With his keen sense of humor, Lincoln appreciated to the utmost the inimitable presentation of “Falstaff” by a well-known actor of the time.  His desire to accord praise wherever it was merited led him to express his admiration in a note to the actor.  An interchange of slight civilities followed, ending at last in a singular situation.  Entering the President’s office late one evening, Mr. Brooks noticed the actor sitting in the waiting-room.  Lincoln inquired anxiously if there were anyone outside.  On being told, he said, half sadly, almost desperately, “Oh, I can’t see him; I can’t see him!  I was in hopes he had gone away.”  Then he added, “Now, this illustrates the difficulty of having pleasant friends in this place.  You know I liked him as an actor, and that I wrote to tell him so.  He sent me a book, and there I thought the matter would end.  He is a master of his place in the profession, I suppose, and well fixed in it.  But just because we had a little friendly correspondence, such as any two men might have, he wants something.  What do you suppose he wants?” I could not guess, and Lincoln added, “Well, he wants to be consul at London.  Oh, dear!”

Lincoln was not a ready writer, and when preparing documents or speeches of special importance he altered and elaborated his sentences with patient care.  His public utterances were so widely reported and so mercilessly discussed that he acquired caution in expressing himself without due preparation.  It is stated, on what seems sufficient authority, that his Gettysburg speech, brief and simple as it is, was rewritten many times before it finally met his approval.  He began also to be guarded in responding to demands for impromptu speeches, which were constantly being called for.  Mr. Brooks relates that “once, being notified that he was to be serenaded, just after some notable military or political event, he asked me to come to dinner, ’so as to be on hand and see the fun afterward,’ as he said.  He excused himself as soon as we had dined, and while the bands were playing, the crowds cheering and the rockets bursting outside the house, he made his reappearance in the parlor with a roll of manuscript in his hand.  Perhaps noticing a look of surprise on my face, he said, ’I know what you are thinking about.  You think it mighty queer that an old stump-speaker like myself should not be able to address a crowd like this outside without a written speech.  But you must remember that in a certain way I am talking to the country, and I have to be mighty careful.  Now, the last time I made an off-hand speech, in answer to a serenade, I used the phrase, as applied to the rebels, “turned tail and ran.”  Some very nice Boston folks, I am grieved to hear, were very much outraged by that phrase, which they thought improper.  So I resolved to make no more impromptu speeches if I could help it.’”