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303 36 Forward March Iwas thinking of the night when President Lincoln and I went to Ford’s Theatre to see the celebrated actor Hackett play Falstaff.1 He had made himself more famous in that than in any other character. I was sitting at my work one evening when the door opened and Mr. Lincoln came in. He had perfect right to do so and he said to me, at once: “You are here? I reckoned I’d find you here. I am going to the theater, to see Hackett play Falstaff, and I want you to come with me. I’ve always wanted to see him in that character. Come to my room. It’s about time to go.” For some reason or other, not uncommonly arising, I was already in evening dress and had no objections to make—nor preparations. We went over into his office and I believed that he was all the while trying to put away from him any and all of the load of thoughts which appertained to that political shop. If he had landed his cares upon the Cabinet table it would have been stacked ten feet high. I do not now remember anything else that took place until we were seated in the Executive box at the theatre. The chair in which he seated himself could not have been many inches from the spot upon which it stood, [two] years afterwards, when the assassin Booth crept behind him and fired the cowardly shot which cut off his usefulness in the hour of its culmination. My own seat was at his left, near the door by which Booth entered, and all the while I was studying Lincoln rather than the play, in spite of the masterly manner in which the great actor was rendering Shakespeare’s ideal. 304 forward march The fat liar of Prince Harry’s gang seemed to be there as a living rascal rather than as any kind of fiction. He made me think of some fat rascals, one in particular, whom I knew in Washington. They may have been his descendants and were a credit to their ancestor. There were some persons, even then, who criticized the President severely for his heartless wickedness in ever going to a theater, listening to music, or any such frivolity at a time when the affairs of the nation required him to sit in a corner and weep whenever he was not signing commissions for office seekers or listening to delegations of solemn functionaries, clerical or other, who came to advise him upon the conduct of the war and upon his own conduct and that of his generals and of Congress. They were represented at Ford’s that night in a peculiar and offensive manner which would have given them complete satisfaction. The house was crowded and there were many soldiers in uniform who had obtained furloughs, perhaps, that they might come and hear Hackett and have an evening’s relief from the dull monotony of camp life. Besides these there appeared to me that there were present an abnormal number of opera glasses, all of which, from time to time or even all at the same time, were aimed at our box—either at Mr. Lincoln or at me and I believed that I was really escaping from most of them. As for him, he did not care a cent for that kind of telescope. In fact, I believe he was becoming hardened to both remarks and staring. Hackett, if I remember correctly, had not yet made his appearance when there came a brief and unexpected experience. One of the President’s oversensitive critics had a seat away back toward the entrance and his soul, if he had one, was moved within him. He arose upon his feet, or hoofs, and shouted out something like this: “There he is! That’s all he cares for his poor soldiers—” and other words were added which I cannot now recall. The President did not move a muscle but another party, also in uniform, was instantly up, declaring vociferously that: “De President haf a right to his music! Put out dot feller! De President ees all right! Let him have his music!” There was a confused racket for a few seconds and then the luckless critic went out of the theater, borne upon the strong arms of several boys in blue who agreed with their German comrade as to the right of...

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