John Hay, whom Nicolay, his private secretary, introduced as his assistant, a humorist like Lincoln himself, but with leanings to literary elegance and a keen eye for social distinctions, loved him all along and came to worship him, but irreverent amusement is to be traced in his recently published letters, and the glimpses which he gives us of “the Ancient” or “the Tycoon” when quite at home and quite at his ease fully justify him.  Lincoln had great dignity and tact for use when he wanted them, but he did not always see the use of them.  Senator Sherman was presented to the new President.  “So you’re John Sherman?” said Lincoln.  “Let’s see if you’re as tall as I am.  We’ll measure.”  The grave politician, who was made to stand back to back with him before the company till this interesting question was settled, dimly perceived that the intention was friendly, but felt that there was a lack of ceremony.  Lincoln’s height was one of his subjects of harmless vanity; many tall men had to measure themselves against him in this manner, and probably felt like John Sherman.  On all sorts of occasions and to all sorts of people he would “tell a little story,” which was often enough, in Lord Lyons’ phrase, an “extreme” story.  This was the way in which he had grown accustomed to be friendly in company; it served a purpose when intrusive questions had to be evaded, or reproofs or refusals to be given without offence.  As his laborious and sorrowful task came to weigh heavier upon him, his capacity for play of this sort became a great resource to him.  As his fame became established people recognised him as a humorist; the inevitable “little story” became to many an endearing form of eccentricity; but we may be sure it was not so always or to everybody.

“Those,” says Carl Schurz, a political exile from Prussia, who did good service, military and political, to the Northern cause—­“those who visited the White House—­and the White House appeared to be open to whosoever wished to enter—­saw there a man of unconventional manners, who, without the slightest effort to put on dignity, treated all men alike, much like old neighbours; whose speech had not seldom a rustic flavour about it; who always seemed to have time for a homely talk and never to be in a hurry to press business; and who occasionally spoke about important affairs of State with the same nonchalance—­I might almost say irreverence—­with which he might have discussed an every-day law case in his office at Springfield, Illinois.”

Thus Lincoln was very far from inspiring general confidence in anything beyond his good intentions.  He is remembered as a personality with a “something” about him—­the vague phrase is John Bright’s—­which widely endeared him, but his was by no means that “magnetic” personality which we might be led to believe was indispensable in America.  Indeed, it is remarkable that to some really good judges he remained always unimpressive.  Charles Francis Adams, who during the Civil War served his