Dream was one of his favorite poems.  He pondered those ancient, historical tales which make free use of portents.  There was a fascination for him in the story of Caracalla—­how his murder of Geta was foretold, how he was upbraided by the ghosts of his father and brother.  This dream-faith of his was as real as was a similar faith held by the authors of the Old Testament.  He had his theory of the interpretation of dreams.  Because they were a universal experience—­as he believed, the universal mode of communication between the unseen and the seen—­his beloved “plain people,” the “children of Nature,” the most universal types of humanity, were their best interpreters.  He also believed in presentiment.  As faithfully as the simplest of the brood of the forest—­those recreated primitives who regulated their farming by the brightness or the darkness of the moon, who planted corn or slaughtered hogs as Artemis directed—­he trusted a presentiment if once it really took possession of him.  A presentiment which had been formed before this time, we know not when, was clothed with authority by a dream, or rather a vision, that came to him in the days of melancholy disillusion during the last winter at Springfield.  Looking into a mirror, he saw two Lincolns,—­one alive, the other dead.  It was this vision which clenched his pre-sentiment that he was born to a great career and to a tragic end.  He interpreted the vision that his administration would be successful, but that it would close with his death.(7)

The record of his inner life during the last winter at Springfield is very dim.  But there can be no doubt that a desolating change attacked his spirit.  As late as the day of his ultimatum he was still in comparative sunshine, or, at least his clouds were not close about him.  His will was steel, that day.  Nevertheless, a friend who visited him in January, to talk over their days together, found not only that “the old-time zest” was lacking, but that it was replaced by “gloom and despondency."(8) The ghosts that hovered so frequently at the back of his mind, the brooding tendencies which fed upon his melancholy and made him at times irresolute, were issuing from the shadows, trooping forward, to encompass him roundabout.

In the midst of this spiritual reaction, he was further depressed by the stern news from the South and from Washington.  His refusal to compromise was beginning to bear fruit.  The Gulf States seceded.  A Southern Confederacy was formed.  There is no evidence that he lost faith in his course, but abundant evidence that he was terribly unhappy.  He was preyed upon by his sense of helplessness, while Buchanan through his weakness and vacillation was “giving away the case.”  “Secession is being fostered,” said he, “rather than repressed, and if the doctrine meets with general acceptance in the Border States, it will be a great blow to the government."(9) He did not deceive himself upon the possible effect of his ultimatum, and sent word to General Scott to be prepared to hold or to “retake” the forts garrisoned by Federal troops in the Southern States.(10)