As the old man spoke, I had a vision of the grave, troubled face of my father as he told us once of a talk he had just had with Mr. Fillmore.  The relations of the pastor and the parishioner, always cordial, had become more than ever friendly through an incident creditable to both.  Mr. Fillmore had good-naturedly offered my father a chaplaincy in the Navy, a post with a comfortable salary, which he might easily hold, taking now and then a pleasant sea-cruise with light duties, or indeed not leaving home at all, by occasional trips and visits to the one man-of-war which the Government maintained on the Great Lakes.  To an impecunious minister, with a large family to educate, it was a tempting offer.  But my father in those days was a peace-man, and he was also disinclined to nibble at the public crib while rendering no adequate service.  He declined the appointment, a course much censured.  “The fool parson, to let such a chance go!” Mr. Fillmore admired it and their friendship became heartier than ever.  In the interview, my father had asked his friend to explain his course on the Fugitive Slave Law, an act involving suffering for so many, and no doubt took on a tone of remonstrance.  He told us the President raised his hands in vehement appeal.  He had only a choice between terrible evils—­to inflict suffering which he hoped might be temporary, or to precipitate an era of bloodshed with the destruction of the country as a probable result.  He did not do evil that good might come, but of two imminent evils he had, as he believed, chosen the lesser.

Fillmore lives in my memory a stately, massive presence, with hair growing grey and kindly blue eyes looking down upon the little boy with a pleasant greeting.  His wife was gentle and unassuming.  His daughter Abby matured into much beauty and grace, and her sudden death, by cholera, in the bloom of young womanhood cast a shadow on the nation.  They were homely folk, thrust up suddenly into high position, but it did not turn their heads.  In their lives they were plainly sweet and honest.  No taint of corruption attaches to Fillmore in either his private or public career.  He was my father’s friend.  I think he meant well, and am glad that our most authoritative historian of the period, Rhodes, can say that he discharged the duties of his high office “with ability and honour.”

When in February, 1861, Abraham Lincoln, on his way to Washington, arrived in Buffalo Saturday night and it became known he would spend Sunday, the town was alive with curiosity as to where he would go to church.  Mr. Lincoln was Mr. Fillmore’s guest.  They had known each other well in Congress—­Fillmore a veteran at the head of the Committee of Ways and Means, Lincoln then quite unknown, serving his only term.  Both were Whigs of the old school, in close contact and I suppose not afterwards far apart.  Lincoln was prepared to execute the Fugitive Slave Law, while Fillmore was devoted to the Union, and probably would have admitted at the end that Lincoln’s