way 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)

All the while his premonition of the approach of doom grew more darkly
oppressive. The trail of the artist is discernible across his thoughts.
In his troubled imagination he identified his own situation with that of
the protagonist in tragedies on the theme of fate. He did not withhold
his thoughts from the supreme instance. That same friend who found him
possessed of gloom preserved these words of his: "I have read on my
knees the story of Gethsemane, when the Son of God prayed in vain
that the cup of bitterness might pass from him. I am in the Garden
of Gethsemane now and my cup of bitterness is full and overflowing
now."(11)

"Like some strong seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance,
With a glassy countenance,"

he faced toward Washington, toward the glorious terror promised him by
his superstitions.

The last days before the departure were days of mingled gloom,
desperation, and the attempt to recover hope. He visited his old
stepmother and made a pilgrimage to his father's grave. His thoughts
fondly renewed the details of his past life, lingered upon this and
that, as if fearful that it was all slipping away from him forever. And
then he roused himself as if in sudden revolt against the Fates. The day
before he left Springfield forever Lincoln met his partner for the
last time at their law office to wind up the last of their unsettled
business. "After those things were all disposed of," says Herndon, "he
crossed to the opposite side of the room and threw himself down on the
old office sofa. . . . He lay there for some moments his face to
the ceiling without either of us speaking. Presently, he inquired:
'Billy'--he always called me by that name--'how long have we been
together?' 'Over sixteen years,' I answered. 'We've never had a cross
word during all that time, have we?' . . . He gathered a bundle of
papers and books he wished to take with him and started to go, but
before leaving, he made the strange request that the sign board which
swung on its rusty hinges at the foot of the stairway