“Stephen,” said the Judge (here the surprise came in), “Stephen, what do you think of Mr. Lincoln's chances for the Republican nomination?”
“We hear of no name but Seward's, sir,” said Stephen, When he had recovered.
The Judge grunted.
“Do you think that Lincoln would make a good President?” he added.
“I have thought so, sir, ever since you were good enough to give me the opportunity of knowing him.”
It was a bold speech—the Judge drew his great eyebrows together, but he spoke to Mrs. Brice.
“I'm not as strong as I was once, ma'am,” said he. “And yet I am going to that Chicago convention.”
Mrs. Brice remonstrated mildly, to the effect that he had done his share of political work. He scarcely waited for her to finish.
“I shall take a younger man with me, in case anything happens. In fact, ma'am, I had thought of taking your son, if you can spare him.”
And so it was that Stephen went to that most dramatic of political gatherings,—in the historic Wigwam. It was so that his eyes were opened to the view of the monster which maims the vitality of the Republic,—the political machine. Mr. Seward had brought his machine from New York,—a legion prepared to fill the Wigwam with their bodies, and to drown with their cries all names save that of their master.