BONUS CONTENT! A Wonderful Lincoln Anecdote.
In researching her new book on Empresses Elisabeth of Austria and Eugénie of France, my wife Nancy—definitely the classy one in our marriage—stumbled across this priceless anecdote.
In June 1864, Philadelphia held a Great Fair to benefit the United States Sanitary Commission, a private relief agency that supported sick and wounded Union soldiers during the Civil War. President Lincoln visited the fair, where he donated 48 autographed copies of the Emancipation Proclamation.
Another visitor to Philadelphia was a remarkable twenty-year-old woman born Lillie Greenough, in Cambridge, Massachusetts. She is described in a note at the beginning of her book, In the Courts of Memory.
“As a child Miss Greenough developed the remarkable voice which later was to make her well known, and when only fifteen years of age her mother took her to London to study under Garcia. Two years later Miss Greenough became the wife of Charles Moulton, the son of a well-known American banker, who had been a resident in Paris since the days of Louis Philippe. As Madame Charles Moulton, the charming American became an appreciated guest at the court of Napoleon III. The Paris papers of the days of the Second Empire are filled with the praises of her personal attractions and exquisite singing.
After nine years of gaiety in the gayest city in the world came the war of 1870 and the Commune. Upon the fall of the Empire, Mrs. Moulton returned to America, where Mr. Moulton died, and a few years afterward she married M. de Hegermann-Lindencrone, at that time Danish Minister to the United States, and later successively his country’s representative at Stockholm, Rome, and Paris.”
During the fair, she attended a dinner at which Lincoln was present, and her description of him gives a remarkable feel for this remarkable man.
“President Lincoln is here, and Mrs. M had the courage to invite him, and he had the courage to accept. It is the first time that I have ever seen an American President, and I was most anxious to see him, particularly as he has, for the last years, been such a hero in my eyes. He might take the prize for ugliness anywhere; his face looked as if it was cut out of wood, and roughly cut at that, with deep furrows in his cheeks and a huge mouth; but he seemed so good and kind, and his eyes sparkled with so much humor and fun, that he became quite fascinating, especially when he smiled. I confess I lost my heart to him. . .
The dinner, I mean the food part of it, was a failure. It came from Baltimore, and everything was cold; the paté de foie gras never appeared at all! When Mrs. M mentioned the fact to Mr. Lincoln, pointing to the menu, he said ‘the pate’ (he pronounced it patty) has probably walked off by itself. Everyone laughed, because he said it in such a comical, slow way.
After the gentlemen had smoked (I thought they were a long time at it) we were requested to go into the gallery, where all the gaslights were turned up to the fullest and chairs placed in rows, and Professor Winter began to read a lecture on the brain—of all subjects!
Who but Mrs. M would ever have arranged such an entertainment?
Professor Winter told us where our 50,000 ideas were laid up in our brains (I am sure that I have not 50,000 in mine). One might have deducted 49,999, and still, with that little one left, I was not able to understand the half of what he said.
The President looked bored, and I am sure everybody else wished Professor Winter and his theories (because they can’t be facts) in the Red Sea. . . After this séance, I was asked to sing. Poor Mr. Lincoln! who I understood could not endure music. I pitied him.
‘None of your foreign fireworks,’ said Mr. Trott,
As I passed him on my way to the piano, I answered, ‘Shall I sing 'Three Little Kittens?’ I think that is the least fireworky of my repertoire.’ But I concluded that a simple little rocket like ‘Robin Adair’ would kill nobody; therefore I sang that, and it had a success.
When the gaunt President shook my hand to thank me, he held it in a grip of iron, and when, to accentuate the compliment, meaning to give a little extra pressure, he put his left hand over his right, I felt as if my hand was shut in a waffle-iron and I should never straighten it out again.
‘Music is not much in my line,’ said the President, ‘but when you sing you warble yourself into a man’s heart. I’d like to hear you sing some more.’
What other mild cracker could I fire off? Then I thought of that lovely song, ‘Mary Was a Lassie,’ so I sang that.
Mr. Lincoln said, ‘I think I might become a musician if I heard you often; but so far I only know two tunes.’
‘Hail, Columbia?’ I asked. ‘You know that, I am sure!’
‘Oh yes, I know that, for I have to stand up and take off my hat.’
‘And the other one?’
‘The other one! Oh, the other one is the other when I don't stand up!’
I am sorry not to have seen Mr. Lincoln again. There was something about him that was perfectly fascinating, but I think I have said this before.”