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Abraham Lincoln and the Union: A Chronicle of the Embattled North

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Title: Abraham Lincoln and the Union: A Chronicle of the Embattled North

Author: Nathaniel W. Stephenson


        
Release date: September 1, 2001 [eBook #2836]
                Most recently updated: December 6, 2008

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by The James J. Kelly Library Of St. Gregory's
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ABRAHAM LINCOLN AND THE UNION: A CHRONICLE OF THE EMBATTLED NORTH ***




Produced by The James J. Kelly Library Of St. Gregory's
University, Alev Akman, Dianne Bean, and Alison Henry






ABRAHAM LINCOLN AND THE UNION,

A CHRONICLE OF THE EMBATTLED NORTH

Volume 29 In The Chronicles Of America Series

By Nathaniel W. Stephenson

Allen Johnson, Editor


New Haven: Yale University Press Toronto: Glasgow

Brook & Co. London: Humphrey Milford

Oxford University Press

1918




PREFACE

In spite of a lapse of sixty years, the historian who attempts to
portray the era of Lincoln is still faced with almost impossible demands
and still confronted with arbitrary points of view. It is out of the
question, in a book so brief as this must necessarily be, to meet all
these demands or to alter these points of view. Interests that are
purely local, events that did not with certainty contribute to the final
outcome, gossip, as well as the mere caprice of the scholar--these must
obviously be set aside.

The task imposed upon the volume resolves itself, at bottom, into just
two questions: Why was there a war? Why was the Lincoln Government
successful? With these two questions always in mind I have endeavored,
on the one hand, to select and consolidate the pertinent facts; on the
other, to make clear, even at the cost of explanatory comment, their
relations in the historical sequence of cause and effect. This purpose
has particularly governed the use of biographical matter, in which the
main illustration, of course, is the career of Lincoln. Prominent as it
is here made, the Lincoln matter all bears in the last analysis on one
point--his control of his support. On that the history of the North
hinges. The personal and private Lincoln it is impossible to present
within these pages. The public Lincoln, including the character of his
mind, is here the essential matter.

The bibliography at the close of the volume indicates the more important
books which are at the reader's disposal and which it is unfortunate not
to know.

NATHANIEL W. STEPHENSON. Charleston, S. C., March, 1918.



ABRAHAM LINCOLN AND THE UNION



INDEX


I. THE TWO NATIONS OF THE REPUBLIC

II. THE PARTY OF POLITICAL EVASION

III. THE POLITICIANS AND THE NEW DAY

IV. THE CRISIS

V. SECESSION

VI. WAR

VII. LINCOLN

VIII. THE RULE OF LINCOLN

IX. THE CRUCIAL MATTER

X. THE SECRETARY OF THE TREASURY

XI. NORTHERN LIFE DURING THE WAR

XII. THE MEXICAN EPISODE

XIII. THE PLEBISCITE OF 1864

XIV. LINCOLN'S FINAL INTENTIONS

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE



CHAPTER I

THE TWO NATIONS OF THE REPUBLIC


"There is really no Union now between the North and the South.... No two
nations upon earth entertain feelings of more bitter rancor toward each
other than these two nations of the Republic."

This remark, which is attributed to Senator Benjamin Wade of Ohio,
provides the key to American politics in the decade following the
Compromise of 1850. To trace this division of the people to its ultimate
source, one would have to go far back into colonial times. There was a
process of natural selection at work, in the intellectual and economic
conditions of the eighteenth century, which inevitably drew together
certain types and generated certain forces. This process manifested
itself in one form in His Majesty's plantations of the North, and in
another in those of the South. As early as the opening of the nineteenth
century, the social tendencies of the two regions were already so far
alienated that they involved differences which would scarcely admit of
reconciliation. It is a truism to say that these differences gradually
were concentrated around fundamentally different conceptions of
labor--of slave labor in the South, of free labor in the North.

Nothing, however, could be more fallacious than the notion that this
growing antagonism was controlled by any deliberate purpose in either
part of the country. It was apparently necessary that this Republic in
its evolution should proceed from confederation to nationality through
an intermediate and apparently reactionary period of sectionalism. In
this stage of American history, slavery was without doubt one of the
prime factors involved, but sectional consciousness, with all its
emotional and psychological implications, was the fundamental impulse of
the stern events which occurred between 1850 and 1865.

By the middle of the nineteenth century the more influential Southerners
had come generally to regard their section of the country as a distinct
social unit. The next step was inevitable. The South began to regard
itself as a separate political unit. It is the distinction of Calhoun
that he showed himself toward the end sufficiently flexible to become
the exponent of this new political impulse. With all his earlier fire
he encouraged the Southerners to withdraw from the so-called national
parties, Whig and Democratic, to establish instead a single Southern
party, and to formulate, by means of popular conventions, a single
concerted policy for the entire South.

At that time such a policy was still regarded, from the Southern point
of view, as a radical idea. In 1851, a battle was fought at the polls
between the two Southern ideas--the old one which upheld separate state
independence, and the new one which virtually acknowledged Southern
nationality. The issue at stake was the acceptance or the rejection of
a compromise which could bring no permanent settlement of fundamental
differences.

Nowhere was the battle more interesting than in South Carolina, for it
brought into clear light that powerful Southern leader who ten years
later was to be the masterspirit of secession--Robert Barnwell Rhett. In
1851 he fought hard to revive the older idea of state independence
and to carry South Carolina as a separate state out of the Union.
Accordingly it is significant of the progress that the consolidation
of the South had made at this date that on this issue Rhett encountered
general opposition. This difference of opinion as to policy was not
inspired, as some historians have too hastily concluded, by national
feeling. Scarcely any of the leaders of the opposition considered the
Federal Government supreme over the State Government. They opposed Rhett
because they felt secession to be at that moment bad policy. They saw
that, if South Carolina went out of the Union in 1851, she would go
alone and the solidarity of the South would be broken. They were not
lacking in sectional patriotism, but their conception of the best
solution of the complex problem differed from that advocated by Rhett.
Their position was summed up by Langdon Cheves when he said, "To secede
now is to secede from the South as well as from the Union." On the basis
of this belief they defeated Rhett and put off secession for ten years.

There is no analogous single event in the history of the North,
previous to the war, which reveals with similar clearness a sectional
consciousness. On the surface the life of the people seemed, indeed, to
belie the existence of any such feeling. The Northern capitalist class
aimed steadily at being non-sectional, and it made free use of the word
national. We must not forget, however, that all sorts of people talked
of national institutions, and that the term, until we look closely
into the mind of, the person using it, signifies nothing. Because the
Northern capitalist repudiated the idea of sectionalism, it does not
follow that he set up any other in its place. Instead of accomplishing
anything so positive, he remained for the most part a negative quantity.

Living usually somewhere between Maine and Ohio, he made it his chief
purpose to regulate the outflow of manufactures from that industrial
region and the inflow of agricultural produce. The movement of the
latter eastward and northward, and the former westward and southward,
represents roughly but graphically the movement of the business of that
time. The Easterner lived in fear of losing the money which was owed him
in the South. As the political and economic conditions of the day made
unlikely any serious clash of interest between the East and the West, he
had little solicitude about his accounts beyond the Alleghanies. But a
gradually developing hostility between North and South was accompanied
by a parallel anxiety on the part of Northern capital for its Southern
investments and debts. When the war eventually became inevitable,
$200,000,000 were owed by Southerners to Northerners. For those days
this was an indebtedness of no inconsiderable magnitude. The Northern
capitalists, preoccupied with their desire to secure this account, were
naturally eager to repudiate sectionalism, and talked about national
interests with a zeal that has sometimes been misinterpreted. Throughout
the entire period from 1850 to 1865, capital in American politics played
for the most part a negative role, and not until after the war did it
become independent of its Southern interests.

For the real North of that day we must turn to those Northerners who
felt sufficient unto themselves and whose political convictions were
unbiased by personal interests which were involved in other parts of the
country. We must listen to the distinct voices that gave utterance to
their views, and we must observe the definite schemes of their political
leaders. Directly we do this, the fact stares us in the face that the
North had become a democracy. The rich man no longer played the role
of grandee, for by this time there had arisen those two groups which,
between them, are the ruin of aristocracy--the class of prosperous
laborers and the group of well-to-do intellectuals. Of these, the latter
gave utterance, first, to their faith in democracy, and then, with all
the intensity of partisan zeal, to their sense of the North as the
agent of democracy. The prosperous laborers applauded this expression
of an opinion in which they thoroughly believed and at the same time gave
their willing support to a land policy that was typically Northern.

American economic history in the middle third of the century is
essentially the record of a struggle to gain possession of public land.
The opposing forces were the South, which strove to perpetuate by this
means a social system that was fundamentally aristocratic, and the
North, which sought by the same means to foster its ideal of democracy.
Though the South, with the aid of its economic vassal, the Northern
capitalist class, was for some time able to check the land-hunger of
the Northern democrats, it was never able entirely to secure the control
which it desired, but was always faced with the steady and continued
opposition of the real North. On one occasion in Congress, the heart
of the whole matter was clearly shown, for at the very moment when the
Northerners of the democratic class were pressing one of their frequent
schemes for free land, Southerners and their sympathetic Northern
henchmen were furthering a scheme that aimed at the purchase of Cuba.
From the impatient sneer of a Southerner that the Northerners sought to
give "land to the landless" and the retort that the Southerners seemed
equally anxious to supply "niggers to the niggerless," it can be seen
that American history is sometimes better summed up by angry politicians
than by historians.

We must be on our guard, however, against ascribing to either side
too precise a consciousness of its own motives. The old days when the
American Civil War was conceived as a clear-cut issue are as a watch in
the night that has passed, and we now realize that historical movements
are almost without exception the resultants of many motives. We have
come to recognize that men have always misapprehended themselves,
contradicted themselves, obeyed primal impulses, and then deluded
themselves with sophistications upon the springs of action. In a word,
unaware of what they are doing, men allow their aesthetic and dramatic
senses to shape their conceptions of their own lives.

