"Music is not much in my line," said the President; "but when you sing you warble yourself into a man's heart. I'd like to hear you sing some more." What other mild cracker could I fire off? Then I thought of that lovely song, "Mary Was a Lassie," which you like so much, so I sang that. Mr. Lincoln said, "I think I might become a musician if I heard you often; but so far I only know two tunes." "'Hail, Columbia'?" I asked. "You know that, I am sure!" "Oh yes, I know that, for I have to stand up and take off my hat." "And the other one?" "The other one! Oh, the other one is the other when I don't stand up!" I am sorry not to have seen Mr. Lincoln again. There was something about him that was perfectly fascinating, but I think I have said this before. NIAGARA, _August, 1864._ DEAR AUNTY,--My last letter, written from Philadelphia, told you of my having made Mr. Lincoln's acquaintance. A few days after we left for Niagara, taking Rochester on our way. I had not seen Rochester since I was eleven years old, and mama and I both wanted to go there again. We slept in Rochester that night. The next morning a deputation headed by the director of the penitentiary, flanked by a committee of benevolent ladies, called upon us to beg me to sing for the penitents at the penitentiary the next day, it being Sunday. They all said, in chorus, that it would be a great and noble act. I did not (and I do not now) see why pickpockets and burglars should be entertained, and I could not grasp the greatness of the act, unless it was in the asking. However, mama urged me (she can never bear me to say no), and I accepted. At the appointed time the director called for us in a landau, and we drove out to the penitentiary. As we entered the double courtyard, and drove through the much belocked gates, I felt very depressed, and not at all like bursting forth in song. Mama and I were led up, like lambs to the slaughter, on to a platform, passing the guilty ones seated in the pews, the men on one side, the women on the other, of the aisles, all dressed in stripes of some sort; they looked sleepy and stupid. They had just sat through the usual Sunday exhortation. The ladies of the committee ranged themselves so as to make a background of solemn benevolence on the platform, in the middle of which stood a primeval melodion with two octaves and four stops. One stop would have been enough for me, and I needed it later, as you will see. Here I was! What should I sing? I was utterly at a loss. Why had I not thought this out before coming? French love-songs; out of the question. Italian prayers and German lullabies were plentiful in the _répertoire_, but seemed sadly out of place for this occasion. I thought of Lucrezia Borgia's "Brindisi"; but that instantly went out of my mind. A drinking song urging people to drink seemed absurdly inappropriate, as probably most of my audience had done their misdeeds under the influence of drink.