisional Governor. This list, in the
shape of a requisition from the Attorney General, goes to the State
Department. There the Pardon Warrants are made out, brought back here,
and then sent to the President, where they await his signature. He is
signing them very freely of late.

The President, indeed, as at present appears, has fix'd his mind on a
very generous and forgiving course toward the return'd secessionists.
He will not countenance at all the demand of the extreme Philo-African
element of the North, to make the right of negro voting at elections a
condition and sine qua non of the reconstruction of the United States
south, and of their resumption of co-equality in the Union.

A GLINT INSIDE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN'S CABINET APPOINTMENTS. ONE ITEM OF
MANY

While it was hanging in suspense who should be appointed Secretary of
the Interior, (to take the place of Caleb Smith,) the choice was very
close between Mr. Harlan and Col. Jesse K. Dubois, of Illinois. The
latter had many friends. He was competent, he was honest, and he was a
man. Mr. Harlan, in the race, finally gain'd the Methodist interest,
and got himself to be consider'd as identified with it; and his
appointment was apparently ask'd for by that powerful body. Bishop
Simpson, of Philadephia, came on and spoke for the selection. The
President was much perplex'd. The reasons for appointing Col. Dubois
were very strong, almost insuperable--yet the argument for Mr. Harlan,
under the adroit position he had plac'd himself, was heavy. Those who
press'd him adduc'd the magnitude of the Methodists as a body, their
loyalty, more general and genuine than any other sect--that they
represented the West, and had a right to be heard--that all or nearly
all the other great denominations had their representatives in the
heads of the government--that they as a body and the great sectarian
power of the West, formally ask'd Mr. Harlan's appointment--that he
was of them, having been a Methodist minister--that it would not do
to offend them, but was highly necessary to propitiate them.

Mr. Lincoln thought deeply over the whole matter. He was in more than
usual tribulation on the subject. Let it be enough to say that though
Mr. Harlan finally receiv'd the Secretaryship, Col. Dubois came as
near being appointed as a man could, and not be. The decision was
finally made one night about 10 o'clock. Bishop Simpson and other
clergymen and leading persons in Mr. Harlan's behalf, had been talking
long and vehemently with the President. A member of Congress who was
pressing Col. Dubois's claims, was in waiting. The President had told
the Bishop that he would make a decision that evening, and that he
thought it unnecessary to be press'd any more on the subject. That
night he call'd in the M.C. above alluded to, and said to him: "Tell
Uncle Jesse that I want to give him this appointment, and yet I
cannot. I will do almost anything else in the world for him I am able.
I have thought the matter all over, and under the circumstances think
the Methodists too good and too great a body to be slighted. They have
stood by the government, and help'd us their very best. I have had no
better friends; and as the case stands, I have decided to appoint Mr.
Harlan."

NOTE TO A FRIEND

_Written on the fly-leaf of a copy of_ Specimen Days, _sent to Peter
Doyle, at Washington, June, 1883]

Pete, do you remember--(of course you do--I do well)--those great long
jovial walks we had at times for years, (1866-'72) out of Washington
city--often moonlight nights--'way to "Good Hope";--or, Sundays, up
and down the Potomac shores, one side or the other, sometimes ten
miles at a stretch? Or when you work'd on the horse-cars, and I waited
for you, coming home late together--or resting and chatting at the
Market, corner 7th street and the Avenue, and eating those nice musk
or watermelons? Or during my tedious sickness and first paralysis
('73) how you used to come to my solitary garret-room and make up my
bed, and enliven me, and chat for an hour or so--or perhaps go out and
get the medicines Dr. Drinkard had order'd for me--before you went on
duty?... Give my love to dear Mrs. and Mr. Nash, and tell them I have
not forgotten them, and never will.

W.W.

WRITTEN IMPROMPTU IN AN ALBUM

_Germantown, Phila., Dec. 26, '83_. In memory of these merry Christmas
days and nights--to my friends Mr. and Mrs. Williams, Churchie,
May, Gurney, and little Aubrey.... A heavy snow-storm blocking up
everything, and keeping us in. But souls, hearts, thoughts, unloos'd.
And so--one and all, little and big--hav'n't we had a good time?

W.W.

THE PLACE GRATITUDE FILLS IN A FINE CHARACTER

_From the Philadelphia Press, Nov. 27, 1884, (Thanksgiving number)_

_Scene_.--A large family supper party, a night or two ago, with voices
and laughter of the young, mellow faces of the old, and a by-and-by
pause in the general joviality. "Now, Mr. Whitman," spoke up one of
the girls, "what have you to say about Thanksgiving? Won't you give
us a sermon in advance, to sober us down?" The sage nodded smilingly,
look'd a moment at the blaze of the great wood fire, ran his
forefinger right and left through the heavy white mustache that might
have otherwise impeded his voice, and began: "Thanksgiving goes
probably far deeper than you folks suppose. I am not sure but it is
the source of the highest poetry--as in parts of the Bible. Ruskin,
indeed, makes the central source of all great art to be praise
(gratitude) to the Almighty for life, and the universe with its
objects and play of action.

"We Americans devote an official day to it every year; yet I sometimes
fear the real article is almost dead or dying in our self-sufficient,
independent Republic. Gratitude, anyhow, has never been made half
enough of by the moralists; it is indispensable to a complete
character, man's or woman's--the disposition to be appreciative,
thankful. That is the main matter, the element, inclination--what
geologists call the _trend_. Of my own life and writings I estimate
the giving thanks part, with what it infers, as essentially the best
item. I should say the quality of gratitude rounds the whole emotional
nature; I should say love and faith would quite lack vitality without
it. There are people--shall I call them even religious people, as
things go?--who have no such trend to their disposition."