change, hinder, or delay your military movements or plans."

Lincoln saw, from the beginning, that the conference would be resultless. Great relief was felt in Washington when the President and the Secretary returned from Fortress Monroe, and the public curiosity to learn what had happened was stimulated to a painful pitch. It soon leaked out, however, that the conference had been fruitless, and hostile critics and unfriendly politicians were sure that the President had needlessly abased himself. The House of Representatives passed a resolution calling on the President for a report of his doings, so far as this could be consistent with the public welfare. The documents sent in answer to this request were read to the House in the midst of a breathless silence.

The reading of the papers submitted lifted a great load from the minds of loyal men. They saw that the President had not abated one jot or tittle of his official dignity; that his sagacity and shrewdness had been once more triumphantly vindicated, and that the question of peaceful and honorable compromise was now forever settled. The clamor of the advocates of a peaceful adjustment was effectually silenced. As the reading of the documents went on in the House, the clouds of doubt and suspicion rolled away; the friends of the President were elated, and, when the reading was concluded, a burst of uncontrollable applause followed, and men saw and honored the wisdom with which Lincoln had conducted the whole affair, from first to last.

He had exhausted all honorable means to secure peace.

The Vice President of the Confederacy, Mr. Stephens, who was one of the Rebel commissioners, greatly admired the character of Lincoln, and, on his return to his own place, he authorized a publication of an informal report of the doings at the Hampton Roads conference. It was highly creditable, on the whole, to Lincoln, and, being reproduced in Northern newspapers, added to the popular affection for the President.

The reproach that Lincoln had gone to assist Seward at the conference was removed when people saw, in Lincoln's instructions to Seward, the phrase "You are not on any account to conclude anything definitely." Another point that attracted general attention and satisfied the people was Lincoln's steadfast and determined refusal to recognize the commissioners as official personages, or representatives of official personages. He would not admit the separate independence of any States that were a part of the American Republic. "That," he said, “would be doing what you have so long in vain asked Europe to do, and be resigning the only thing the armies of the Union have been fighting for." In pressing the point upon Lincoln's mind, one of the commissioners, Mr. Hunter, insisted that the recognition of Davis's power to make treaties was the first and indispensable step towards peace; and he cited the correspondence between King Charles I., of England, and his Parliament as a good precedent justifying him in taking that step. To this Lincoln replied: "Upon

questions of history I must refer you to Mr. Seward, for he is posted in such things, and I don't pretend to be bright. My only distinct recollection of the matter is that Charles lost his head." That settled Mr. Hunter for a while.

About the time that Lincoln was preparing his message to Congress, which assembled in December of that year, Sherman was on his way from Atlanta to the sea. The object of his march was unknown to the general public, but so implicit was the people's confidence in the great General that there was no disquiet as to his ultimate success. Some supposed that he would be heard from, after a while, at some point on the Rebel line of the Gulf of Mexico, and others believed that he would come out of "the bowels of the land" at an Atlantic port. On this point Lincoln maintained a strict silence. Sherman had cut loose from all connections, and was ploughing his way through the heart of the Confederacy. That was all that was known outside of a small official circle. Lincoln delayed the conclusion of his annual message as long as possible, hoping to be able to report in it the successful termination of Sherman's march to the sea. When the message was sent to Congress, he contented himself with a vague reference to Sherman's movements, from which he intimated good results would come.

While this message was in course of preparation he had an interview with two ladies, wives of Rebel officers, prisoners of war in one of the Federal strongholds of the North. Taking one of the stiff strips of cardboard on which his message was first sketched,

he wrote out and gave to a personal friend a report of the interview, which he called "the President's last, shortest, and best speech." This he submitted to the critical judgment of his friend, adding that if he thought it worth while it might be printed in the newspapers. It was as follows:

"On Thursday of last week two ladies from Tennessee came before the President, asking the release of their husbands, held as prisoners of war at Johnson's Island. They were put off until Friday, when they came again, and were again put off until Saturday. At each of the interviews one of the ladies urged that her husband was a religious man. On Saturday, when the President ordered the release of the prisoners, he said to this lady: 'You say your husband is a religious man; tell him when you meet him that I say I am not much of a judge of religion, but that, in my opinion, the religion that sets men to rebel and fight against their government because, as they think, that government does not sufficiently help some men to eat their bread in the sweat of other men's faces, is not the sort of religion upon which people can get to heaven.''

It will be seen that one figure in this little story, that of "eating their bread in the sweat of other men's faces," reappears in Lincoln's second inaugural.

The second inauguration of Lincoln took place March 4, 1865. The day was dark and dismal in the opening hours, but the rain ceased when the procession from the White House to the Capitol began to move; and, as Lincoln rose to deliver his inaugural address, the sun burst through the clouds, irradiating the scene with splendor and light. It was a hopeful

omen, and, speaking of it next day, Lincoln, with tears gathering in his eyes, said: "It made my heart jump! Let us accept it as a good sign, my dear friends." A tinge of superstition pervaded Lincoln's nature, and more than once he spoke of the sunburst that had illumined the sky as he stood on the steps of the beautiful Capitol to assume the obligations of another term of the Presidency, obligations from which death was so soon to release him. It was a brilliant scene, and many thousands were impressed with the solemnity as well as the joyousness of the occasion, as they called to mind the gloom, doubt, and uncertainty that had characterized the first inauguration. With a clear, resonant voice, standing bareheaded under the March sky, now softened and suffused with sunlight, Lincoln pronounced his masterly address, as follows:

"FELLOW-COUNTRYMEN: At this season, appearing to take the oath of the Presidential office, there is less occasion for an extended address than there was at first. Then, a statement somewhat in detail of a course to be pursued seemed very fitting and proper. Now, at the expiration of four years, during which public declarations have been constantly called forth on every point and phase of the great contest which still absorbs the attention and engrosses the energies of the nation, little that is new could be presented. The progress of our arms, upon which all else chiefly depends, is as well known to the public as to myself, and it is, I trust, reasonably satisfactory and encouraging to all. With high hope for the future, no prediction in regard to it is ventured.

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On the occasion corresponding to this, four years ago,