Mr. Lincoln smiled as he continued, “I think I am quite equal to the task. At any rate, I can try, and go as far as I can. I shall never see the boys again, probably, and I want they should know how I appreciate what they have done for the country.”

The tour of the hospitals began, the surgeon leading the way, and the President stopping at every cot, extending his hand, with words of greeting to one, sympathy to another, and a kind inquiry of some—all glad to take his hand. In his rounds, he approached a cot on which lay a rebel soldier. Before the President had time to extend his hand the repentant soldier extended his, bursting into tears, and saying, “Mr. Lincoln, I have long wanted to see you, and ask your forgiveness for ever raising my hand against the old flag.”

Mr. Lincoln wept, as he shook the penitent’s hand kindly, assuring him of prompt forgiveness. And this recalls his remark to a public man who was complaining of his Amnesty Proclamation: “When a man is sincerely penitent for his misdeeds, and gives satisfactory evidence of the same, he can safely be pardoned, and there is no exception to the rule.” The last clause, which we have put in italics, expresses the true Gospel idea of forgiveness better than most sermons of twenty pages.

After the tour of the hospitals had been made, and the President had seated himself in the surgeon’s office, word came that “one of the wards was overlooked, and the boys want to see the President.”

“You are thoroughly tired, Mr. President, and so am I,” said the surgeon, “and you had better not go; it will make no difference.”

“But I must go,” Mr. Lincoln replied; “I would not knowingly omit one, and the boys will be so disappointed if they do not see me.”

He went, and completed the hand-shaking for that day, which consumed several hours, and returned perfectly satisfied, because he had carried joy and comfort to the “brave boys,” whom he loved as a father.

His letters and public documents abound in expressions which show that the soldiers, officers and privates, were borne upon his mind constantly. He was invited to attend a large meeting in New York in honour of General Grant. He closed his reply with these words:—

“He and his brave soldiers are now in the midst of their great trial; and I trust that at your meeting you will so shape your good words that they may turn to men and guns moving to his and their support.”

He closed his letter, accepting his second nomination, with the following:—

“I am especially gratified that the soldiers and seamen were not forgotten by the convention, as they for ever must and will be remembered by the grateful country for whose salvation they devote their lives.”

If the people would but remember the soldier, they might withhold some of their praise for himself!

News of the bloody slaughter of the “boys” always filled the heart of the President with grief.

“Terrible! terrible!”

How often this expressive word dropped from his lips! Often he could neither eat nor sleep, his soul was so wrought upon by bad news from the front. When the tidings of defeat with very heavy loss, in the Wilderness battles, reached him, he exclaimed:—

“My God! my God! Twenty thousand poor souls sent to their account in one day! I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it!”