Mr. Seward, whose conversation much of the time, while sitting, was
like that of a man soliloquizing aloud, told me on one occasion two
or three good stories. Referring to the numerous portraits painted
of him at different times, he said, that of all artists whom he had
known, Henry Inman was most rapid in execution. For the full-length
portrait, painted while he was Governor, for the city of New York,
Inman required but two or three sittings of an hour each, with an
additional quarter of an hour for the standing figure. This drew out
something from me in relation to Elliott’s whole length of him, painted
at the same period. “My experience with Elliott,” he rejoined, “who
was then in the beginning of his career, was a very different affair.
He seemed to think me like Governor Crittenden’s hen.” Laughing at
the recollection, he lighted a cigar, and continued: “One day the
Governor was engaged with his Council, when his little boy, of five or
six years, came into the chamber, and said, ‘Father, the black hen is
_setting_.’ ‘Go away, my son,’ returned the Governor; ‘I am very busy.’
The child disappeared, but soon returned, and putting his head in at
the door, repeated the information. ‘Well, well,’ replied the Governor,
‘you must not bother me now; let her _set_.’ The door was shut, but
soon afterward again cautiously opened, in the midst of a profound
discussion, and the words rang out, ‘But father, she is setting on one
egg!’ The Governor turned around, and looking into the dilated eyes of
the excited little fellow, replied dryly, ‘Well, my son, I think we
will let her _set_. Her time is not _very_ precious!’”
Another was of General R----, formerly of the New York State Senate.
At the regular session one day, the General gave notice that the
following day he would introduce a bill providing a thermometer for
every institution of learning in the State. The next morning the clerk
was in his private office at the usual hour, reading the bills aloud,
and placing them on file for the business of the day. A gentleman who
prided himself upon his classical attainments was present, and, as the
clerk read the notice given by Senator R----, he was informed that a
word borrowed from another language should, according to the rule,
always be given its native pronunciation. The original of thermometer,
the gentleman said, was a French term, which should be pronounced
accordingly. By a process of reasoning the clerk was convinced; and
when the bill was announced, he read it according to instructions.
General R---- was observed to look up from writing, and fix his eye
upon the clerk. The second reading passed, and he rose to his feet,
bending forward upon his desk, listening intently, his eyebrows
gradually contracting. “Third reading. Senator R---- gave notice of
a bill to provide a _thermomētre_ for every institution of learning
in the State.” By this time the attention of the entire house was
drawn to the General. “Ther--what?” he demanded, in a stentorian tone.
“_Thermomētre_” quietly responded the confident clerk. “Thermometer!
thermometer! you ---- fool; don’t you know what a thermometer is?”
thundered the enraged Senator, amid roars of laughter.
Speaking once of Henry Clay and Daniel Webster, Mr. Seward remarked,
that, as statesmen, they could not well be compared; “they were no more
alike than a Grecian temple and a Gothic church.”
I was much interested in an opinion he once expressed of equestrian
statues. He said a grand character should never be represented in this
form. It was ignoring the divine in human nature to thus link man with
an animal, and seemed to him a degradation of true art. “Bucephalus,”
in marble or bronze was well enough by itself. Place “Alexander” upon
his back, and though the animal gained a degree of interest, the _man_
lost immeasurably.