had no doubt smoked out many a sinner, and had not been sparing of the due polemic fulminations in times of controversy.  The old theology, too, had undergone at his hands faithful fumigation to make it sanitary for the modern generations.  From one kind of smoke, however, that venerable pulpit had been free until the hour of Seward’s arrival.  It arched my eyebrows well when I saw him at the end of his address light a cigar in the very shrine, a burnt-offering, in my good grandfather’s eyes certainly, more fitting for altars satanic.  My grandfather promptly called him down, great man though he was, a rub which the statesman received from the white-haired minister, good-naturedly postponing his smoke.  But Seward rode rough-shod too often over conventions, and sometimes over real proprieties.  In an over-convivial frame once, his tongue, loosened by champagne, nearly wagged us into international complications, and there is a war-time anecdote, which I have never seen in print and I believe is unhackneyed, which casts a light.  A general of the army, talking with Lincoln and the Cabinet, did not spare his oaths.  “What church do you attend?” interposed the President at last, stroking his chin in his innocent way.  Confused at an inquiry so foreign to the topic under discussion, the soldier replied he did not attend much of any church himself, but his folks were Methodists.  “How odd!” said.  Lincoln, “I thought you were an Episcopalian.  You swear just like Seward, and Seward is an Episcopalian.”

But I should be sorry to believe there was any trouble with Seward but a surface blemish.  Though in ’61 he advocated a foreign war as a means for bringing together North and South, and desired to shelve practically Lincoln while he himself stood at the front to manage the turmoil, he made no more mistakes than statesmen in general.  He had been powerful for good before the war, and during its course, with what virile stiffness of the upper lip did he face and foil the frowning foreign world!  He had the insight and candour to do full justice at last to Lincoln, whom at first he depreciated.  Then the purchase of Alaska!  Writing as I do on the western coast I am perhaps affected by the glamour of that marvellous land.  When news of the bargain came in the seventies, the scorners sang: 

  “Hear it all ye polar bears,
  Waltz around the pole in pairs. 
  All ye icebergs make salaam,
  You belong to Uncle Sam. 
  Lo, upon the snow too plain
  Falls his dark tobacco stain.”

We thought that very funny and very apt,—­but now!  I am glad I have his image vivid, in the pulpit beside my grandfather scratching a match for a too careless cigar.  Between smokes he had done, and was still to do, some fine things.

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