having refused to comply with the President's request and
having decorated his refusal with extraordinary language.

"Did Stanton say I was a damned fool?" asked Lincoln. "Then I dare say
I must be one, for Stanton is generally right and he always says what he
means."

Nevertheless, the time had come when Lincoln had only to say the
word and Stanton, no matter how fierce his temper might' be, would
acknowledge his master. General Fry, the Provost Marshal, witnessed a
scene between them which is a curious commentary on the transformation
of the Stanton of 1862. Lincoln had issued an order relative to
the disposition of certain recruits. Stanton protested that it was
unwarranted, that he would not put it into effect. The Provost Marshal
was called in and asked to state at length all the facts involved. When
he had finished Stanton broke out excitedly--

"'Now, Mr. President, those are the facts and you must see that your
order can not be executed.'

"Lincoln sat upon a sofa with his legs crossed and did not say a word
until the Secretary's last remark. Then he said in a somewhat positive
tone, 'Mr. Secretary, I reckon you'll have to execute the order.'

"Stanton replied with asperity, 'Mr. President, I can not do it. The
order is an improper one, and I can not execute it'."

Lincoln fixed his eye upon Stanton, and in a firm voice with an accent
that clearly showed his determination, he said, "Mr. Secretary, it will
have to be done."(1)

At this point, General Fry discreetly left the room. A few moments
later, he received instructions from Stanton to execute the President's
order.

In a public matter in the June of 1864 Lincoln gave a demonstration of
his original way of doing things. It displayed his final serenity in
such unexpected fashion that no routine politician, no dealer in the
catchwords of statecraft, could understand it. Since that grim joke,
the deportation of Vallandigham, the Copperhead leader had not had happy
time. The Confederacy did not want him. He had made his way to Canada.
Thence, in the spring of 1864 he served notice on his country that he
would perform a dramatic Part, play the role of a willing martyr--in a
word, come home and defy the government to do its worst. He came.
But Lincoln did nothing. The American sense of humor did the rest. If
Vallandigham had not advertised a theatrical exploit, ignoring him might
have been dangerous. But Lincoln knew his people. When the show did not
com