He found out who wrote the letter， leaped on his horse， started afterLincoln， and challenged him to fight a duel. Lincoln didn’t want tofight. He was opposed to dueling， but he couldn’t get out of it andsave his honor. He was given the choice of weapons. Since he hadvery long arms， he chose cavalry broadswords and took lessons insword fighting from a West Point graduate； and， on the appointedday， he and Shields met on a sandbar in the Mississippi River，prepared to fight to the death； but， at the last minute， their secondsinterrupted and stopped the duel.
That was the most lurid personal incident in Lincoln’s life. It taught him an invaluable lesson in the art of dealing with people.
Never again did he write an insulting letter. Never again did heridicule anyone. And from that time on， he almost never criticizedanybody for anything.
Time after time， during the Civil War， Lincoln put a newgeneral at the head of the Army of the Potomac， and each one inturn—McClellan， Pope， Burnside， Hooker， Meade—blunderedtragically and drove Lincoln to pacing the floor in despair. Halfthe nation savagely condemned these incompetent generals， butLincoln， “with malice toward none， with charity for all，” held hispeace. One of his favorite quotations was “Judge not， that ye benot judged.”
And when Mrs. Lincoln and others spoke harshly of thesouthern people， Lincoln replied：“Don’t criticize them； they arejust what we would be under similar circumstances.”
Yet if any man ever had occasion to criticize， surely it wasLincoln. Let’s take just one illustration：
The Battle of Gettysburg was fought during the first threedays of July 1863. During the night of July 4， Lee began toretreat southward while storm clouds deluged the country withrain. When Lee reached the Potomac with his defeated army，he found a swollen， impassable river in front of him， and avictorious Union Army behind him. Lee was in a trap. He couldn’tescape. Lincoln saw that. Here was a golden， heaven-sentopportunity—the opportunity to capture Lee’s army and end thewar immediately. So， with a surge of high hope， Lincoln orderedMeade not to call a council of war but to attack Lee immediately.
Lincoln telegraphed his orders and then sent a special messengerto Meade demanding immediate action.
And what did General Meade do？ He did the very oppositeof what he was told to do. He called a council of war in direct violation of Lincoln’s orders. He hesitated. He procrastinated.
He telegraphed all manner of excuses. He refused point-blank toattack Lee. Finally the waters receded and Lee escaped over thePotomac with his forces.
Lincoln was furious. “What does this mean？” Lincoln cried to hisson Robert. “Great God！ What does this mean？ We had them withinour grasp， and had only to stretch forth our hands and they wereours； yet nothing that I could say or do could make the army move.
Under the circumstances， almost any general could have defeatedLee. If I had gone up there， I could have whipped him myself.”
In bitter disappointment， Lincoln sat down and wrote Meadethis letter. And remember， at this period of his life Lincoln wasextremely conservative and restrained in his phraseology. Sothis letter coming from Lincoln in 1863 was tantamount to theseverest rebuke.
My dear General，
I do not believe you appreciate the magnitude of the misfortuneinvolved in Lee’s escape. He was within our easy grasp， and tohave closed upon him would， in connection With our other latesuccesses， have ended the war. As it is， the war will be prolongedindefinitely. If you could not safely attack Lee last Monday， howcan you possibly do so south of the river， when you can take withyou very few—no more than two-thirds of the force you then hadin hand？ It would be unreasonable to expect and I do not expectthat you can now effect much. Your golden opportunity is gone，and I am distressed immeasurably because of it.
What do you suppose Meade did when he read the letter？
Meade never saw that letter. Lincoln never mailed it. It wasfound among his papers after his death.
My guess is—and this is only a guess—that after writing thatletter， Lincoln looked out of the window and said to himself， “Justa minute. Maybe I ought not to be so hasty. It is easy enough forme to sit here in the quiet of the White House and order Meadeto attack； but if I had been up at Gettysburg， and if I had seenas much blood as Meade has seen during the last week， and ifmy ears had been pierced with the screams and shrieks of thewounded and dying， maybe I wouldn’t be so anxious to attackeither. If I had Meade’s timid temperament， perhaps I wouldhave done just what he had done. Anyhow， it is water under thebridge now. If I send this letter， it will relieve my feelings， but itwill make Meade try to justify himself. It will make him condemnme. It will arouse hard feelings， impair all his further usefulnessas a commander， and perhaps force him to resign from the army.”
So， as I have already said， Lincoln put the letter aside， forhe had learned by bitter experience that sharp criticisms andrebukes almost invariably end in futility.
Theodore Roosevelt said that when he， as President， wasconfronted with a perplexing problem， he used to lean back andlook up at a large painting of Lincoln which hung above his deskin the White House and ask himself， “What would Lincoln do ifhe were in my shoes？ How would he solve this problem？”
The next time we are tempted to admonish somebody， let’s pull afive-dollar bill out of our pocket， look at Lincoln’s picture on the bill，and ask. “How would Lincoln handle this problem if he had it？”
When I was still young and trying hard to impress people， Iwrote a foolish letter to Richard Harding Davis， an author whoonce loomed large on the literary horizon of America. I waspreparing a magazine article about authors， and I asked Davisto tell me about his method of work. A few weeks earlier， I hadreceived a letter from someone with this notation at the bottom：
