and
recollections of his early days, his little brown cottage, the law
office, the court room, the green bag for his briefs and law papers, his
adventures when riding the circuit, came thronging back to him. The
tension under which he had for so long been kept was removed, and he was
like a boy out of school. 'We have laid by,' said he to his wife, 'some
money, and during this term we will try and save up more, but shall not
have enough to support us. We will go back to Illinois, and I will open
a law office at Springfield or Chicago, and practise law, and at least
do enough to help give us a livelihood.' Such were the dreams, the
day-dreams of Lincoln, on the last day of his earthly life."

Mr. Neill, the President's private secretary, states that between three
and four o'clock of this day he had occasion to seek the President to
procure his signature to a paper. "I found," says Mr. Neill, "that he
had retired to the private parlor of the house for lunch. While I was
looking over the papers on his table, to see if I could find the desired
commission, he came back, eating an apple. I told him what I was looking
for, and as I talked he placed his hand upon the bell-pull. I said: 'For
whom are you going to ring?' Placing his hand upon my coat, he spoke but
two words: 'Andrew Johnson.' 'Then,' I said, 'I will come in again.' As
I was leaving the room, the Vice-President had been ushered in, and the
President advanced and took him by the hand."

Charles A. Dana, the Assistant Secretary of War, says that his last
recollections of President Lincoln are indelibly associated with the
seditious Jacob Thompson. "Late in the afternoon," says Mr. Dana, "a
despatch was received at the War Department from the provost marshal of
Portland, Maine, saying that he had received information that Jacob
Thompson would arrive in Portland during that night, in order to take
there the Canadian steamer which was to sail for Liverpool. On reading
this despatch to Mr. Stanton, the latter said, 'Order him to be
arrested--but no; you had better take it over to the President.' I found
Mr. Lincoln in the inner room of his business office at the White House,
with his coat off, washing his hands preparatory to a drive. 'Hello,'
said he, 'what is it?' Listening to the despatch, he asked, 'What does
Stanton say?' 'He thinks he ought to be arrested,' I replied. 'Well,' he
continued, drawling his words, 'I rather guess not. When you have an
elephant on your