At which point, he sobbed.
hans vollman
He had been sobbing all along.
roger bevins iii
He emitted a single, heartrending sob.
hans vollman
Or gasp. I heard it as more of a gasp. A gasp of recognition.
the reverend everly thomas
Of recollection.
hans vollman
Of suddenly remembering what had been lost.
the reverend everly thomas
And touched the face and hair fondly.
hans vollman
As no doubt he had many times done when the boy was—
roger bevins iii
Less sick.
hans vollman
A gasp of recognition, as if to say: Here he is again, my child, just as he was. I have found him again, he who was so dear to me.
the reverend everly thomas
Who was still so dear.
hans vollman
Yes.
roger bevins iii
The loss having been quite recent.
the reverend everly thomas
XVII.
Willie Lincoln was wasting away.
Epstein, op. cit.
The days dragged wearily by, and he grew weaker and more shadow-like.
Keckley, op. cit.
Lincoln’s secretary, William Stoddard, recalled the question on everyone’s lips: “Is there no hope? Not any. So the doctors say.”
In “Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln,” by Doris Kearns Goodwin.
At about 5 o’clock this afternoon, I was lying half asleep on the sofa in my office, when his entrance aroused me. “Well, Nicolay,” said he choking with emotion, “my boy is gone—he is actually gone!” and bursting into tears, turned and went into his own office.
In “With Lincoln in the White House,” by John G. Nicolay, edited by Michael Burlingame.
The death was only moments ago. The body lay upon the bed, the coverlet thrown back. He wore the pale blue pajamas. His arms lay at his sides. The cheeks were still enflamed. Three pillows lay in a heap on the floor. The small side table was askew, as if roughly pushed aside.
In “Eyewitness to History: The Lincoln White House,” edited by Stone Hilyard, account of Sophie Lenox, maid.
I assisted in washing him and dressing him, and then laid him on the bed, when Mr. Lincoln came in. I never saw a man so bowed down with grief. He came to the bed, lifted the cover from the face of his child, gazed at it long and lovingly, and earnestly, murmuring, “My poor boy, he was too good for this earth. God has called him home. I know that he is much better off in heaven, but then we loved him so. It is hard, hard to have him die!”
Keckley, op. cit.
He was his father’s favorite. They were intimates—often seen hand in hand.
Keckley, op. cit., account of Nathaniel Parker Willis.
He was his father over again both in magnetic personality and in all his gifts and tastes.
In “Lincoln’s Sons,” by Ruth Painter Randall.
He was the child in whom Lincoln had invested his fondest hopes; a small mirror of himself, as it were, to whom he could speak frankly, openly, and confidingly.
In “Reckoning: An Insider’s Memories of Difficult Times,” by Tyron Philian.
Will was the true picture of Mr. Lincoln, in every way, even to carrying his head slightly inclined toward his left shoulder.
Burlingame, op. cit., account of a Springfield neighbor.
One feels such love for the little ones, such anticipation that all that is lovely in life will be known by them, such fondness for that set of attributes manifested uniquely in each: mannerisms of bravado, of vulnerability, habits of speech and mispronouncement and so forth; the smell of the hair and head, the feel of the tiny hand in yours—and then the little one is gone! Taken! One is thunderstruck that such a brutal violation has occurred in what had previously seemed a benevolent world. From nothingness, there arose great love; now, its source nullified, that love, searching and sick, converts to the most abysmal suffering imaginable.
In “Essay Upon the Loss of a Child,” by Mrs. Rose Milland.
“This is the hardest trial of my life,” he confessed to the nurse, and in a spirit of rebellion this man, overweighted with care and sorrows, cried out: “Why is it? Why is it?”
In “Abraham Lincoln: The Boy and the Man,” by James Morgan.
Great sobs choked his utterance. He buried his head in his hands, and his tall frame was convulsed with emotion. I stood at the foot of the bed, my eyes full of tears, looking at the man in silent, awe-stricken wonder. His grief unnerved him, and made him a weak, passive child. I did not dream that his rugged nature could be so moved. I shall never forget those solemn moments—genius and greatness weeping over love’s lost idol.
Keckley, op. cit.
XVIII.
Willie Lincoln was the most lovable boy I ever knew, bright, sensible, sweet-tempered and gentle-mannered.
In “Tad Lincoln’s Father,” by Julia Taft Bayne.
He was the sort of child people imagine their children will be, before they have children.
Randall, op. cit.
His self-possession—aplomb, as the French call it—was extraordinary.
Willis, op. cit.
His mind was active, inquisitive, and conscientious; his disposition was amiable and affectionate; his impulses were kind and generous; and his words and manners were gentle and attractive.
In “Funeral Oration for Willie Lincoln,” by Phineas D. Gurley, in “Illinois State Journal.”
