advertisement of an
agency for embalming and forwarding the bodies of those who had fallen
in the fight or who had perished by fever. William Henry Channing,
nephew of the great Channing, and heir to his spiritual distinction, had
left his Liverpool pulpit, deeply stirred by love of his country and
enthusiasm in a noble cause. On Sundays, his voice rang out, clear and
musical as a bell, within the walls of the Unitarian church. I went more
than once with him and Mr. Clarke to visit camps and hospitals. It was
on the occasion of one of these visits that I made my very first attempt
at public speaking. I had joined the rest of my party in a reconnoitring
expedition, the last stage of which was the headquarters of Colonel
William B. Greene, of the First Massachusetts Heavy Artillery. Our
friend received us with a warm welcome, and presently said to me, "Mrs.
Howe, you must speak to my men." Feeling my utter inability to do this,
I ran away and tried to hide myself in one of the hospital tents.
Colonel Greene twice found me and brought me back to his piazza, where
at last I stood, and told as well as I could how glad I was to meet the
brave defenders of our cause, and how constantly they were in my
thoughts.

Among my recollections of this period I especially cherish that of an
interview with President Abraham Lincoln, arranged for us by our kind
friend, Governor Andrew. The President was laboring at this time under a
terrible pressure of doubt and anxiety. He received us in one of the
drawing-rooms of the White House, where we were invited to take seats,
in full view of Stuart's portrait of Washington. The conversation took
place mostly between the President and Governor Andrew. I remember well
the sad expression of Mr. Lincoln's deep blue eyes, the only feature of
his face which could be called other than plain. Mrs. Andrew, being of
the company, inquired when we could have the pleasure of seeing Mrs.
Lincoln, and Mr. Lincoln named to us the day of her reception. He said
to Governor Andrew, apropos of I know not what, "I once heerd George
Sumner tell a story." The unusual pronunciation fixed in my memory this
one unimportant sentence. The talk, indeed, ran mostly on indifferent
topics.

When we had taken leave, and were out of hearing, Mr. Clarke said of Mr.
Lincoln, "We have seen it in his face; hopeless honesty; that is all."
He said it as if he felt that it was far from enough.

None of us knew then--how could we ha