That "great impersonal artist," of whom Matthew Arnold has so much to
say, is at work in us all, subtly making us into illusions, first to
ourselves and later to the historian. It is the business of history, as
of analytic fiction, both to feel the power of these illusions and to
work through them in imagination to the dim but potent motives on which
they rest. We are prone to forget that we act from subconscious quite as
often as from conscious influences, from motives that arise out of the
dim parts of our being, from the midst of shadows that psychology has
only recently begun to lift, where senses subtler than the obvious make
use of fear, intuition, prejudice, habit, and illusion, and too often
play with us as the wind with blown leaves.

True as this is of man individually, it is even more fundamentally true
of man collectively, of parties, of peoples. It is a strikingly accurate
description of the relation of the two American nations that now found
themselves opposed within the Republic. Neither fully understood the
other. Each had a social ideal that was deeper laid than any theory of
government or than any commercial or humanitarian interest. Both knew
vaguely but with sure instinct that their interests and ideals
were irreconcilable. Each felt in its heart the deadly passion of
self-preservation. It was because, in both North and South, men were
subtly conscious that a whole social system was the issue at stake, and
because on each side they believed in their own ideals with their whole
souls, that, when the time came for their trial by fire, they went to
their deaths singing.

In the South there still obtained the ancient ideal of territorial
aristocracy. Those long traditions of the Western European peoples
which had made of the great landholder a petty prince lay beneath the
plantation life of the Southern States. The feudal spirit, revived in a
softer world and under brighter skies, gave to those who participated in
it the same graces and somewhat the same capacities which it gave to the
knightly class in the days of Roland--courage, frankness, generosity,
ability in affairs, a sense of responsibility, the consciousness
of caste. The mode of life which the planters enjoyed and which the
inferior whites regarded as a social paradise was a life of complete
deliverance from toil, of disinterested participation in local
government, of absolute personal freedom--a life in which the mechanical
action of law was less important than the more human compulsion of
social opinion, and in which private differences were settled under the
code of honor.

This Southern life was carried on in the most appropriate environment.
On a landed estate, often larger than many of Europe's baronies, stood
the great house of the planter, usually a graceful example of colonial
architecture, surrounded by stately gardens. This mansion was the center
of a boundless hospitality; guests were always coming and going; the
hostess and her daughters were the very symbols of kindliness and ease.
To think of such houses was to think of innumerable joyous days;
of gentlemen galloping across country after the hounds; of coaches
lumbering along avenues of noble oaks, bringing handsome women to visit
the mansion; of great feastings; of nights of music and dancing; above
all, of the great festival of Christmas, celebrated much as had been the
custom in "Merrie England" centuries before.

Below the surface of this bright world lay the enslaved black race. In
the minds of many Southerners--it was always a secret burden from which
they saw no means of freeing themselves. To emancipate the slaves, and
thereby to create a population of free blacks, was generally considered,
from the white point of view, an impossible solution of the problem.
The Southerners usually believed that the African could be tamed only
in small groups and when constantly surrounded by white influence, as in
the case of house servants. Though a few great capitalists had taken
up the idea that the deliberate exploitation of the blacks was the high
prerogative of the whites, the general sentiment of the Southern people
was more truly expressed by Toombs when he said: "The question is not
whether we could be more prosperous and happy with these three and a
half million slaves in Africa, and their places filled with an equal
number of hardy, intelligent, and enterprising citizens of the superior
race; but it is simply whether, while we have them among us, we would be
most prosperous with them in freedom or in bondage."

The Southern people, in the majority of instances, had no hatred of the
blacks. In the main they led their free, spirited, and gracious life,
convinced that the maintenance of slavery was but making the best of
circumstances which were beyond their control. It was these Southern
people who were to hear from afar the horrible indictment of all
their motives by the Abolitionists and who were to react in a growing
bitterness and distrust toward everything Northern.

But of these Southern people the average Northerner knew nothing.
He knew the South only on its least attractive side of professional
politics. For there was a group of powerful magnates, rich planters or
"slave barons," who easily made their way into Congress, and who played
into the hands of the Northern capitalists, for a purpose similar to
theirs. It was these men who forced the issue upon slavery; they warned
the common people of the North to mind their own business; and for doing
so they were warmly applauded by the Northern capitalist class. It was
therefore in opposition to the whole American world of organized capital
that the Northern masses demanded the use of "the Northern hammer"--as
Sumner put it, in one of his most furious speeches--in their aim to
destroy a section where, intuitively, they felt their democratic ideal
could not be realized.

And what was that ideal? Merely to answer democracy is to dodge the
fundamental question. The North was too complex in its social structure
and too multitudinous in its interests to confine itself to one type
of life. It included all sorts and conditions of men--from the most
gracious of scholars who lived in romantic ease among his German and
Spanish books, and whose lovely house in Cambridge is forever associated
with the noble presence of Washington, to the hardy frontiersman,
breaking the new soil of his Western claim, whose wife at sunset shaded
her tired eyes, under a hand rough with labor, as she stood on the
threshold of her log cabin, watching for the return of her man across
the weedy fields which he had not yet fully subdued. Far apart as were
Longfellow and this toiler of the West, they yet felt themselves to be
one in purpose.

They were democrats, but not after the simple, elementary manner of the
democrats at the opening of the century. In the North, there had come
to life a peculiar phase of idealism that had touched democracy with
mysticism and had added to it a vague but genuine romance. This new
vision of the destiny of the country had the practical effect of making
the Northerners identify themselves in their imaginations with all
mankind and in creating in them an enthusiastic desire, not only to give
to every American a home of his own, but also to throw open the gates of
the nation and to share the wealth of America with the poor of all the
world. In very truth, it was their dominating passion to give "land to
the landless." Here was the clue to much of their attitude toward the
South. Most of these Northern dreamers gave little or no thought to
slavery itself; but they felt that the section which maintained such a
system so committed to aristocracy that any real friendship with it was
impossible.

We are thus forced to conceive the American Republic in the years
immediately following the Compromise of 1850 as, in effect, a dual
nation, without a common loyalty between the two parts. Before long the
most significant of the great Northerners of the time was to describe
this impossible condition by the appropriate metaphor of a house
divided against itself. It was not, however, until eight years after the
division of the country had been acknowledged in 1850 that these
words were uttered. In those eight years both sections awoke to the
seriousness of the differences that they had admitted. Both perceived
that, instead of solving their problem in 1850, they had merely drawn
sharply the lines of future conflict. In every thoughtful mind there
arose the same alternative questions: Is there no solution but fighting
it out until one side destroys the other, or we end as two nations
confessedly independent? Or is there some conceivable new outlet for
this opposition of energy on the part of the sections, some new mode of
permanent adjustment?

It was at the moment when thinking men were asking these questions that
one of the nimblest of politicians took the center of the stage. Stephen
A. Douglas was far-sighted enough to understand the land-hunger of
the time. One is tempted to add that his ear was to the ground. The
statement will not, however, go unchallenged, for able apologists have
their good word to say for Douglas. Though in the main, the traditional
view of him as the prince of political jugglers still holds its own, let
us admit that his bold, rough spirit, filled as it was with political
daring, was not without its strange vein of idealism. And then let us
repeat that his ear was to the ground. Much careful research has indeed
been expended in seeking to determine who originated the policy which,
about 1853, Douglas decided to make his own. There has also been much
dispute about his motives. Most of us, however, see in his course of
action an instance of playing the game of politics with an audacity that
was magnificent.

His conduct may well have been the result of a combination of motives
which included a desire to retain the favor of the Northwest, a wish
to pave the way to his candidacy for the Presidency, the intention to
enlist the aid of the South as well as that of his own locality, and
perhaps the hope that he was performing a service of real value to his
country. That is, he saw that the favor of his own Northwest would be
lavished upon any man who opened up to settlement the rich lands beyond
Iowa and Missouri which were still held by the Indians, and for which
the Westerners were clamoring. Furthermore, they wanted a railroad that
would reach to the Pacific. There were, however, local entanglements and
political cross-purposes which involved the interests of the free State
of Illinois and those of the slave State of Missouri.

Douglas's great stroke was a programme for harmonizing all these
conflicting interests and for drawing together the West and the South.
Slaveholders were to be given what at that moment they wanted most--an
opportunity to expand into that territory to the north and west of
Missouri which had been made free by the Compromise of 1820, while the
free Northwest was to have its railroad to the coast and also its chance
to expand into the Indian country. Douglas thus became the champion of a
bill which would organize two new territories, Kansas and Nebraska, but
which would leave the settlers in each to decide whether slavery or free
labor should prevail within their boundaries. This territorial scheme
was accepted by a Congress in which the Southerners and their Northern
allies held control, and what is known as the Kansas-Nebraska Bill was
signed by President Pierce on May 30,1854.*

     *The origin of the Kansas-Nebraska Bill has been a much
     discussed subject among historians in recent years.  The
     older view that Douglas was simply playing into the hands of
     the "slavepower" by sacrificing Kansas, is no longer
     tenable.  This point has been elaborated by Allen Johnson in
     his study of Douglas ("Stephen A. Douglas: a Study in
     American Politics").  In his "Repeal of the Missouri
     Compromise", P.O. Ray contends that the legislation of 1854
     originated in a factional controversy in Missouri, and that
     Douglas merely served the interests of the proslavery group
     led by Senator David R. Atchinson of Missouri.  Still
     another point of view is that presented in the "Genesis of
     the Kansas-Nebraska Act," by F. H. Hodder, who would explain
     not only the division of the Nebraska Territory into Kansas
     and Nebraska, but the object of the entire bill by the
     insistent efforts of promoters of the Pacific railroad
     scheme to secure a right of way through Nebraska.  This
     project involved the organization of a territorial
     government and the repeal of the Missouri Compromise.
     Douglas was deeply interested in the western railroad
     interests and carried through the necessary legislation.



