Part 51 (1/2)

”'Well, well,' said he; 'this is all very fine, Mr. Case. Your hogs are doing very well just now, but, you know, out here in Illinois the frost comes early, and the ground freezes for a foot deep. Then, what are you going to do?'

”This was a view of the matter Mr. Case had not taken into account.

Butchering time for hogs was 'way on in December or January! He scratched his head, and at length stammered:

”'Well, it may come pretty hard on their snouts, but I don't see but it will be ”Root, hog, or, die!”'”

The speaker had no need to draw this moral as to the fate of the South after the war, for black or white, from a _Case_ in Illinois; the negro minstrel song was current then which supplied the apt allusion, and was called ”Root, Hog, or Die.” It may well be that the sailors conveying the baffled commissioners to Richmond, or the soldiers about the ”other government,” were chanting the instructive and prophetic chorus: ”It doan' make a bit of difference to either you or I, but Big Pig or Little Pig, it is Root, Hog, or Die.”

Mr. Raymond, in chronicling this anecdote, tells of the New York _Herald_ giving the story in a mangled and pointless copy. But it was current in conversation. Mr. Lincoln was in hopes that ”it would not leak out lest some oversensitive people should imagine there was a degree of levity in the intercourse between us.”

Quite otherwise, for the majority thought the ill.u.s.tration as good as any argument, and would have deemed the speaker prophet if they could have foreseen that the South would have to buckle down to hard work to redeem the losses.

THE GRANT BRAND OF WHISKY.

Although a Kentuckian--orthodox jest--Lincoln was so known for his rare temperance convictions that no one carped at the buffet at his official house being clear of the decanters characterizing it in previous administrations. The total abstinence societies therefore hailed him as an apostle of their creed. Consequently, they had been pleased, on certain occasions, at his espousing and cheering their counsel. When General Grant was elevating himself by his string of solid victories in the West, it was object of caviling, by the adherents of the generals eclipsed and foreseeing his becoming lieutenant-general, and the slander circulated that ”Philip sober”

got the credit of ”Philip drunk,” perpetrating his plans with the dram-bottle at his elbow.

Lincoln heard out this spiteful diatribe with his habitual patience, when, calmly looking at the chairman, he responded:

”Gentlemen, since you are so familiar with the general's habits, would you oblige me with the name of General Grant's favorite brand of whisky. I want so to send some barrels of it to my other generals!”

The deputation withdrew in poor order.

Major Eckert says that Mr. Lincoln told him he had heard this story.

It was good, and would be very good if he had told it--but he did not.

He supposed it was ”charged to him to give it currency.” He went on to say:

”The original is back in King George's time. Bitter complaints were made against General Wolfe that he was mad. The king, who could be more justly accused of that, replied: 'I wish he would bite some of my other generals.'”

”A GENERAL, AT LAST!”

Without disparaging the Lincoln generals, it may be said that they will never occupy a niche in Walhalla beside Napoleon's marshals and Was.h.i.+ngton's commanders. But Was.h.i.+ngton society liked them one with another for affording opportunities of outings to the grand reviews and parades. One--that to Bull Run--turned out a failure, and the Southerners chasing the fugitives had the pickings of the iced wines, game pies, and cold chicken which ”Brick” Pomeroy saw strewing the road back. Grant's negligent and war-worn uniform did not remind any one of the gay and brilliant period of ”Old Fuss and Feathers,” the veteran Scott. But Grant and the other Westerner, Lincoln, mutually pleased at their first meeting, the latter emerged from the interview exclaiming with joy:

”At last, we have a general!”

A FIZZLE ANYHOW!