OF all titles ever assumed by prince or potentate, the proudest is that of the Roman
pontiffs: "Servus servorum Dei"--"Servant of the servants of God."
In former days it was not admitted that the devil's servants could by right have any
share in government. They were to be shut out, punished, exiled, maimed, and burned.
The devil has no servants now; only the people have servants. There may be some
mistake about a doctrine which makes the wicked, when a majority, the mouthpiece of
God against the virtuous, but the hopes of mankind are staked on it; and if the weak in
faith sometimes quail when they see humanity floating in a shoreless ocean, on this
plank, which experience and religion long since condemned as rotten, mistake or not,
men have thus far floated better by its aid, than the popes ever did with their prettier
principle; so that it will be a long time yet before society repents.
Whether the new President and his chief rival, Mr. Silas P. Ratcliffe, were or were not
servants of the servants of God, is not material here. Servants they were to some one.
No doubt many of those who call themselves servants of the people are no better than
wolves in sheep's clothing, or asses in lions' skins. One may see scores of them any
day in the Capitol when Congress is in session, making noisy demonstrations, or more
usefully doing nothing. A wiser generation will employ them in manual labour; as it is,
they serve only themselves. But there are two officers, at least, whose service is real--
the President and his Secretary of the Treasury. The Hoosier Quarryman had not been
a week in Washington before he was heartily home-sick for Indiana. No maid-of-all-work
in a cheap boarding-house was ever more harassed. Everyone conspired against him.
His enemies gave him no peace. All Washington was laughing at his blunders, and
ribald sheets, published on a Sunday, took delight in printing the new Chief Magistrate's
sayings and doings, chronicled with outrageous humour, and placed by malicious hands
where the President could not but see them. He was sensitive to ridicule, and it
mortified him to the heart to find that remarks and acts, which to him seemed sensible
enough, should be capable of such perversion. Then he was overwhelmed with public
business. It came upon him in a deluge, and he now, in his despair, no longer tried to
control it. He let it pass over him like a wave. His mind was muddied by the innumerable
visitors to whom he had to listen. But his greatest anxiety was the Inaugural Address
which, distracted as he was, he could not finish, although in another week it must be
delivered. He was nervous about his Cabinet; it seemed to him that he could do nothing
until he had disposed of Ratcliffe.
Already, thanks to the President's friends, Ratcliffe had become indispensable; still an
enemy, of course, but one whose hands must be tied; a sort of Sampson, to be kept in
bonds until the time came for putting him out of the way, but in the meanwhile, to be
utilized. This point being settled, the President had in imagination begun to lean upon
him; for the last few days he had postponed everything till next week, "when I get my
Cabinet arranged;" which meant, when he got Ratcliffe's assistance; and he fell into a
panic whenever he thought of the chance that Ratcliffe might refuse.