CHAPTER II. THE PARTY OF POLITICAL EVASION

In order to understand Douglas one must understand the Democratic party
of 1854 in which Douglas was a conspicuous leader. The Democrats boasted
that they were the only really national party and contended that their
rivals, the Whigs and the Know-Nothings, were merely the representatives
of localities or classes. Sectionalism was the favorite charge which the
Democrats brought against their enemies; and yet it was upon these very
Democrats that the slaveholders had hitherto relied, and it was upon
certain members of this party that the label, "Northern men with
Southern principles," had been bestowed.

The label was not, however, altogether fair, for the motives of the
Democrats were deeply rooted in their own peculiar temperament. In the
last analysis, what had held their organization together, and what had
enabled them to dominate politics for nearly the span of a generation,
was their faith in a principle that then appealed powerfully, and that
still appeals, to much in the American character. This was the principle
of negative action on the part of the government--the old idea that the
government should do as little as possible and should confine itself
practically to the duties of the policeman. This principle has seemed
always to express to the average mind that traditional individualism
which is an inheritance of the Anglo-Saxon race. In America, in the
middle of the nineteenth century, it reenforced that tradition of local
independence which was strong throughout the West and doubly strong in
the South. Then, too, the Democratic party still spoke the language of
the theoretical Democracy inherited from Jefferson. And Americans have
always been the slaves of phrases!

Furthermore, the close alliance of the Northern party machine with
the South made it, generally, an object of care for all those Northern
interests that depended on the Southern market. As to the Southerners,
their relation with this party has two distinct chapters. The first
embraced the twenty years preceding the Compromise of 1850, and may
be thought of as merging into the second during three or four years
following the great equivocation. In that period, while the antislavery
crusade was taking form, the aim of Southern politicians was mainly
negative. "Let us alone," was their chief demand. Though aggressive
in their policy, they were too far-sighted to demand of the North any
positive course in favor of slavery. The rise of a new type of Southern
politician, however, created a different situation and began a second
chapter in the relation between the South and the Democratic party
machine in the North. But of that hereafter.

Until 1854, it was the obvious part of wisdom for Southerners to
cooperate as far as possible with that party whose cardinal idea was
that the government should come as near as conceivable to a system
of non-interference; that it should not interfere with business, and
therefore oppose a tariff; that it should not interfere with local
government, and therefore applaud states rights; that it should not
interfere with slavery, and therefore frown upon militant abolition.
Its policy was, to adopt a familiar phrase, one of masterly inactivity.
Indeed it may well be called the party of political evasion. It was a
huge, loose confederacy of differing political groups, embracing paupers
and millionaires, moderate anti-slavery men and slave barons, all of
whom were held together by the unreliable bond of an agreement not to
tread on each other's toes.

Of this party Douglas was the typical representative, both in strength
and weakness. He had all its pliability, its good humor, its broad and
easy way with things, its passion for playing politics. Nevertheless, in
calling upon the believers in political evasion to consent for this
once to reverse their principle and to endorse a positive action, he had
taken a great risk. Would their sporting sense of politics as a gigantic
game carry him through successfully? He knew that there was a hard fight
before him, but with the courage of a great political strategist,
and proudly confident in his hold upon the main body of his party, he
prepared for both the attacks and the defections that were inevitable.

Defections, indeed, began at once. Even before the bill had been passed,
the "Appeal of the Independent Democrats" was printed in a New York
paper, with the signatures of members of Congress representing both the
extreme anti-slavery wing of the Democrats and the organized Free-Soil
party. The most famous of these names were those of Chase and Sumner,
both of whom had been sent to the Senate by a coalition of Free-Soilers
and Democrats. With them was the veteran abolitionist, Giddings of
Ohio. The "Appeal" denounced Douglas as an "unscrupulous politician"
and sounded both the warcries of the Northern masses by accusing him of
being engaged in "an atrocious plot to exclude from a vast unoccupied
region immigrants from the Old World and free laborers from our own
States."

The events of the spring and summer of 1854 may all be grouped under
two heads--the formation of an anti-Nebraska party, and the quick rush
of sectional patriotism to seize the territory laid open by the
Kansas-Nebraska Act. The instantaneous refusal of the Northerners to
confine their settlement to Nebraska, and their prompt invasion of
Kansas; the similar invasion from the South; the support of both
movements by societies organized for that purpose; the war in Kansas
all the details of this thrilling story have been told elsewhere.* The
political story alone concerns us here.

     *See Jesse Macy, "The Anti-Slavery Crusade". (In "The
     Chronicles of America".)

When the fight began there were four parties in the field: the
Democrats, the Whigs, the Free-Soilers, and the Know-Nothings.

The Free-Soil party, hitherto a small organization, had sought to make
slavery the main issue in politics. Its watchword was "Free soil, free
speech, free labor, and free men." It is needless to add that it was
instantaneous in its opposition to the Kansas-Nebraska Act.

The Whigs at the moment enjoyed the greatest prestige, owing to the
association with them of such distinguished leaders as Webster and Clay.
In 1854, however, as a party they were dying, and the very condition
that had made success possible for the Democrats made it impossible for
the Whigs, because the latter stood for positive ideas, and aimed to be
national in reality and not in the evasive Democratic sense of the term.
For, as a matter of fact, on analysis all the greater issues of the day
proved to be sectional. The Whigs would not, like the Democrats, adopt a
negative attitude toward these issues, nor would they consent to become
merely sectional. Yet at the moment negation and sectionalism were the
only alternatives, and between these millstones the Whig organization
was destined to be ground to bits and to disappear after the next
Presidential election.

Even previous to 1854, numbers of Whigs had sought a desperate outlet
for their desire to be positive in politics and had created a new party
which during a few years was to seem a reality and then vanish together
with its parent. The one chance for a party which had positive ideas
and which wished not to be sectional was the definite abandonment of
existing issues and the discovery of some new issue not connected with
sectional feeling. Now, it happened that a variety of causes, social and
religious, had brought about bad blood between native and foreigner, in
some of the great cities, and upon the issue involved in this condition
the failing spirit of the Whigs fastened. A secret society which had
been formed to oppose the naturalization of foreigners quickly became a
recognized political party. As the members of the Society answered all
questions with "I do not know," they came to be called "Know-Nothings,"
though they called themselves "Americans." In those states where
the Whigs had been strongest--Massachusetts, New York, and
Pennsylvania--this last attempt to apply their former temper, though not
their principles, had for a moment some success; but it could not escape
the fierce division which was forced on the country by Douglas. As a
result, it rapidly split into factions, one of which merged with the
enemies of Douglas, while the other was lost among his supporters.

What would the great dying Whig party leave behind it? This was the
really momentous question in 1854. Briefly, this party bequeathed
the temper of political positivism and at the same time the dread of
sectionalism. The inner clue to American politics during the next few
years is, to many minds, to be found largely in the union of this old
Whig temper with a new-born sectional patriotism, and, to other minds,
in the gradual and reluctant passing of the Whig opposition to a
sectional party. But though this transformation of the wrecks of
Whiggism began immediately, and while the Kansas-Nebraska Bill was
still being hotly debated in Congress, it was not until 1860 that it was
completed.

In the meantime various incidents had shown that the sectional
patriotism of the North, the fury of the abolitionists, and the positive
temper in politics, were all drawing closer together. Each of these
tendencies can be briefly illustrated. For example, the rush to Kansas
had begun, and the Massachusetts Emigrant Aid Society was preparing to
assist settlers who were going west. In May, there occurred at Boston
one of the most conspicuous attempts to rescue a fugitive slave, in
which a mob led by Thomas Wentworth Higginson attacked the guards of
Anthony Burns, a captured fugitive, killed one of them, but failed to
get the slave, who was carried to a revenue cutter between lines of
soldiers and returned to slavery. Among numerous details of the hour the
burning of Douglas in effigy is perhaps worth passing notice. In duly
the anti-Nebraska men of Michigan held a convention, at which they
organized as a political party and nominated a state ticket. Of their
nominees, two had hitherto ranked themselves as Free-Soilers, three as
anti-slavery Democrats, and five as Whigs. For the name of their party
they chose "Republican," and as the foundation of their platform the
resolution "That, postponing and suspending all differences with
regard to political economy or administrative policy," they would "act
cordially and faithfully in unison," opposing the extension of slavery,
and would "cooperate and be known as 'Republicans' until the contest be
terminated."

The history of the next two years is, in its main outlines, the story
of the war in Kansas and of the spread of this new party throughout the
North. It was only by degrees, however, that the Republicans absorbed
the various groups of anti-Nebraska men. What happened at this time in
Illinois may be taken as typical, and it is particularly noteworthy
as revealing the first real appearance of Abraham Lincoln in American
history.

Though in 1854 he was not yet a national figure, Lincoln was locally
accredited with keen political insight, and was, regarded in Illinois as
a strong lawyer. The story is told of him that, while he was attending
court on the circuit, he heard the news of the Kansas-Nebraska Act in
a tavern and sat up most of the night talking about it. Next morning
he used a phrase destined to become famous. "I tell you," said he to a
fellow lawyer, "this nation cannot exist half slave and half free."

Lincoln, however, was not one of the first to join the Republicans.
In Illinois, in 1854, Lincoln resigned his seat in the legislature to
become the Whig candidate for United States senator, to succeed the
Democratic colleague of Douglas. But there was little chance of
his election, for the real contest was between the two wings of the
Democrats, the Nebraska men and the anti-Nebraska men, and Lincoln
withdrew in favor of the candidate of the latter, who was elected.