He never failed to seek me out in the crowd, shake hands, and make some pleasant remark; and this in a boy of ten years of age, was, to say the least, endearing to a stranger.
Willis, op. cit.
Willie had a gray and very baggy suit of clothes, and his style was altogether different from that of the curled darlings of the fashionable mothers.
In “The Truth About Mrs. Lincoln,” by Laura Searing (writing as Howard Glyndon).
I was one day passing the White House, when he was outside with a play-fellow on the sidewalk. Mr. Seward drove in, with Prince Napoleon and two of his suite in the carriage; and, in a mock-heroic way—terms of intimacy evidently existing between the boy and the Secretary—the official gentleman took off his hat, and the Napoleon did the same, all making the young Prince President a ceremonial salute. Not a bit staggered with the homage, Willie drew himself up to his full height, took off his little cap with graceful self-possession, and bowed down formally to the ground, like a little ambassador.
Willis, op. cit.
There was a glow of intelligence and feeling on his face which made him particularly interesting and caused strangers to speak of him as a fine little fellow.
Searing, op. cit.
It is easy to see how a child, thus endowed, would, in the course of eleven years, entwine himself round the hearts of those who knew him best.
Gurley, op. cit.
A sunny child, dear & direct, abundantly open to the charms of the world.
In “They Knew the Lincoln Boys,” by Carol Dreiser, account of Simon Weber.
A sweet little muffin of a fellow, round and pale, a long shock of bangs often falling before his eyes, who would, when he found himself moved or shy, involuntarily perform a rapid opening and closing of the eyes: blink, blink, blink.
In “The President’s Little Men,” by Opal Stragner.
When confronted with some little unfairness, his face would darken with concern, and his eyes well up with tears, as if, in that unfortunate particular, he had intuited the injustice of the larger enterprise. Once a playmate brought along a dead robin he had just killed with a stone, held tong-like between two sticks. Willie spoke brusquely to the boy, seized the bird away, took it off to bury it, was low and quiet for the rest of the day.
In “Lincoln’s Lost Angel,” by Simon Iverness.
His leading trait seemed to be a fearless
and kindly frankness, willing that everything should be as different as it pleased, but resting unmoved in his own conscious single-heartedness. I found I was studying him irresistibly, as one of those sweet problems of childhood that the world is blessed with in rare places.
Willis, op. cit.
Privately, after the service, Dr. Gurley told people that shortly before death Willie had asked him to take the six dollars that were his savings out of the bank on his bureau and give them to the missionary society.
Kunhardt and Kunhardt, op. cit.
With all the splendor that was around this little fellow in his new home, he was so bravely and beautifully himself—and that only. A wild flower transplanted from the prairie to the hot-house, he retained his prairie habits, unalterably pure and simple, till he died.
Willis, op. cit.
Many months later, going through some old clothing for Mrs. Lincoln, I found, in a coat-pocket, a tiny wadded-up mitten. Many memories came back to me and I burst into tears. I will remember that little boy forever, and his sweet ways.
Hilyard, op. cit., account of Sophie Lenox, maid.
He was not perfect; he was, remember, a little boy. Could be wild, naughty, overwrought. He was a boy. However—it must be said—he was quite a good boy.
Hilyard, op. cit., account of D. Strumphort, butler.
XIX.
About noon, The President, Mrs. Lincoln, & Robert came down and visited the lost and loved one for the last time, together. They desired that there should be no spectator of their last sad moments in that house with their dead child & brother. They remained nearly ½ an hour. While they were thus engaged there came one of the heaviest storms of rain & wind that has visited this city for years, and the terrible storm without seemed almost in unison with the storm of grief within.
In “Witness to the Young Republic: A Yankee’s Journal, 1828–1870,” by Benjamin Brown French, edited by D. B. Cole and J. J. McDonough.
During the half hour the family was closeted with the dead boy, lightning cleaved the dark sky outside, thunder as terrible as artillery fire made the crockery shudder, and violent winds charged in from the northwest.
Epstein, op. cit.
From throughout the spacious halls that evening great sounds of grief could be heard, not all emanating from the direction of the room where Mrs. Lincoln lay insensate; the President’s deeper groans could also be heard.
In “My Ten Years at the White House,” by Elliot Sternlet.
A century and a half has passed, and yet it still seems intrusive to dwell upon that horrible scene—the shock, the querulous disbelief, the savage cries of sorrow.
Epstein, op. cit.
It was only just at bedtime, when the boy would normally present himself for some talk or roughhousing, that Mr. Lincoln seemed truly mindful of the irreversibility of the loss.
In “Selected Memories from a Life of Service,” by Stanley Hohner.
