but wish to be successful, as I
hope he will be; and the Secretary of War is in precisely the same
situation. If the military commanders in the field cannot be successful,
not only the Secretary of War but myself, for the time being the master
of them both, cannot but be failures. I know General McClellan wishes to
be successful, and I know he does not wish it any more than the
Secretary of War wishes it for him, and both of them together no more
than I wish it. Sometimes we have a dispute about how many men General
McClellan has had, and those who would disparage him say he has had a
very large number, and those who would disparage the Secretary of War
insist that General McClellan has had a very small number. The basis for
this is, there is always a wide difference, and on this occasion perhaps
a wider one than usual, between the grand total on McClellan's rolls and
the men actually fit for duty; and those who would disparage him talk of
the grand total on paper, and those who would disparage the Secretary of
War talk of those at present fit for duty. General McClellan has
sometimes asked for things that the Secretary of War did not give him.
General McClellan is not to blame for asking what he wanted and needed,
and the Secretary of War is not to blame for not giving when he had none
to give."

The summer of 1862 was a sad one for the country, and peculiarly sad for
Lincoln. The Army of the Potomac fought battle after battle, often with
temporary successes, but without apparent substantial results; while
many thousands of our brave soldiers perished on the field, or filled
the hospitals from the fever-swamps of the Chickahominy. The terrible
realities of that dreadful summer, and their strain on Lincoln, are well
shown in the following incident: Colonel Scott, of a New Hampshire
regiment, had been ill, and his wife nursed him in the hospital. After
his convalescence, he received leave of absence, and started for home;
but by a steamboat collision in Hampton Roads, his noble wife was
drowned. Colonel Scott reached Washington, and learning, a few days
later, of the recovery of his wife's body, he requested permission of
the Secretary of War to return for it. A great battle was imminent, and
the request was denied. Colonel Scott thereupon sought the President. It
was Saturday evening; and Lincoln, worn with the cares and anxieties of
the week, sat alone in his room, coat thrown off, and seemingly lost in
thought, perhap