During the following year, from the midst of his busy law practice,
Lincoln watched the Whig party go to pieces. He saw a great part of its
vote lodge temporarily among the Know-Nothings, but before the end of
the year even they began to lose their prominence. In the autumn, from
the obscurity of his provincial life, he saw, far off, Seward, the most
astute politician of the day, join the new movement. In New York, the
Republican state convention and the Whig state convention merged into
one, and Seward pronounced a baptismal oration upon the Republican party
of New York.

In the House of Representatives which met in December, 1855, the
anti-Nebraska men were divided among themselves, and the Know-Nothings
held the balance of power. No candidate for the speakership, however,
was able to command a majority, and finally, after it had been agreed
that a plurality would be sufficient, the contest closed, on the one
hundred and thirty-third ballot, with the election of a Republican, N.
P. Banks. Meanwhile in the South, the Whigs were rapidly leaving the
party, pausing a moment with the Know-Nothings, only to find that their
inevitable resting-place, under stress of sectional feeling, was with
the Democrats.

On Washington's birthday, 1856, the Know-Nothing national convention met
at Philadelphia. It promptly split upon the subject of slavery, and
a portion of its membership sent word offering support to another
convention which was sitting at Pittsburgh, and which had been called to
form a national organization for the Republican party. A third assembly
held on this same day was composed of the newspaper editors of Illinois,
and may be looked upon as the organization of the Republican party in
that state. At the dinner following this informal convention, Lincoln,
who was one of the speakers, was toasted as "the next United States
Senator."

Some four months afterward, in Philadelphia, the Republicans held their
first national convention. Only a few years previous its members
had called themselves by various names--Democrats, Free-Soilers,
Know-Nothings, Whigs. The old hostilities of these different groups had
not yet died out. Consequently, though Seward was far and away the most
eminent member of the new party, he was not nominated for President.
That dangerous honor was bestowed upon a dashing soldier and explorer of
the Rocky Mountains and the Far West, John C. Fremont.*

     *For an account of Fremont, see Stewart Edward White, "The
     Forty-Niners" (in "The Chronicles of America"), Chapter II.

The key to the political situation in the North, during that momentous
year, was to be found in the great number of able Whigs who, seeing
that their own party was lost but refusing to be sidetracked by the
make-believe issue of the Know-Nothings, were now hesitating what to do.
Though the ordinary politicians among the Republicans doubtless wished
to conciliate these unattached Whigs, the astuteness of the leaders was
too great to allow them to succumb to that temptation. They seem to have
feared the possible effect of immediately incorporating in their ranks,
while their new organization was still so plastic, the bulk of those
conservative classes which were, after all, the backbone of this
irreducible Whig minimum.

The Republican campaign was conducted with a degree of passion that had
scarcely been equaled in America before that day. To the well-ordered
spirit of the conservative classes the tone which the Republicans
assumed appeared shocking. Boldly sectional in their language, sweeping
in their denunciation of slavery, the leaders of the campaign made
bitter and effective use of a number of recent events. "Uncle Tom's
Cabin", published in 1852, and already immensely popular, was used as a
political tract to arouse, by its gruesome picture of slavery, a hatred
of slaveholders. Returned settlers from Kansas went about the North
telling horrible stories of guerrilla warfare, so colored as to throw
the odium all on one side. The scandal of the moment was the attack made
by Preston Brooks on Sumner, after the latter's furious diatribe in the
Senate, which was published as "The Crime Against Kansas". With double
skill the Republicans made equal capital out of the intellectual
violence of the speech and the physical violence of the retort. In
addition to this, there was ready to their hands the evidence of
Southern and Democratic sympathy with a filibustering attempt to conquer
the republic of Nicaragua, where William Walker, an American adventurer,
had recently made himself dictator. Walker had succeeded in having his
minister acknowledged by the Democratic Administration, and in obtaining
the endorsement of a great Democratic meeting which was held in New
York. It looked, therefore, as if the party of political evasion had an
anchor to windward, and that, in the event of their losing in Kansas,
they intended to placate their Southern wing by the annexation of
Nicaragua.

Here, indeed, was a stronger political tempest than Douglas, weatherwise
though he was, had foreseen. How was political evasion to brave it? With
a courage quite equal to the boldness of the Republicans, the Democrats
took another tack and steered for less troubled waters. Their convention
at Cincinnati was temperate and discreet in all its expressions, and for
President it nominated a Northerner, James Buchanan of Pennsylvania, a
man who was wholly dissociated in the public mind from the struggle over
Kansas.

The Democratic party leaders knew that they already had two strong
groups of supporters. Whatever they did, the South would have to go
along with them, in its reaction against the furious sectionalism of the
Republicans. Besides the Southern support, the Democrats counted upon
the aid of the professional politicians--those men who considered
politics rather as a fascinating game than as serious and difficult work
based upon principle. Upon these the Democrats could confidently rely,
for they already had, in Douglas in the North and Toombs in the South,
two master politicians who knew this type and its impulses intimately,
because they themselves belonged to it. But the Democrats needed the
support of a third group. If they could only win over the Northern
remnant of the Whigs that was still unattached, their position would be
secure. In their efforts to obtain this additional and very necessary
reinforcement, they decided to appear as temperate and restrained as
possible--a well bred party which all mild and conservative men could
trust.

This attitude they formulated in connection with Kansas, which at that
time had two governments: one, a territorial government, set up by
emigrants from the South; the other, a state government, under the
constitution drawn up at Topeka by emigrants from the North. One
authorized slavery; the other prohibited slavery; and both had appealed
to Washington for recognition. It was with this quite definite issue
that Congress was chiefly concerned in the spring of 1856. During the
summer Toombs introduced a bill securing to the settlers of Kansas
complete freedom of action and providing for an election of delegates
to a convention to draw up a state constitution which would determine
whether slavery or freedom was to prevail--in other words, whether
Kansas was to be annexed to the South or to the North. This bill was
merely the full expression of what Douglas had aimed at in 1854 and of
what was nicknamed "popular sovereignty"--the right of the locality to
choose for itself between slave and free labor.

Two years before, such a measure would have seemed radical. But in
politics time is wonderfully elastic. Those two years had been packed
with turmoil. Kansas had been the scene of a bloody conflict. Regardless
of which side had a majority on the ground, extremists on each side had
demanded recognition for the government set up by their own party. By
contrast, Toombs's offer to let the majority rule appeared temperate.

The Republicans saw instantly that they must discredit the proposal
or the ground would be cut from under them. Though the bill passed the
Senate, they were able to set it aside in the House in favor of a bill
admitting Kansas as a free state with the Topeka constitution. The
Democrats thereupon accused the Republicans of not wanting peace and of
wishing to keep up the war-cry "Bleeding Kansas" until election time.

That, throughout the country, the two parties continued on the lines
of policy they had chosen may be seen from an illustration. A House
committee which had gone to Kansas to investigate submitted two reports,
one of which, submitted by a Democratic member, told the true story of
the murders committed by John Brown at Pottawatomie. And yet, while
the Republicans spread everywhere their shocking tales of murders of
free-state settlers, the Democrats made practically no use of this
equally shocking tale of the murder of slaveholders. Apparently they
were resolved to appear temperate and conservative to the bitter end.

And they had their reward. Or, perhaps the fury of the Republicans had
its just deserts. From either point of view, the result was a choice of
evils on the part of the reluctant Whigs, and that choice was expressed
in the following words by as typical a New Englander as Rufus Choate:
"The first duty of Whigs," wrote Choate to the Maine State central
committee, "is to unite with some organization of our countrymen
to defeat and dissolve the new geographical party calling itself
Republican.... The question for each and every one of us is...by what
vote can I do most to prevent the madness of the times from working its
maddest act the very ecstasy of its madness--the permanent formation and
the actual triumph of a party which knows one half of America only
to hate and dread it. If the Republican party," Choate continued,
"accomplishes its object and gives the government to the North, I turn
my eyes from the consequences. To the fifteen states of the South that
government will appear an alien government. It will appear worse. It
will appear a hostile government. It will represent to their eye a
vast region of states organized upon anti-slavery, flushed by triumph,
cheered onward by the voice of the pulpit, tribune, and press;
its mission, to inaugurate freedom and put down the oligarchy; its
constitution, the glittering and sounding generalities of natural
right which make up the Declaration of Independence.... Practically the
contest, in my judgment, is between Mr. Buchanan and Colonel Fremont. In
these circumstances, I vote for Mr. Buchanan."

The party of political evasion thus became the refuge of the old
original Whigs who were forced to take advantage of any port in a storm.
Buchanan was elected by an overwhelming majority. To the careless
eye, Douglas had been justified by results; his party had triumphed as
perhaps never before; and yet, no great political success was ever
based upon less stable foundations. To maintain this position, those
Northerners who reasoned as Choate did were a necessity; but to keep
them in the party of political evasion would depend upon the ability of
this party to play the game of politics without acknowledging sectional
bias. Whether this difficult task could be accomplished would depend
upon the South. Toombs, on his part, was anxious to continue making the
party of evasion play the great American game of politics, and in
his eagerness he perhaps overestimated his hold upon the South. This,
however, remains to be seen.

Already another faction had formed around William L. Yancey of
Alabama--a faction as intolerant of political evasion as the Republicans
themselves, and one that was eager to match the sectional Northern party
by a sectional Southern party. It had for the moment fallen into line
with the Toombs faction because, like the Whigs, it had not the courage
to do otherwise. The question now was whether it would continue fearful,
and whether political evasion would continue to reign.

The key to the history of the next four years is in the growth of this
positive Southern party, which had the inevitable result of forcing the
Whig remainder to choose, not as in 1856 between a positive sectional
policy and an evasive nonsectional policy, but in 1860 between two
policies both of which were at once positive and sectional.