Around midnight I entered to ask if I could bring him something. The sight of him shocked me. His hair was wild, his face pale, with signs of recent tears plainly evident. I marveled at his agitated manner and wondered what might be the outcome if he did not find some relief. I had recently been to visit an iron-works in the state of Pennsylvania, where a steam-release valve had been demonstrated to me; the President’s state put me in mind of the necessity of such an apparatus.
Hilyard, op. cit., account of D. Strumphort, butler.
XX.
The unkempt gentleman was fussing over the small form now, stroking the hair, patting and rearranging the pale, doll-like hands.
roger bevins iii
As the lad stood nearby, uttering many urgent entreaties for his father to look his way, fuss over and pat him.
the reverend everly thomas
Which the gentleman appeared not to hear.
roger bevins iii
Then this already troubling and unseemly display descended to a new level of—
hans vollman
We heard an intake of breath from the Reverend, who, appearance notwithstanding, is not easily shocked.
roger bevins iii
He is going to pick that child up, the Reverend said.
hans vollman
And so he did.
The man lifted the tiny form out of the—
roger bevins iii
Sick-box.
hans vollman
The man bent, lifted the tiny form from the box, and, with surprising grace for one so ill-made, sat all at once on the floor, gathering it into his lap.
roger bevins iii
Sinking his head into the place between chin and neck, the gentleman sobbed, raggedly at first, then unreservedly, giving full vent to his emotions.
the reverend everly thomas
While the lad darted back and forth nearby, in an apparent agony of frustration.
hans vollman
For nearly ten minutes the man held the—
roger bevins iii
Sick-form.
hans vollman
The boy, frustrated at being denied the attention he felt he deserved, moved in and leaned against his father, as the father continued to hold and gently rock the—
the reverend everly thomas
Sick-form.
hans vollman
At one point, moved, I turned away from the scene and found we were not alone.
roger bevins iii
A crowd had gathered outside.
the reverend everly thomas
All were silent.
roger bevins iii
As the man continued to gently rock his child.
the reverend everly thomas
While his child, simultaneously, stood quietly leaning against him.
hans vollman
Then the gentleman began to speak.
roger bevins iii
The lad threw one arm familiarly around his father’s neck, as he must often have done, and drew himself in closer, until his head was touching his father’s head, the better to hear the words the man was whispering into the neck of the—
hans vollman
His frustration then becoming unbearable, the boy began to—
roger bevins iii
The lad began to enter himself.
hans vollman
As it were.
roger bevins iii
The boy began to enter himself; had soon entered himself entirely, and at this, the man began sobbing anew, as if he could feel the altered condition of that which he held.
the reverend everly thomas
It was all too much, too private, and I left that place, and walked alone.
hans vollman
As did I.
roger bevins iii
I lingered there, transfixed, uttering many prayers.
the reverend everly thomas
XXI.
Mouth at the worm’s ear, Father said:
We have loved each other well, dear Willie, but now, for reasons we cannot understand, that bond has been broken. But our bond can never be broken. As long as I live, you will always be with me, child.
Then let out a sob
Dear Father crying That was hard to see And no matter how I patted & kissed & made to console, it did no
You were a joy, he said. Please know that. Know that you were a joy. To us. Every minute, every season, you were a—you did a good job. A good job of being a pleasure to know.
Saying all this to the worm! How I wished him to say it to me And to feel his eyes on me So I thought, all right, by Jim, I will get him to see me And in I went It was no bother at all Say, it felt all right Like I somewhat belonged in
In there, held so tight, I was now partly also in Father
And could know exactly what he was
Could feel the way his long legs lay How it is to have a beard Taste coffee in the mouth and, though not thinking in words exactly, knew that the feel of him in my arms has done me good. It has. Is this wrong? Unholy? No, no, he is mine, he is ours, and therefore
I must be, in that sense, a god in this; where he is concerned I may decide what is best. And I believe this has done me good. I remember him. Again. Who he was. I had forgotten somewhat already. But here: his exact proportions, his suit smelling of him still, his forelock between my fingers, the heft of him familiar from when he would fall asleep in the parlor and I would carry him up to—
It has done me good.
I believe it has.
It is secret. A bit of secret weakness, that shores me up; in shoring me up, it makes it more likely that I shall do my duty in other matters; it hastens the end of this period of weakness; it harms no one; therefore, it is not wrong, and I shall take away from here this resolve: I may return as often as I like, telling no one, accepting whatever help it may bring me, until it helps me no more.
Then Father touched his head to mine.
Dear boy, he said, I will come again. That is a promise.
willie lincoln
XXII.
After perhaps thirty minutes the unkempt man left the white stone home and stumbled away into the darkness.
Entering, I found the boy sitting in one corner.
My father, he said.