But Lincoln never used power for its own sake, never abused his ascendency.  Always he got his end if he could without evoking the note of command.  He would go to surprising lengths to avoid appearing peremptory.  A typical remark was his smiling reply to a Congressman whom he had armed with a note to the Secretary, who had returned aghast, the Secretary 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 come off, Vallandigham was transformed in an instant from a martyr to an anticlimax.  Though he went busily to work, though he lived to attend the Democratic National Convention and to write the resolution that was the heart of its platform, his tale was told.