ething of impatience into my despatches. If not recruited and
rested then, when could they ever be? _I suppose the river is rising,
and I am glad to believe you, are crossing._" But McClellan did not
cross; his preparations for a new campaign were not yet complete; and
the President, at last losing patience, removed him from command, and
put Burnside in his place, November 5, 1862. And a disastrous step this
proved to be. Burnside was under peremptory orders from Washington to
move immediately against the Confederate forces. The result was the
ill-advised attack upon Fredericksburg (December 12, 1862) and
Burnside's bloody repulse. The movement was made against the judgment of
the army officers then, and has been generally condemned by military
critics since. Secretary Welles thus guardedly commented upon it in his
Diary: "It appears to me a mistake to fight the enemy in so strong a
position. They have selected their own ground, and we meet them there."
But it was McClellan's unwillingness to do the very thing that Burnside
is censured for having done, and that proved so overwhelming a disaster,
that was the occasion for McClellan's removal.

A good illustration of Lincoln's disappointed, perhaps unreasonable,
state of mind before McClellan's removal is furnished by Hon. O.M.
Hatch, a former Secretary of State of Illinois and an old friend of
Lincoln's. Mr. Hatch relates that a short time before McClellan's
removal from command he went with President Lincoln to visit the army,
still near Antietam. They reached Antietam late in the afternoon of a
very hot day, and were assigned a special tent for their occupancy
during the night. "Early next morning," says Mr. Hatch, "I was awakened
by Mr. Lincoln. It was very early--daylight was just lighting the
east--the soldiers were all asleep in their tents. Scarce a sound could
be heard except the notes of early birds, and the farm-yard voices from
distant farms. Lincoln said to me, 'Come, Hatch, I want you to take a
walk with me.' His tone was serious and impressive. I arose without a
word, and as soon as we were dressed we left the tent together. He led
me about the camp, and then we walked upon the surrounding hills
overlooking the great city of white tents and sleeping soldiers. Very
little was spoken between us, beyond a few words as to the pleasantness
of the morning or similar casual observations. Lincoln seemed to be
peculiarly serious, and his quiet, abstract way affected