Mr. Lincoln came to have an almost morbid dread of office-seekers, from whose importunity the executive of a republican government can necessarily never be free. Harassed with applications of every description, he once said that it sometimes seemed as if every visitor “darted at him, and with thumb and finger carried off a portion of his vitality.”
As the day of his reinauguration approached, he said to Senator Clark, of New Hampshire, “Can’t you and others start a public sentiment in favor of making no changes in offices except for good and sufficient cause? It seems as though the bare thought of going through again what I did the first year here, would crush me.” To another he said, “I have made up my mind to make very few changes in the offices in my gift for my second term. I think now that I will not remove a single man, except for delinquency. To remove a man is very easy, but when I go to fill his place, there are twenty applicants, and of these I must make nineteen enemies.” “Under these circumstances,” says one of his friends, “Mr. Lincoln’s natural charity for all was often turned into an unwonted suspicion of the motives of men whose selfishness cost him so much wear of mind. Once he said, ‘Sitting here, where all the avenues to public patronage seem to come together in a knot, it does seem to me that our people are fast approaching the point where it can be said that seven eighths of them are trying to find how to live at the expense of the other eighth.’”
A year or more before Mr. Lincoln’s death, a delegation of clergymen waited upon him in reference to the appointment of the army chaplains. The delegation consisted of a Presbyterian, a Baptist, and an Episcopal clergyman. They stated that the character of many of the chaplains was notoriously bad, and they had come to urge upon the President the necessity of more discretion in these appointments. “But, gentlemen,” said the President, “that is a matter which the Government has nothing to do with; the chaplains are chosen by the regiments.” Not satisfied with this, the clergymen pressed, in turn, a change in the system. Mr. Lincoln heard them through without remark, and then said, “Without any disrespect, gentlemen, I will tell you a ‘little story.’ Once, in Springfield, I was going off on a short journey, and reached the depot a little ahead of time. Leaning against the fence just outside the depot was a little darkey boy, whom I knew, named ‘Dick,’ busily digging with his toe in a mud-puddle. As I came up, I said, ‘“Dick,” what are you about?’ ‘Making a “church,”’ said he. ‘A church?’ said I; ‘what do you mean?’ ‘Why, yes,’ said ‘Dick,’ pointing with his toe, ‘don’t you see? there is the shape of it; there’s the “steps” and “front-door”—here the “pews,” where the folks set—and there’s the “pulpit.”’ ‘Yes, I see,’ said I, ‘but why don’t you make a “minister?”’ ‘Laws,’ answered ‘Dick,’ with a grin, ‘I hain’t got mud enough!’”
Mr. Lincoln had a dread of people who could not appreciate humor. He once instanced a member of his own cabinet, of whom he quoted the saying of Sydney Smith, that “it required a surgical operation to get a joke into his head.” The light trifles of conversation diverted his mind, or, as he said of his theatre-going, gave him “a refuge from himself and his weariness.”
One of the last stories I heard from Mr. Lincoln was concerning John Tyler, for whom it was to be expected, as an old Henry Clay Whig, he would entertain no great respect. “A year or two after Tyler’s accession to the Presidency,” said he, “contemplating an excursion in some direction, his son went to order a special train of cars. It so happened that the railroad superintendent was a very strong Whig. On ‘Bob’s’ making known his errand, that official bluntly informed him that his road did not run any special trains for the President. ‘What!’ said ‘Bob,’ ‘did you not furnish a special train for the funeral of General Harrison?’ ‘Yes,’ said the superintendent, stroking his whiskers; ‘and if you will only bring your father here in that shape, you shall have the best train on the road.’”
“Once—on what was called a ‘public day,’ when Mr. Lincoln received all applicants in their turn—the writer[18] was struck by observing, as he passed through the corridor, the heterogeneous crowd of men and women, representing all ranks and classes, who were gathered in the large waiting-room outside the Presidential suite of offices.
“Being ushered into the President’s chamber by Major Hay, the first thing he saw was Mr. Lincoln bowing an elderly lady out of the door,—the President’s remarks to her being, as she still lingered and appeared reluctant to go: ‘I am really very sorry, madam; very sorry. But your own good sense must tell you that I am not here to collect small debts. You must appeal to the courts in regular order.’
“When she was gone, Mr. Lincoln sat down, crossed his legs, locked his hands over his knees, and commenced to laugh,—this being his favorite attitude when much amused.
“‘What odd kinds of people come to see me,’ he said; ‘and what odd ideas they must have about my office! Would you believe it, Major, that old lady who has just left, came in here to get from me an order for stopping the pay of a treasury clerk, who owes her a board-bill of about seventy dollars?’ And the President rocked himself backward and forward, and appeared intensely amused.
“‘She may have come in here a loyal woman,’ continued Mr. Lincoln; ‘but I’ll be bound she has gone away believing that the worst pictures of me in the Richmond press only lack truth in not being half black and bad enough.’