CHAPTER III. THE POLITICIANS AND THE NEW DAY

The South had thus far been kept in line with the cause of political
evasion by a small group of able politicians, chief among whom were
Robert Toombs, Howell Cobb, and Alexander H. Stephens. Curiously enough
all three were Georgians, and this might indeed be called the day of
Georgia in the history of the South.

A different type of man, however, and one significant of a divergent
point of view, had long endeavored to shake the leadership of the
Georgian group. Rhett in South Carolina, Jefferson Davis in Mississippi,
and above all Yancey in Alabama, together with the interests and
sentiment which they represented, were almost ready to contest the
orthodoxy of the policy of "nothing doing." To consolidate the interests
behind them, to arouse and fire the sentiment on which they relied, was
now the confessed purpose of these determined men. So little attention
has hitherto been given to motive in American politics that the modern
student still lacks a clear-cut and intelligent perception of these
various factions. In spite of this fact, however, these men may safely
be regarded as being distinctly more intellectual, and as having
distinctly deeper natures, than the men who came together under
the leadership of Toombs and Cobb, and who had the true provincial
enthusiasm for politics as the great American sport.

The factions of both Toombs and Yancey were intensely Southern and,
whenever a crisis might come, neither meant to hesitate an instant over
striking hard for the South. Toombs, however, wanted to prevent such a
situation, while Yancey was anxious to force one. The former conceived
felicity as the joy of playing politics on the biggest stage, and he
therefore bent all his strength to preserving the so-called national
parties; the latter, scornful of all such union, was for a separate
Southern community.

Furthermore, no man could become enthusiastic about political evasion
unless by nature he also took kindly to compromise. So, Toombs and his
followers were for preserving the negative Democratic position of 1856.
In a formal paper of great ability Stephens defended that position when
he appeared for reelection to Congress in 1857. Cobb, who had entered
Buchanan's Cabinet as Secretary of the Treasury, and who spoke hopefully
of making Kansas a slave state, insisted nevertheless that such a change
must be "brought about by the recognized principles of carrying out the
will of the majority which is the great doctrine of the Kansas Bill."
To Yancey, as to the Republicans, Kansas was a disputed border-land for
which the so-called two nations were fighting.

The internal Southern conflict between these two factions began anew
with the Congressional elections of 1857. It is worth observing that the
make-up of these factions was almost a resurrection of the two groups
which, in 1850, had divided the South on the question of rejecting the
Compromise. In a letter to Stephens in reference to one of the Yancey
men, Cobb prophesied: "McDonald will utterly fail to get up a new
Southern Rights party. Burnt children dread the fire, and he cannot get
up as strong an organization as he did in 1850. Still it is necessary
to guard every point, as McDonald is a hard hand to deal with." For the
moment, he foretold events correctly. The Southern elections of 1857 did
not break the hold of the moderates.

Yancey turned to different machinery, quite as useful for his purpose.
This he found in the Southern commercial conventions, which were held
annually. At this point there arises a vexed question which has, of
late, aroused much discussion. Was there then what we should call
today a slave "interest"? Was organized capital deliberately exploiting
slavery? And did Yancey play into its hands?* The truth seems to be
that, between 1856 and 1860, both the idealist parties, the Republicans
and the Secessionists, made peace with, shall we say, the Mammon of
unrighteousness, or merely organized capital? The one joined hands with
the iron interest of the North; the other, with the slave interest of
the South. The Republicans preached the domination of the North and a
protective tariff; the Yancey men preached the independence of the South
and the reopening of the slave trade.

     * For those who would be persuaded that there was such a
     slave interest, perhaps the best presentation is to be found
     in Professor Dodd's Life of Jefferson Davis.

These two issues Yancey, however, failed to unite, though the commercial
convention of 1859 at last gave its support to a resolution that all
laws, state or federal, prohibiting the African slave trade ought to be
repealed. That great body of Northern capital which had dealings with
the South was ready, as it always had been, to finance any scheme that
Southern business desired. Slavers were fitted out in New York, and
the city authorities did not prevent their sailing. Against this somber
background stands forth that much admired action of Lewis Cass of
Michigan, Buchanan's Secretary of State. Already the slave trade was
in process of revival, and the British Navy, impelled by the powerful
anti-slavery sentiment in England, was active in its suppression.
American ships suspected of being slavers were visited and searched.
Cass seized his opportunity, and declaring that such things "could not
be submitted to by an independent nation without dishonor," sent out
American warships to prevent this interference. Thereupon the British
government consented to give up trying to police the ocean against
slavers. It is indeed true, therefore, that neither North nor South has
an historical monopoly of the support of slavery!

It is but fair to add that, so far as the movement to reopen the slave
trade found favor outside the slave barons and their New York allies,
it was advocated as a means of political defense, of increasing Southern
population as an offset to the movement of free emigration into the
North, and of keeping the proportion of Southern representation in
Congress. Stephens, just after Cass had successfully twisted the lion's
tail, took this position in a speech that caused a sensation. In a
private letter he added, "Unless we get immigration from abroad, we
shall have few more slave states. This great truth seems to take the
people by surprise. Some shrink from it as they would from death. Still,
it is as true as death." The scheme, however, never received general
acceptance; and in the constitution of the Southern Confederacy there
was a section prohibiting the African slave trade. On the other of
these two issues--the independence of the South--Yancey steadily
gained ground. With each year from 1856 to 1860, a larger proportion of
Southerners drew out of political evasion and gave adherence to the
idea of presenting an ultimatum to the North, with secession as an
alternative.

Meanwhile, Buchanan sent to Kansas, as Governor, Robert J. Walker,
one of the most astute of the Democrats of the opposite faction and a
Mississippian. The tangled situation which Walker found, the details
of his attempt to straighten it out, belong in another volume.* It is
enough in this connection merely to mention the episode of the Lecompton
convention in the election of which the Northern settlers refused to
participate, though Walker had promised that they should have full
protection and a fair count as well as that the work of the convention
should be submitted to a popular vote. This action of Walker's was one
more cause of contention between the warring factions in the South. The
fact that he had met the Northerners half-way was seized upon by the
Yancey men as evidence of the betrayal of the South by the Democratic
moderates. On the other hand, Cobb, writing of the situation in Kansas,
said that "a large majority are against slavery and... our friends regard
the fate of Kansas as a free state pretty well fixed... the pro-slavery
men, finding that Kansas was likely to become a Black Republican State,
determined to unite with the free-state Democrats." Here is the clue to
Walker's course. As a strict party man, he preferred to accept Kansas
free, with Democrats in control, rather than risk losing it altogether.

     * See Jesse Macy, "The Anti-Slavery Crusade".  (In "The
     Chronicles of America".)

The next step in the affair is one of the unsolved problems in American
history. Buchanan suddenly changed front, disgraced Walker, and threw
himself into the arms of the Southern extremists. Though his reasons
for doing so have been debated to this day, they have not yet been
established beyond dispute. What seems to be the favorite explanation
is that Buchanan was in a panic. What brought him to that condition may
have been the following events.

The free-state men, by refusing to take part in electing the convention,
had given control to the slaveholders, who proved they were not slow to
seize their opportunity. They drew up a constitution favoring slavery,
but this constitution, Walker had promised, was to be submitted in
referendum. If the convention decided, however, not to submit the
constitution, would not Congress have the right to accept it and admit
Kansas as a Mate? This question was immediately raised. It now became
plain that, by refusing to take part in the election, the free-state
Kansans had thrown away a great tactical advantage. Of this blunder in
generalship the Yancey men took instant advantage. It was known that
the proportion of Free-Soilers in Kansas was very great--perhaps a
majority--and the Southerners reasoned that they should not be obliged
to give up the advantage they had won merely to let their enemies
retrieve their mistake. Jefferson Davis formulated this position in
an address to the Mississippi Legislature in which he insisted that
Congress, not the Kansas electorate, was entitled to create the Kansas
constitution, that the Convention was a properly chosen body, and that
its work should stand. What Davis said in a stately way, others said in
a furious way. Buchanan stated afterward that he changed front because
certain Southern States had threatened that, if he did not abandon
Walker, they would secede.

Be that as it may, Buchanan did abandon Walker and threw all the
influence of the Administration in favor of admitting Kansas with the
Lecompton constitution. But would this be true to that principle of
"popular sovereignty" which was the very essence of the Kansas-Nebraska
Act? Would it be true to the principle that each locality should decide
for itself between slavery and freedom? On this issue the Southerners
were fairly generally agreed and maintained that there was no obligation
to go behind the work of the convention. Not so, however, the great
exponent of popular sovereignty, Douglas. Rising in his place in the
Senate, he charged the President with conspiring to defeat the will of
the majority in Kansas. "If Kansas wants a slave state constitution,"
said he, "she has a right to it; if she wants a free state constitution,
she has a right to it. It is none of my business which way the slavery
clause is decided. I care not whether it is voted up or down."

There followed one of those prolonged legislative battles for which the
Congress of the United States is justly celebrated. Furious oratory,
propositions, counter-propositions, projected compromises, other
compromises, and at the end nothing positive. But Douglas had defeated
the attempt to bring in Kansas with the Lecompton constitution. As to
the details of the story, they include such distinguished happenings as
a brawling, all-night session when "thirty men, at least, were engaged
in the fisticuff," and one Representative knocked another down.

Douglas was again at the center of the stage, but his term as Senator
was nearing its end. He and the President had split their party. Pursued
by the vengeful malice of the Administration, Douglas went home in
1858 to Illinois to fight for his reelection. His issue, of course,
was popular sovereignty. His temper was still the temper of political
evasion. How to hold fast to his own doctrine, and at the same time
keep to his programme of "nothing doing"; how to satisfy the negative
Democrats of the North without losing his last hold on the positive
men of the South--such were his problems, and they were made still more
difficult by a recent decision of the Supreme Court.

