As the day of his reinauguration approached, he said to Senator Clark, of New Hampshire, “Can’t you and others start a public sentiment in favor of making no changes in offices except for good and sufficient cause? It seems as though the bare thought of going through again what I did the first year here, would _crush_ me.” To another he said, “I have made up my mind to make very few changes in the offices in my gift for my second term. I think now that I will not remove a single man, except for delinquency. To remove a man is very easy, but when I go to fill his place, there are _twenty_ applicants, and of these I must make _nineteen_ enemies.” “Under these circumstances,” says one of his friends, “Mr. Lincoln’s natural charity for all was often turned into an unwonted suspicion of the motives of men whose selfishness cost him so much wear of mind. Once he said, ‘Sitting here, where all the avenues to public patronage seem to come together in a knot, it does seem to me that our people are fast approaching the point where it can be said that seven eighths of them are trying to find how to live at the expense of the other eighth.’” A year or more before Mr. Lincoln’s death, a delegation of clergymen waited upon him in reference to the appointment of the army chaplains. The delegation consisted of a Presbyterian, a Baptist, and an Episcopal clergyman. They stated that the character of many of the chaplains was notoriously bad, and they had come to urge upon the President the necessity of more discretion in these appointments. “But, gentlemen,” said the President, “that is a matter which the Government has nothing to do with; the chaplains are chosen by the regiments.” Not satisfied with this, the clergymen pressed, in turn, a change in the system. Mr. Lincoln heard them through without remark, and then said, “Without any disrespect, gentlemen, I will tell you a ‘little story.’ Once, in Springfield, I was going off on a short journey, and reached the depot a little ahead of time. Leaning against the fence just outside the depot was a little darkey boy, whom I knew, named ‘Dick,’ busily digging with his toe in a mud-puddle. As I came up, I said, ‘“Dick,” what are you about?’ ‘Making a “_church_,”’ said he. ‘A church?’ said I; ‘what do you mean?’ ‘Why, yes,’ said ‘Dick,’ pointing with his toe, ‘don’t you see? there is the shape of it; there’s the “steps” and “front-door”--here the “pews,” where the folks set--and there’s the “pulpit.”’ ‘Yes, I see,’ said I, ‘but why don’t you make a “minister?”’ ‘Laws,’ answered ‘Dick,’ with a grin, ‘I hain’t got _mud_ enough!’” Mr. Lincoln had a dread of people who could not appreciate humor. He once instanced a member of his own cabinet, of whom he quoted the saying of Sydney Smith, that “it required a surgical operation to get a joke into his head.” The light trifles of conversation diverted his mind, or, as he said of his theatre-going, gave him “a refuge from himself and his weariness.”