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.
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