Part 29 (2/2)

Postmaster-General James reflects a dialogue between Lincoln and one of his Cabinet officers, evincing how the iron hand in the velvet glove squeezed persons into his own mold.

”Mr. President”--Secretary Stanton speaking--”I cannot carry out that order! It is improper, and I don't believe it is right.”

”Well, I reckon, Mr. Secretary”--very gently--”that you will _hev_ to carry it out.”

”But I won't do it--it's all wrong!”

”I guess you will hev to do it!”

He guessed right, the first time.

A PHANTOM CHASE.

Despite Chase's political enmity to him, President Lincoln said of Salmon Portland Chase: ”I consider him one of the best, ablest, and most reliable men in the country.” But he had to ”let him slide” off upon the Supreme Court bench to have ”knee-room” at the council-table.

He explained: ”He wants to be President, and, if he does not give that up, it will be a great injury to him and a great injury to me. He can never be President.”--(Ex-Secretary Boutwell, the authority.)

THE WORD FLIES, BUT THE WRIT REMAINS.

Mr. Chase bemoaning that in leaving home he had in the hurry forgot to write a letter, Lincoln sagely consoled:

”Chase, never regret what you don't write--it is what you do write that you are often called upon to feel sorry for!”--(Heard by General Viele.)

THE WAR-LORD.

Lincoln states that the community among whom he was brought up would have hailed him as a wizard who spoke the dead tongues; and, granting his legal studies made him familiar with Latin as lawyers use it, he carefully avoided those hurdles of the cla.s.sic orator, Latin quotations. Nevertheless, we have an exception to what would have pleased Lord Byron--the poet thought we have had enough of the cla.s.sics. The President, spying Secretary Stanton, of the War Department, inadvertently striking an imposing att.i.tude in the doorway of the telegraph-office in the Executive House, without knowing the President was here, at the desk, suddenly was aroused by hearing the jocose hail:

”Good evening, _Mars_!”--(Certified by Mr. A. B. Chandler, manager of the postal telegraph, War Department.)

FILE IT AWAY!

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