The now famous case of Dred Scott had been decided in the previous
year. Its bewildering legal technicalities may here be passed over;
fundamentally, the real question involved was the status of a negro,
Dred Scott. A slave who had been owned in Missouri, and who had been
taken by his master to the State of Illinois, to the free territory
of Minnesota, and then back to Missouri, now claimed to be free. The
Supreme Court undertook to decide whether his residence in Minnesota
rendered him free, and also whether any negro of slave descent could
be a citizen of the United States. The official opinion of the Court,
delivered by Chief Justice Taney, decided both questions against
the suppliant. It was held that the "citizens" recognized by the
Constitution did not include negroes. So, even if Scott were free, he
could not be considered a citizen entitled to bring suit in the Federal
Courts. Furthermore, he could not be considered free, in spite of his
residence in Minnesota, because, as the Court now ruled, Congress, when
it enacted the Missouri Compromise, had exceeded its authority;
the enactment had never really been in force; there was no binding
prohibition of slavery in the Northwestern territories.

If this decision was good law, all the discussion about popular
sovereignty went for nothing, and neither an act of Congress nor the
vote of the population of a territory, whether for or against slavery,
was of any value whatsoever. Nothing mattered until the newmade state
itself took action after its admission to the Union. Until that time, no
power, national or local, could lawfully interfere with the introduction
of slaves. In the case of Kansas, it was no longer of the least
importance what became of the Lecompton constitution or of any other
that the settlers might make. The territory was open to settlement
by slaveholders and would continue to be so as long as it remained
a territory. The same conditions existed in Nebraska and in all the
Northwest. The Dred Scott decision was accepted as orthodox Democratic
doctrine by the South, by the Administration, and by the "Northern men
with Southern principles." The astute masters of the game of politics
on the Democratic side struck the note of legality. This was law, the
expression of the highest tribunal of the Republic; what more was to be
said? Though in truth there was but one other thing to be said, and that
revolutionary, the Republicans, nevertheless, did not falter over it.
Seward announced it in a speech in Congress on "Freedom in Kansas," when
he uttered this menace: "We shall reorganize the Court and thus reform
its political sentiments and practices."

In the autumn of 1858 Douglas attempted to perform the acrobatic feat
of reconciling the Dred Scott decision, which as a Democrat he had
to accept, with that idea of popular sovereignty without which his
immediate followers could not be content. In accepting the Republican
nomination as Douglas's opponent for the senatorship, Lincoln used these
words which have taken rank among his most famous utterances: "A house
divided against itself cannot stand. I believe this government cannot
endure permanently half slave and half free. I do not expect the Union
to be dissolved. I do not expect the house to fall but I do expect it
will cease to be divided. It will become all one thing or all the other.
Either the opponents of slavery will arrest the further spread of it,
and place it where the public mind shall rest in the belief that it
is in the course of ultimate extinction; or its advocates will push it
forward till it shall become alike lawful in all the states, old as well
as new--North as well as South."

No one had ever so tellingly expressed the death-grapple of the sections:
slavery the weapon of one, free labor the weapon of the other. Though
Lincoln was at that time forty-nine years old, his political experience,
in contrast with that of Douglas, was negligible. He afterward aptly
described his early life in that expressive line from Gray, "The short
and simple annals of the poor." He lacked regular schooling, and it
was altogether from the practice of law that he had gained such formal
education as he had. In law, however, he had become a master, and his
position, to judge from the class of cases entrusted to him, was second
to none in Illinois. To that severe yet wholesome cast of mind which
the law establishes in men naturally lofty, Lincoln added the
tonic influence of a sense of style--not the verbal acrobatics of a
rhetorician, but that power to make words and thought a unit which
makes the artist of a man who has great ideas. How Lincoln came by this
literary faculty is, indeed, as puzzling as how Burns came by it. But
there it was, disciplined by the court room, made pungent by familiarity
with plain people, stimulated by constant reading of Shakespeare, and
chastened by study of the Bible.

It was arranged that Douglas and Lincoln should tour the State together
in a series of joint debates. As a consequence there followed a most
interesting opposition of methods in the use of words, a contest between
the method formed in Congress at a time when Congress was a perfect
rhetorical academy, and that method of using words which was based on
an arduous study of Blackstone, Shakespeare, and Isaiah. Lincoln issued
from the debates one of the chief intellectual leaders of America, and
with a place in English literature; Douglas came out a Senator from
Illinois.

But though Douglas kept his following together, and though Lincoln was
voted down, to Lincoln belonged the real strategic victory. In order
to save himself with his own people, Douglas had been forced to make
admissions that ruined him with the South. Because of these admissions
the breach in the party of political evasion became irreparable. It was
in the debate at Freeport that Douglas's fate overtook him, for Lincoln
put this question: "Can the people of a United States territory, in
any lawful way, against the wish of any citizen of the United States,
exclude slavery from its limits, prior to the formation of a state
constitution?"

Douglas answered in his best style of political thunder. "It matters
not," he said, "what way the Supreme Court may hereafter decide as to
the abstract question whether slavery may or may not go into a territory
under the Constitution; the people have the lawful means to introduce it
or exclude it as they please, for the reason that slavery cannot exist
a day or an hour anywhere unless it is supported by local police
regulations. Those police regulations can only be established by the
local legislatures; and if the people are opposed to slavery, they will
elect representatives to that body who will by unfriendly legislation
effectually prevent the introduction of it into their midst. If, on the
contrary, they are for it, their legislation will favor its extension.
Hence, no matter what the decision of the Supreme Court may be on
that abstract question, still the right of the people to make a slave
territory or a free territory is perfect and complete under the Nebraska
Bill."

As to the moral aspect of his actions, Douglas must ultimately be judged
by the significance which this position in which he placed himself
assumed in his own mind. Friendly critics excuse him: an interpretation
of the Dred Scott decision which explained it away as an irresponsible
utterance on a subject outside the scope of the case, a mere obiter
dictum, is the justification which is called in to save him from
the charge of insincerity. His friends, today, admit that this
interpretation was bad law, but maintain that it may have been good
morals, and that Douglas honestly held it. But many of us have not yet
advanced so far in critical generosity, and cannot help feeling that
Douglas's position remains political legerdemain--an attempt by a great
officer of the government, professing to defend the Supreme Court, to
show the people how to go through the motions of obedience to the Court
while defeating its intention. If not double-dealing in a strict sense,
it must yet be considered as having in it the temper of double-dealing.*
This was, indeed, the view of many men of his own day and, among them,
of Lincoln. Yet the type of man on whom the masters of the game of
politics relied saw nothing in Douglas's position at which to be
disturbed. It was merely playing politics, and if that absorbing sport
required one to carry water on both shoulders, why--play the game!
Douglas was the man for people like that. They cheered him to the echo
and sent him back to the Senate. So well was this type understood by
some of Lincoln's friends that they had begged him, at least according
to tradition, not to put the question at Freeport, as by doing so he
would enable Douglas to save himself with his constituency. Lincoln saw
further, however. He understood better than they the forces then at work
in America. The reply reported of him was: "If Douglas answers, he can
never be President, and the battle of 1860 is worth a hundred of this."

     * There are three ways of regarding Douglas's position: (1)
     As a daring piece of evasion designed to hold all the
     Democrats together; (2) as an attempt to secure his locality
     at all costs, taking his chances on the South; (3) as a
     sincere expression of the legal interpretation mentioned
     above.  It is impossible in attempting to choose among these
     to escape wholly one's impression of the man's character.

Well might Yancey and his followers receive with a shout of joy the
"Freeport Doctrine," as Douglas's supreme evasion was called. Should
Southerners trust any longer the man who had evolved from the principle
of let-'em-alone to the principle of double-dealing? However, the
Southerners were far from controlling the situation. Though the events
of 1858 had created discord in the Democratic party, they had not
consolidated the South. Men like Toombs and Stephens were still hopeful
of keeping the States together in the old bond of political evasion. The
Democratic machine, damaged though it was, had not yet lost its hold on
the moderate South, and while that continued to be the case, there was
still power in it.



CHAPTER IV. THE CRISIS

The Southern moderates in 1859 form one of those political groups,
numerous enough in history, who at a crisis arrest our imagination
because of the irony of their situation. Unsuspecting, these men went
their way, during the last summer of the old regime, busy with the
ordinary affairs of state, absorbed in their opposition to the Southern
radicals, never dreaming of the doom that was secretly moving toward
them through the plans of John Brown. In the soft brilliancy of the
Southern summer when the roses were in bloom, many grave gentlemen
walked slowly up and down together under the oaks of their plantation
avenues, in the grateful dusk, talking eagerly of how the scales
trembled in Southern politics between Toombs and Yancey, and questioning
whether the extremists could ride down the moderate South and reopen the
slave trade. In all their wondering whether Douglas would ever come back
to them or would prove the blind Samson pulling down their temple about
their ears, there was never a word about the approaching shadow which
was so much more real than the shades of the falling night, and yet so
entirely shut away from their observation.

In this summer, Stephens withdrew as he thought from public life.
With an intensely sensitive nature, he had at times flashes of strange
feeling which an unsophisticated society would regard as prophetic
inspirations. When he left Washington "on the beautiful morning of the
5th of March, 1859, he stood at the stern of the boat for some minutes
gazing back at the capital." He had announced his intention of not
standing again as a Representative, and one of his fellow-passengers
asked jokingly whether he was thinking of his return as a Senator.
Stephen's reply was full of emotion, "No, I never expect to see
Washington again unless I am brought here as a prisoner of war." During
the summer he endeavored to cast off his intuition of approaching
disaster. At his plantation, "Liberty Hall," he endeavored to be content
with the innumerable objects associated with his youth; he tried to feel
again the grace of the days that were gone, the mysterious loveliness of
the Southern landscape with its immense fields, its forests, its great
empty spaces filled with glowing sunshine. He tried to possess his
troubled soul with the severe intellectual ardor of the law. But his
gift of second sight would not rest. He could not overcome his intuition
that, for all the peace and dreaminess of the outward world, destiny
was upon him. Looking out from his spiritual seclusion, he beheld what
seemed to him complete political confusion, both local and national. His
despairing mood found expression a little later in the words: "Indeed
if we were now to have a Southern convention to determine upon the true
policy of the South either in the Union or out of it, I should expect to
see just as much profitless discussion, disagreement, crimination, and
recrimination amongst the members of it from different states and from
the same state, as we witness in the present House of Representatives
between Democrats, Republicans, and Americans."

