“In the days when I used to be ‘on the circuit,’ I was once accosted in the cars by a stranger, who said, ‘Excuse me, sir, but I have an article in my possession which belongs to you.’ ‘How is that?’ I asked, considerably astonished. The stranger took a jack-knife from his pocket. ‘This knife,’ said he, ‘was placed in my hands some years ago, with the injunction that I was to keep it until I found a man _uglier_ than myself. I have carried it from that time to this. Allow me _now_ to say, sir, that I think _you_ are fairly entitled to the property.’” XLVII. I had been engaged in the official chamber until quite late one evening, upon some pencil studies of accessories, necessary to introduce in my picture. The President, Mrs. Lincoln, and the Private Secretaries had gone to the opera, and for the time being I had undisturbed possession. Towards twelve o’clock I heard some persons enter the sleeping apartment occupied by Mr. Nicolay and Major Hay, which was directly opposite the room where I was sitting; and shortly afterward the hearty laugh of Mr. Lincoln broke the stillness, proceeding from the same quarter. Throwing aside my work, I went across the hall to see what had occasioned this outbreak of merriment. The Secretaries had come in and Hay had retired; Mr. Nicolay sat by the table with his boots off, and the President was leaning over the “footboard” of the bed, laughing and talking with the hilarity of a schoolboy. It seemed that Hay, or “John,” as the President called him, had met with a singular adventure, which was the subject of the amusement. Glancing through the half-open door, Mr. Lincoln caught sight of me, and the story had to be repeated for my benefit. The incident was trifling in itself, but the President’s enjoyment of it was very exhilarating. I never saw him in so frolicsome a mood as on this occasion. It has been well said by a critic of Shakspeare, that “the spirit which held the woe of ‘Lear,’ and the tragedy of ‘Hamlet,’ would have broken, had it not also had the humor of the ‘Merry Wives of Windsor,’ and the merriment of ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream.’” With equal justice can this profound truth be applied to the late President. The world has had no better illustration of it since the immortal plays were written. Mr. Lincoln’s “laugh” stood by itself. The “neigh” of a wild horse on his native prairie is not more undisguised and hearty. A group of gentlemen, among whom was his old Springfield friend and associate, Hon. Isaac N. Arnold, were one day conversing in the passage near his office, while waiting admission. A congressional delegation had preceded them, and presently an unmistakable voice was heard through the partition, in a burst of mirth. Mr. Arnold remarked, as the sound died away: “That laugh has been the President’s life-preserver!”