“We’re short of prog, said Captain B----, When going on a trip; And as we’ve little got to eat, We’ll dine off the ship. Fear not, but keep your powder dry, And place faith in the Lord; You’ve naught to fear, for seamen cooks Can always cook a-board. The captain quickly did reply, While standing by the wheel, ’Tis little, Abe’rm, that we have-- How can we cook _a deal_.” _A Strange Similarity._ “Why is the Northern army,” asked the President, “like the post-office at Washington?” “Because it is made up of columns, wings, and squares, and, judging from the past, it is also _doomed_.” _Economy._ “There is no nonsense about these sardines,” said Mrs. Lincoln, “they are genuine, and came from the Mediterranean.” “Yes,” said Lincoln, “and if you leave them to themselves _they will go a great deal farther_.” _Where Punch got his Cartoon from._ When Lincoln sent contributions to the Northern army, he wrote to General ---- as follows:--“Dear Sir,--Knowing that the army under your charge requires purging, I herewith send you a _black draft_.”--Yours, Lincoln. _Pun upon Pun._ The facetious president thus wrote to a friend in Scotland:-- “As however, I am somewhat partial to female authors (Scotch or otherwise), don’t forget to remember me to all the _blue belles_ of Scotland, and to as many _primroses_ as you can find. The remembrance may produce a little _heart’s ease_, and cause their _two-lips_ to bless you.” _Lincoln at the Play._ I had the pleasure on Monday night of seeing “Macbeth” rendered upon the stage of Messrs. Wallack and Devonport, and also of seeing Mr. Lincoln present at the same time. It is Mr. Lincoln’s favourite play, and one could not repress a certain curiosity to know (though he is familiar with them as he is with stump speaking, doubtless) how certain passages would strike him. When the following passage between Malcolm and Macduff was pronounced the audience was suddenly silent as the grave:-- _Mal._--Let me seek out some desolate shade, and there weep our bosoms empty. _Macd._ Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men Bestride our downfall’n birthdom. Each new morn New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows Strike on the face of heaven, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland and yelled out Like syllable of dolour. Mr. Lincoln leaned back in his chair in the shade after this sentence was pronounced, and for a long time wore a sad, sober face, as if suddenly his thoughts had wandered from the playroom far away to where his great armies contest with the rebellious of a vast empire. _A Ludicrous Mistake._ “Who has been guilty of these crimes,” said Lincoln, alluding to those committed by New York electioneering agents, “Donohue,” was the reply. “Then learn out as speedily as possible.” _A Southern Estimate._