Among the sources of confusion Stephens saw, close at home, was the
Southern battle over the reopening of the slave trade. The reality
of that issue had been made plain in May, 1859, when the Southern
commercial congress at Vicksburg entertained at the same time two
resolutions: one, that the convention should urge all Southern States
to amend their constitutions by a clause prohibiting the increase
of African slavery; the other, that the convention urge all the
Legislatures of Southern States to present memorials to Congress asking
the repeal of the law against African slave trade. Of these opposed
resolutions, the latter was adopted on the last day of the convention*,
though the moderates fought hard against it.

     *It is significant that the composition of these Southern
     commercial congresses and the Congress of the whole Southern
     people was strikingly different in personnel.  Very few
     members of the commercial congresses reappear in the
     Confederate Congress.

The split between Southern moderates and Southern radicals was further
indicated by their differing attitudes toward the adventurers from
the United States in Central America. The Vicksburg Convention
adopted resolutions which were thinly veiled endorsements of southward
expansion. In the early autumn another Nicaraguan expedition was nipped
in the bud by the vigilance of American naval forces. Cobb, prime factor
in the group of Southern moderates as well as Secretary of the Treasury,
wrote to Buchanan expressing his satisfaction at the event, mentioning
the work of his own department in bringing it about, and also alluding
to his arrangements to prevent slave trading off the Florida coast.

But the spirit of doubt was strong even among the moderates. Douglas was
the target. Stephens gives a glimpse of it in a letter written during
his last session in Congress. "Cobb called on me Saturday night," he
writes. "He is exceedingly bitter against Douglas. I joked him a good
deal, and told him he had better not fight, or he would certainly be
whipped; that is, in driving Douglas out of the Democratic party.
He said that if Douglas ever was restored to the confidence of the
Democracy of Georgia, it would be over his dead body politically. This
shows his excitement, that is all. I laughed at him, and told him he
would run his feelings and his policy into the ground." The anger
of Cobb, who was himself a confessed candidate for the Democratic
nomination, was imperiling the Democratic national machine which Toombs
was still struggling so resolutely to hold together. Indeed, as late as
the autumn of 1859 the machine still held together.

Then came the man of destiny, the bolt from the blue, the end of the
chapter. A marvelous fanatic--a sort of reincarnation of the grimmest
of the Covenanters--by one daring act shattered the machine and made
impossible any further coalition on the principle of "nothing doing."
This man of destiny was John Brown, whose attack on Harper's Ferry took
place October 16th, and whose execution by the authorities of Virginia
on the charges of murder and treason occurred on the 2nd of December.

The incident filled the South with consternation. The prompt
condemnation of it by many Republican leaders did not offset, in the
minds of Southerners, the fury of praise accorded by others. The South
had a ghastly tradition derived chiefly from what is known as Nat
Turner's Rebellion in Virginia, a tradition of the massacre of white
women and children by negroes. As Brown had set opt to rouse a slave
rebellion, every Southerner familiar with his own traditions shuddered,
identifying in imagination John Brown and Nat Turner. Horror became rage
when the Southerners heard of enthusiastic applause in Boston and of
Emerson's description of Brown as "that new saint" who was to "make the
gallows glorious like the cross." In the excitement produced by remarks
such as this, justice was not done to Lincoln's censure. In his speech
at Cooper Institute in New York, in February, 1860, Lincoln had said:
"John Brown's effort...in its philosophy corresponds with the many
attempts related in history at the assassination of kings and emperors.
An enthusiast broods over the oppression of a people, until he fancies
himself commissioned by Heaven to liberate them. He ventures the attempt
which ends in little else than in his own execution." A few months
afterwards, the Republican national convention condemned the act of
Brown as "among the gravest of crimes."

An immediate effect of the John Brown episode was a passionate outburst
from all the radical press of the South in defense of slavery. The
followers of Yancey made the most of their opportunity. The men who
voted at Vicksburg to reopen the slave trade could find no words to
measure their hatred of every one who, at this moment of crisis, would
not declare slavery a blessing. Many of the men who opposed the slave
traders also felt that, in the face of possible slave insurrection,
the peril of their families was the one paramount consideration.
Nevertheless, it is easy for the special pleader to give a
wrong impression of the sentiment of the time. A grim desire for
self-preservation took possession of the South, as well as a deadly fear
of any person or any thing that tended directly or indirectly to incite
the blacks to insurrection. Northerners of abolitionist sympathies were
warned to leave the country, and in some cases they were tarred and
feathered.

Great anger was aroused by the detection of book-agents who were
distributing a furious polemic against slavery, "The Impending Crisis
of the South: How to Meet It", by Hinton Rowan Helper, a Southerner of
inferior social position belonging to the class known as poor whites.
The book teemed with such sentences as this, addressing slaveholders:
"Do you aspire to become victims of white non-slave-holding vengeance by
day and of barbarous massacres by the negroes at night?" It is scarcely
strange, therefore, that in 1859 no Southerner would hear a good word of
anyone caught distributing the book. And yet, in the midst of all this
vehement exaltation of slavery, the fight to prevent a reopening of
the slave trade went bravely on. Stephens, writing to a friend who was
correspondent for the "Southern Confederacy", in Atlanta, warned him in
April, 1860, "neither to advocate disunion or the opening of the slave
trade. The people here at present I believe are as much opposed to it
as they are at the North; and I believe the Northern people could be
induced to open it sooner than the Southern people."

The winter of 1859-1860 witnessed a famous congressional battle over
the speakership. The new Congress which met in December contained
109 Republicans, 101 Democrats, and 27 Know-Nothings. The Republican
candidate for speaker was John Sherman of Ohio. As the first ballot
showed that he could not command a majority, a Democrat from Missouri
introduced this resolution "Whereas certain members of this House, now
in nomination for speaker, did endorse the book hereinafter mentioned,
resolved, That the doctrines and sentiments of a certain book, called
'The Impending Crisis of the South: How to Meet It', are insurrectionary
and hostile to the peace and tranquillity of the country, and that no
member of this House, who has indorsed or recommended it, is fit to be
speaker of the House."

During two months there were strange scenes in the House, while the
clerk acted as temporary speaker and furious diatribes were thundered
back and forth across the aisle that separated Republicans from
Democrats, with a passage of fisticuffs or even a drawn pistol to add
variety to the scene. The end of it all was a deal. Pennington, of the
"People's Party" of New Jersey, who had supported Sherman but had not
endorsed Helper, was given the Republican support; a Know-Nothing was
made sergeant-at-arms; and Know-Nothing votes added to the Republican
votes made Pennington speaker. In many Northern cities the news of his
election was greeted with the great salute of a hundred guns, but at
Richmond the papers came out in mourning type.

Two great figures now advanced to the center of the Congressional
stage--Jefferson Davis, Senator from Mississippi, a lean eagle of a man
with piercing blue eyes, and Judah P. Benjamin, Senator from Louisiana,
whose perpetual smile cloaked an intellect that was nimble, keen, and
ruthless. Both men were destined to play leading roles in the lofty
drama of revolution; each was to experience a tragic ending of his
political hope, one in exile, the other in a solitary proscription amid
the ruins of the society for which he had sacrificed his all. These men,
though often spoken of as mere mouthpieces of Yancey, were in reality
quite different from him both in temper and in point of view.

Davis, who was destined eventually to become the target of Yancey's
bitterest enmity, had refused ten years before to join in the secession
movement which ignored Calhoun's doctrine that the South had become a
social unit. Though a believer in slavery under the conditions of the
moment, Davis had none of the passion of the slave baron for slavery at
all costs. Furthermore, as events were destined to show in a startlingly
dramatic way, he was careless of South Carolina's passion for state
rights. He was a practical politician, but not at all the old type of
the party of political evasion, the type of Toombs. No other man of the
moment was on the whole so well able to combine the elements of Southern
politics against those more negative elements of which Toombs was the
symbol. The history of the Confederacy shows that the combination which
Davis now effected was not as thorough as he supposed it was. But at the
moment he appeared to succeed and seemed to give common purpose to the
vast majority of the Southern people. With his ally Benjamin, he struck
at the Toombs policy of a National Democratic party.

On the day following the election of Pennington, Davis introduced in
the Senate a series of resolutions which were to serve as the Southern
ultimatum, and which demanded of Congress the protection of slavery
against territorial legislatures. This was but carrying to its logical
conclusion that Dred Scott decision which Douglas and his followers
proposed to accept. If Congress could not restrict slavery in the
territories, how could its creature, a territorial legislature do so?
And yet the Douglas men attempted to take away the power from Congress
and to retain it for the territorial legislatures. Senator Pugh of Ohio
had already locked horns with Davis on this point, and had attempted to
show that a territorial Legislature was independent of Congress. "Then
I would ask the Senator further," retorted the logical Davis, "why it is
he makes an appropriation to pay members of the territorial legislature;
how it is that he invests the Governor with veto power over their acts;
and how it is that he appoints judges to decide upon the validity of
their acts."

