I have been shown on the file of the War Department a statement of the Adjutant-General of Massachusetts, that you are the mother of five sons who have died gloriously on the field of battle.  I feel how weak and fruitless must be any word of mine which should attempt to beguile you from the grief of a loss so overwhelming; but I cannot refrain from tendering to you the consolation that may be found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save.  I pray that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your bereavements, and leave only the cherished memory of the loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.

     Yours, very sincerely and respectfully,
     A. LINCOLN.

A case of unusual interest is that of Cyrus Pringle, a Vermont Quaker who was drafted into the military service in 1863, and refused to serve on the ground that his religion and his conscience would not permit him to bear arms.  His story, as recorded in his diary, was given to the world after his death ("Atlantic Monthly,” February, 1913).  In spite of his protests, Pringle was taken South and forced to wear a uniform and carry a gun, though he refused to use it or even to clean it.  His obstinacy, as it was supposed to be, caused him much suffering, sometimes even physical punishment, all of which he bore patiently, believing that if he was steadfast in his faith relief would somehow come.  It did come, but not until—­after five months of hardship and distress of mind and body—­his case, with that of other Quakers, finally reached the President.  “I want you to go and tell Stanton,” said Lincoln to the gentleman who had presented the case to him, “that it is my wish that all those young men be sent home at once.”  The gentleman went to Stanton with the message, but Stanton was unwilling to obey it.  While they were arguing the matter, the President entered the room. “It is my urgent wish,” said he.  Stanton yielded, and the unfortunate Quakers were given permission to return to their homes—­none too soon to save the life of Pringle, who records in his diary:  “Upon my arrival in New York I was seized with delirium, from which I only recovered after many weeks, through the mercy and favor of Him who in all this trial had been our guide and strength and comfort.”

Anything that savored of the wit and humor of the soldiers was especially relished by Lincoln.  Any incident that showed that “the boys” were mirthful and jolly amidst their privations seemed to commend itself to him.  There was a story of a soldier in the Army of the Potomac, carried to the rear of battle with both legs shot off, who, seeing a pie-woman hovering about, asked, “Say, old lady, are them pies sewed or pegged?” And there was another one of a soldier at the battle of Chancellorsville, whose regiment, waiting to be called into the fight, was taking coffee.  The