He replied, ’Henderson, my conscience tells me that I must not do it.’  But I persisted.  ’Mr. President, you should do it.  It is necessary for good feeling in Missouri that these people be released.’  ’If I sign this list as a whole, will you be responsible for the future good behavior of these men?’ he asked.  ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I will.’  ’Then I’ll take the risk.’  He wrote the word Pardoned, signed the order of release, and returned the paper to me.  ‘Thank you, Mr. President,’ I said, ‘but that is not all.  I have another list.’  ’You’re not going to make me let loose another lot!’ he exclaimed.  ‘Yes,’ I answered, ’and my argument is the same as before.  The guilt of these men is doubtful.  Mercy must be the policy of peace.’  With the only words approaching profanity that I ever heard him utter, he exclaimed, ’I’ll be durned if I don’t sign it! Now, Henderson,’ he said, as he handed me the list, ’remember that you are responsible to me for these men, and if they don’t behave ‘I’ll put you in prison for their sins.’”

Lincoln’s whole feeling toward the vanquished Southern people was one of peace and magnanimity.  While many were clamoring for the execution of the Southern leaders, and especially Jefferson Davis, Lincoln said, only a day or two before his death:  “This talk about Mr. Davis wearies me.  I hope he will mount a fleet horse, reach the shores of the Gulf of Mexico, and ride so far into its waters that we shall never see him again.”  And then he told a pat story—­perhaps his last—­of a boy in Springfield, “who saved up his money and bought a ‘coon,’ which, after the novelty wore off, became a great nuisance.  He was one day leading him through the streets, and had his hands full to keep clear of the little vixen, who had torn his clothes half off him.  At length he sat down on the curb-stone, completely fagged out.  A man passing was stopped by the lad’s disconsolate appearance, and asked the matter.  ‘Oh,’ was the only reply, ‘this coon is such a trouble to me!’ ’Why don’t you get rid of him, then?’ said the gentleman. ‘Hush!’ said the boy, ’don’t you see he is gnawing his rope off?  I am going to let him do it, and then I will go home and tell the folks that he got away from me.’”

At the last Cabinet meeting ever attended by Lincoln, held in the morning of the day on which he was shot, the subject of Reconstruction was again uppermost, and various plans were presented and discussed.  Secretary Stanton brought forward a plan or ordinance which he said he had prepared with much care and after a great deal of reflection.  It was arranged that a copy of this should be furnished to each member of the Cabinet, for criticism and suggestion.  “In the meantime,” says Secretary Welles, “we were requested by the President to deliberate and carefully consider the proposition.  He remarked that this was the great question now before us, and we must soon begin to act.”  What that action would have been had Lincoln lived—­what wrong and misery would have been spared to the South and shame and dishonor to the North—­no one can doubt who comprehends the fibre of that kindly, just, and indomitable soul.