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the softer word, because the Democrat Buchanan was close to the Southern wing of his party, as represented by his own Vice-President, John C. Breckinridge.
    “
You
will give us inspiration, let’s hope.” Buchanan bowed to Seward, who could not help but think that this run-of-the-mill Pennsylvanian politician had found his true niche not as President but during the time that he was America’s minister to England.
    As the three men moved up the main staircase, Buchanan said, “The house is a good deal smaller than it looks. Actually, we’re quite crowded up here. Our private rooms are at this end while the offices are at the other end and this corridor that connects the two is for me like the river Styx. Each day I pass like a doomed soul through crowds of people, all waiting to be given something for nothing.”
    They were now at the top of the stairs, the ominous dark corridor before them. “I was never up here before,” said Lincoln.
    “You had no private business with Mr. Polk?” Seward lit a cigar; then, to the President, “Have I your leave?”
    “By all means, sir.” Buchanan indicated four large doors to the left and two doors to the right. “Those are the bedrooms. And there is the bathroom. The taps do not work, of course. Nothing really does here.” Buchanan led them down the dusty hall, whose only illumination came from a single large window at the living-quarters end. Midway to the offices, the President showed them a sitting room, which followed the shape of the oval Blue Room below. The room was bleakly furnished, with horsehair sofas and empty bookcases. A number of paintings hung on the walls; but they were so darkened by time and dirt that it was hard to tell who or what they were of. “This is our only
private
parlor. Even so, the people barge in on you.”
    The President then led them down the corridor to a wooden railing with a gate. “This is where Hades begins,” he said, unlatching the gate. Back of the railing was an empty desk and behind the desk, there was a waiting room lined with benches that always put Seward in mind of a small-town railway depot. “This is where the other Edward sits, only he’s not here. I can’t think why. He’s a colored man; and most respectable. He decides who goes into the waiting room. Then here on the left is the secretary’s office, which is quite as large as mine, with a small room just off it, which is where Harriet, my niece, keeps the linen. Would you like to see these offices?”
    “No, sir.” Seward could tell that Lincoln was prepared for flight. But Old Buck, as the President was popularly and unpopularly known, was inexorable. “Then the Cabinet meets right here, just off the clerk’s office, as you can see, and inside it connects with the President’s office, which is in the corner there, and slightly larger, thank Heaven.”
    Buchanan had now thrown open the door to the Cabinet Room. The half-dozen men who were seated at the green-baize-covered table got to their feet as the President ushered Lincoln and Seward into the room. “Gentlemen, the President-elect.”
    Briskly, Lincoln shook hands with each man. Seward noticed that he paused for a moment as he shook the hand of the Attorney-General, Edwin M. Stanton, a large, bald-headed asthmatic man with steel-rimmed spectacles and an unpleasant sneer, aimed now at Lincoln, who said, somewhat quizzically, “Well, Mr. Stanton, we meet again.”
    “Yes, we do … 
sir
.”
    Lincoln turned to the others. “Five years ago we were a pair of lawyers trying to determine whether Mr. McCormick’s reaper was his reaper or someone else’s.”
    “I remember … 
sir
.” Stanton stood very straight, his large paunch quivering slightly.
    “Yes, Mr. Stanton. So do I.”
    Buchanan had now drawn Lincoln over to the window with its view of the southern part of the President’s estate, bounded at the far end by the old canal, now an open sewer, and the Potomac River beyond. “In the summer,