Among my treasured possessions are some old letters, written by Mr. Lincoln when practicing law in Springfield, to George Pickett, then a cadet at West Point, where he was placed at the request of Mr. Lincoln. The homely and humorous philosophy of these letters, the honesty which breathes through them, the cheerful outlook upon life, and the ready sympathy of the experienced professional man with the boy just on the threshold of life, looking down the vista of the future to the flashing of swords and the thunder of guns, all bring him before me as a friend.
I look beyond the description he once gave of himself, "Height, six feet, four inches, nearly; lean in flesh, weighing on an average one hundred and eighty pounds; dark complexion, with coarse black hair and gray eyes."
A free-hand sketch like that is easy, but my memory fills the outlines with the subtle beauty of soul, the sunny view of life, the deep, tender sympathy that made up a face of infinite charm which puzzled all artists but revealed itself to the intuitions of a child, causing the babe to raise its little arms to be taken up and its lips to be kissed.
The ways of Abraham Lincoln and George Pickett were widely separated for a time, but were never so far apart that the old love had not full sway. I marveled over it once, but after my own picture of the man was filled out I wondered no more. I think no one who knew and loved Lincoln could be estranged from him, whatever tides of political hostility might roll between.
One afternoon, as we were reading "Les Miserables" upon the veranda, our attention was distracted by a number of soldiers below who were discussing the Emancipation Proclamation and saying all manner of discrediting things about Mr. Lincoln, censuring him as ignorant and despotic, and bringing other unfounded accusations against him. After they were gone my Soldier walked up and down the veranda, whistling "When other friends are 'round thee." Presently, coming back, sitting beside me and taking hold of my hand, he said:
"Years ago there was a very lonesome, dispirited, disappointed, heart-broken boy away off in Quincy, Illinois. He had received letters, not in envelopes as they come now, for that was a long time ago when the letter made its own envelope; paper was scarcer then than now, and one had to be careful in opening the letter. It was fastened with sealing wax and in breaking the wax it often happened that a word was broken off. He had opened three of those letters and found that four of his cousins had been appointed to West Point, three from Virginia and one from Kentucky, and _he_ was compelled to study law, a subject which he did not like, but which his family did and had chosen for him. His uncle with whom he was studying had no sympathy with his ambition to be a soldier and his disappointment in not being of the fortunate number.