Something familiar struck me in the appearance of the watchman at
the door of the White House, and stopping, I said: "Did you hold this
position here in Lincoln's time?"
"Yes," said he, "I did."
"And did you not look after his safety sometimes?"
"I did, indeed," was the answer; "many a time I kept myself between
him and the trees there," pointing to them, "as we walked over to the
War Department to get the news from the armies. I did not know who
might be hidden in the trees, and I would not let him go alone."
"Did it ever occur to you," I asked, "that it would be worth while to
have a care that no harm happened here?"
"What, now?"
"Yes, now."
"Oh, it is different now--no war now."
"No," said I, "no war, but people are about who are queer; and there
are ugly excitements; think of it."
Of course, this conversation at the door of the White House the
midnight morning of the day before the President was shot, is
accounted for by the sensibility that there was a half-suppressed
public uneasiness that could mean some fashion of mischief, and
it might be of a deadly sort to the President, because he was so
formidably conspicuous.
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