|CHAPTER VI. -- Willie Lincoln's Death-Bed.|
ON THE DEATH OF COLONEL EDWARD BAKER.
THERE was no patriot like Baker,
So noble and so true;
He fell as a soldier on the field,
His face to the sky of blue.
His voice is silent in the hall
Which oft his presence graced;
No more he'll hear the loud acclaim
Which rang from place to place.
No squeamish notions filled his breast,
The Union was his theme;
No surrender and no compromise,"
His day-thought and night's dream.
His Country has her part to pay
To'rds those he has left behind;
His window and his children all,
She must always keep in mind.
Finding that Willie continued to grow worse, Mrs. Lincoln determined to withdraw her cards of invitation and postpone the reception. Mr. Lincoln thought that the cards had better not be withdrawn. At least he advised that the doctor be consulted before any steps were taken. Accordingly Dr. Stones was called in. He pronounced Willie better, and said that there was every reason for an early recovery. He thought, since the invitations had been issued, it would be best to go on with the reception. Willie, he insisted, was in no immediate danger. Mrs. Lincoln was guided by these counsels, and no postponement was announced. On the evening of the reception "Willie was suddenly taken worse. His mother say by his bedside a long while, holding his feverish hand in her own, and
"Whew! our cat has a long tail to-night."
Mrs. Lincoln did not reply. The President added:
"Mother, it is my opinion, if some of that tail was nearer the head, it would be in better style;" and he glanced at her bare arms and neck. She had a beautiful neck and arm, and low dresses were becoming to her. She turned away with a look of offended dignity, and presently
The reception was a large and brilliant one, and the right notes of the Marine Band in the apartments below came to the sick-room in soft, subdued murmurs, like the wild, faint sobbing of far-off spirits. Some of the young people had suggested dancing, but Mr. Lincoln met the suggestion with an emphatic veto. The brilliance of the scene could not dispel the sadness that rested upon the face-off Mrs. Lincoln. During the evening she came up-stairs several times, and stood by the bedside of the suffering boy. She loved him with a mother's heart, and her anxiety was great. The night passed slowly; morning came, and Willie was worse. He lingered a few days, and died. God called the beautiful spirit home, and the house of joy was turned into the house of mourning. I was worn out with watching, and was not in the room when Willie died,
Great sobs choked his utterance. He buried his head in his hands, and his tall frame was convulsed with emotion. I stood at the foot of the bed, my eyes full of tears, looking at the man in silent, awe-stricken wonder. His grief unnerved him, and made him a weak, passive child. I did not dream that his rugged nature could be so moved. I shall never forget those solemn moments--genius and greatness weeping over love's idol lost. There is a grandeur as well as a
Mrs. Lincoln's grief was inconsolable. The pale face of her dead boy threw her into convulsions. Around him love's tendrils had been twined, and now that he was dressed for the tomb, it was like tearing the tendrils out of the heart by their roots. Willie, she often said, if spared by Providence, would be the hope and stay of her old age. But Providence had not spared him. The light faded from his eyes, and the death-dew had gathered on his brow.
In one of her paroxysms of grief the President kindly bent over his wife, took her by the arm, and gently led her to the windows. With a stately, solemn gesture, he pointed to the lunatic asylum.
"Mother, do you see that large white building on the hill yonder? Try and control your grief,
Mrs. Lincoln was so completely overwhelmed with sorrow that she did not attend the funeral. Willie was laid to rest in the cemetery, and the White House was draped in mourning. Black crape everywhere met the eye, contrasting strangely, with the gay and brilliant colors of a few days before. Party dresses were laid aside, and every one who crossed the threshold of the presidential mansion spoke in subdued tones when they thought of the sweet boy at rest--
"Under the sod and the dew."
Previous to this I had lost my son. Leaving Wilberforce, he went to the battle-field with the three months troops, and was killed in Missouri--found his grave on the battle-field where the gallant General Lyon fell. It was a sad blow to me, and the kind womanly letter that Mrs. Lincoln wrote to me when she heard of my bereavement was full of golden words of comfort.
Nathaniel Parker Willis, the genial poet, now sleeping in his grave, wrote this beautiful sketch of Willie Lincoln, after the sad death of the bright-eyed boy:
"This little fellow had his acquaintances among his father's friends, and I chanced to be one of them. He never failed to seek me out in the crowd, shake hands, and make some pleasant remark; and this, in a boy of ten years of age, was, to say the least, endearing to a stranger. But he had more than mere affectionateness. His self-possession-- aplomb , as the French call it--was extraordinary. I was one day passing the White House, when he was outside with a play-fellow on the side-walk. Mr. Seward drove in, with Prince Napoleon and two of his suite in the carriage; and, in a mock-heroic way--terms of intimacy evidently existing between the boy and the Secretary--the official gentleman took off his hat, and the Napoleon did the same, all making the young Prince President a ceremonious
"With all the splendor that was around this little fellow in his new home, he was so bravely and beautifully himself --and that only. A wild flower transplanted from the prairie to the hothouse, he retained his prairie habits, unalterably pure and simple, till he died. His leading trait seemed to be a fearless and kindly frankness, willing that everything should be as different as it pleased, but resting unmoved in his own conscious
"On the day of the funeral I went before the hour, to take a near farewell look at the dear boy; for they had embalmed him to send home to the West--to sleep under the sod of his own valley--and the coffin-lid was to be closed before the service. The family had just taken their leave of him, and the servants and nurses were seeing him for the last time--and with tears and sobs wholly unrestrained, for he was loved like an idol by every one of them. He lay with eyes closed--his brown hair parted as we had known it--pale in the slumber of death; but otherwise unchanged, for he was dressed as it for the evening, and held in one of his hands,
"The funeral was very touching. Of the entertainments in the East Room the boy had been--for those who now assembled more especially--a most life-giving variation. With his bright face, and his apt greetings and replies, he was remembered in every part of that crimson-curtained hall, built only for pleasure--of all the crowds, each night, certainly the one least likely to be death's first mark. He was his father's favorite. They were intimates--often seen hand in hand. And there sat the man, with a burden on his brain at which the world marvels--bent now with the load at both heart and brain--staggering under a blow like the taking from him of his child! His men of power sat around
This sketch was very much admired by Mrs. Lincoln. I copy it from the scrap-book in which she pasted it, with many tears, with her own hands.