In the Democratic convention which met at Charleston in April, 1860, the
waning power of political evasion made its last real stand against the
rising power of political positivism. To accept Douglas and the idea
that somehow territorial legislatures were free to do what Congress
could not do, or to reject Douglas and endorse Davis's ultimatum--that
in substance was the issue. "In this convention where there should be
confidence and harmony," said the "Charleston Mercury", "it is plain
that men feel as if they were going into a battle." In the committee on
resolutions where the States were equally represented, the majority were
anti-Douglas; they submitted a report affirming Davis's position that
territorial legislatures had no right to prohibit slavery and that the
Federal Government should protect slavery against them. The minority
refused to go further than an approval of the Dred Scott case and a
pledge to abide by all future decisions of the Supreme Court. After
both reports had been submitted, there followed the central event of the
convention--the now famous speech by Yancey which repudiated political
evasion from top to bottom, frankly defended slavery, and demanded
either complete guarantees for its continued existence or, as an
alternative, Southern independence. Pugh instantly replied and summed up
Yancey's speech as a demand upon Northern Democrats to say that slavery
was right, and that it was their duty not only to let slavery alone but
to aid in extending it. "Gentlemen of the South," he exclaimed, "you
mistake us--you mistake us--we will not do it."

In the full convention, where the representation of the States was not
equal, the Douglas men, after hot debate, forced the adoption of the
minority report. Thereupon the Alabama delegation protested and formally
withdrew from the convention, and other delegations followed. There was
wild excitement in Charleston, where that evening in the streets Yancey
addressed crowds that cheered for a Southern republic. The remaining
history of the Democratic nominations is a matter of detail. The
Charleston convention adjourned without making nominations. Each of
its fragments reorganized as a separate convention, and ultimately
two Democratic tickets were put into the field, with Breckinridge of
Kentucky as the candidate on the Yancey ticket and Douglas on the other.

While the Democrats were thus making history through their fateful
break-up into separate parties, a considerable number of the so-called
best people of the country determined that they had nowhere politically
to lay their heads. A few of the old Whigs were still unable to
consort either with Republicans or with Democrats, old or new. The
Know-Nothings, likewise, though their number had been steadily melting
away, had not entirely disappeared. To unite these political remnants
in any definite political whole seemed beyond human ingenuity. A common
sentiment, however, they did have--a real love of the Union and a
real unhappiness, because its existence appeared to be threatened.
The outcome was that they organized the Constitutional Union Party,
nominating for President John Bell of Tennessee, and for Vice President
Edward Everett of Massachusetts. Their platform was little more than
a profession of love of the Union and a condemnation of sectional
selfishness.

This Bell and Everett ticket has a deeper significance than has
generally been admitted. It reveals the fact that the sentiment of
Union, in distinction from the belief in the Union, had become a real
force in American life. There could be no clearer testimony to the
strength of this feeling than this spectacle of a great congregation of
moderate people, unable to agree upon anything except this sentiment,
stepping between the sectional parties like a resolute wayfarer going
forward into darkness along a perilous strand between two raging seas.
That this feeling of Union was the same thing as the eager determination
of the Republicans, in 1860, to control the Government is one of those
historical fallacies that have had their day. The Republican party
became, in time and under stress of war, the refuge of this sentiment
and proved sufficiently far-sighted to merge its identity temporarily in
the composite Union party of 1864. But in 1860 it was still a sectional
party. Among its leaders Lincoln was perhaps the only Unionist in the
same sense as Bell and Everett.

Perhaps the truest Unionists of the North, outside the Constitutional
Union Party, in 1860, were those Democrats in the following of Douglas
who, after fighting to the last ditch against both the sectional
parties, were to accept, in 1861, the alternative of war rather than
dissolution. The course of Douglas himself, as we shall see hereafter,
showed that in his mind there was a fixed limit of concession beyond
which he could not go. When circumstances forced him to that limit,
the sentiment of Union took control of him, swept aside his political
jugglery, abolished his time-serving, and drove him into cooperation
with his bitterest foes that the Union might be saved. Nor was the pure
sentiment of Union confined to the North and West. Though undoubtedly
the sentiment of locality was more powerful through the South, yet when
the test came in the election of 1860, the leading candidate of the
upper South, in Virginia, Kentucky, and Tennessee, was John Bell, the
Constitutional Unionist. In every Southern State this sentiment was able
to command a considerable part of the vote.*

     *A possible exception was South Carolina.  As the
     presidential electors were appointed by the legislature,
     there is no certain record of minority sentiment.

Widely different in temper were those stern and resolute men whose
organization, in perfect fighting trim, faced eagerly the divided
Democrats. The Republicans had no division among themselves upon
doctrine. Such division as existed was due to the ordinary rivalry
of political leaders. In the opinion of all his enemies and of most
Americans, Seward was the Republican man of the hour. During much of
1859 he had discreetly withdrawn from the country and had left to his
partisans the conduct of his campaign, which seems to have been going
well when he returned in the midst of the turmoil following the death
of John Brown. Nevertheless he was disturbed over his prospects, for he
found that in many minds, both North and South, he was looked upon
as the ultimate cause of all the turmoil. His famous speech on the
"irrepressible conflict" was everywhere quoted as an exultant prophecy
of these terrible latter days.

It was long the custom to deny to Seward any good motive in a speech
which he now delivered, just as it was to deny Webster any good motive
for his famous 7th of March speech. But such criticism is now less
frequent than it used to be. Both men were seeking the Presidency;
both, we may fairly believe, were shocked by the turmoil of political
currents; each tried oiling the waters, and in the attempt each
ruined his candidacy. Seward's speech in condemnation of John Brown
in February, 1860, was an appeal to the conservative North against the
radical North, and to many of his followers it seemed a change of front.
It certainly gained him no new friends and it lost him some old ones, so
that his star as a presidential candidate began its decline.

The first ballot in the Republican convention surprised the country.
Of the votes, 233 were necessary for a choice. Seward had only 173 1/2.
Next to him, with 102 votes, stood none of the leading candidates, but
the comparatively obscure Lincoln. A gap of more than 50 votes separated
Lincoln from Cameron, Chase, and Bates. On the second ballot Seward
gained 11 votes, while Lincoln gained 79. The enemies of Seward, finding
it impossible to combine on any of the conspicuous candidates, were
moving toward Lincoln, the man with fewest enemies. The third ballot
gave Lincoln the nomination.

We have seen that one of the basal questions of the time was which new
political group should absorb the Whig remainder. The Constitutional
Union party aimed to accomplish this. The Republicans sought to
out-maneuver them. They made their platform as temperate as they could
and yet consistent with the maintenance of their opposition to Douglas
and popular sovereignty; and they went no further in their anti-slavery
demands than that the territories should be preserved for free labor.

Another basal question had been considered in the Republican platform.
Where would Northern capital stand in the reorganization of parties?
Was capital, like men, to become frankly sectional or would it remain
impersonal, careless how nations rose or fell, so long as dividends
continued? To some extent capital had given an answer. When, in the
excitement following the John Brown incident, a Southern newspaper
published a white list of New York merchants whose political views
should commend them to Southerners, and a black list of those who
were objectionable, many New Yorkers sought a place in the white list.
Northern capital had done its part in financing the revived slave trade.
August Belmont, the New York representative of the Rothschilds, was one
of the close allies of Davis, Yancey, and Benjamin in their war upon
Douglas. In a word, a great portion of Northern capital had its heart
where its investments were--in the South. But there was other capital
which obeyed the same law, and which had investments in the North;
and with this capital the Republicans had been trafficking. They had
succeeded in winning over the powerful manufacturing interests of
Pennsylvania, the pivotal State that had elected Buchanan in 1856.

The steps by which the new party of enthusiasm made its deal with the
body of capital which was not at one with Belmont and the Democrats are
not essential to the present narrative. Two facts suffice. In 1857 a
great collapse in American business--"the panic of fifty-seven"--led
the commercial world to turn to the party in power for some scheme of
redress. But their very principles, among which was non-intervention in
business, made the Democrats feeble doctors for such a need, and
they evaded the situation. The Republicans, with their insistence on
positivism in government, had therefore an opportunity to make a new
application of the doctrine of governmental aid to business. In the
spring of 1860, the Republican House of Representatives passed the
Morrill tariff bill, consideration of which was postponed by the
Democratic Senate. But it served its purpose: it was a Republican
manifesto. The Republicans felt that this bill, together with their
party platform, gave the necessary guarantee to the Pennsylvania
manufacturers, and they therefore entered the campaign confident they
would carry Pennsylvania nor was their confidence misplaced.

The campaign was characterized by three things: by an ominous quiet
coupled with great intensity of feeling; by the organization of huge
party societies in military form--"Wide-awakes" for Lincoln, numbering
400,000, and "Minute Men" for Breckenridge, with a membership chiefly
Southern; and by the perfect frankness, in all parts of the South, of
threats of secession in case the Republicans won.

In none of the States which eventually seceded were any votes cast for
Lincoln, with the exception of a small number in Virginia. In almost all
the other Southern States and in the slave-holding border States, all
the other candidates made respectable showings. In Virginia, Tennessee,
and Kentucky, Bell led. But everywhere else in the other slave-holding
States Breckinridge led, excepting in Missouri where Douglas won by a
few hundred. Every free State except New Jersey went for Lincoln.
And yet he did not have a majority of the popular vote, which stood:
Lincoln, 1,866,459; Douglas, 1,376,957; Breckinridge, 849,781; Bell,
588,879*. The majority against Lincoln was nearly a million. The
distribution of the votes was such that Lincoln had in the Electoral
College, 180 electors; Breckinridge, 72; Bell, 39; Douglas, 12. In
neither House of Congress did the Republicans have a majority.

     *The figures of the popular vote are variously given by
     different compilers.  These are taken from Stanwood, "A
     History of the Presidency".



CHAPTER V. SECESSION

In tracing American history from 1854 to 1860 we cannot fail to observe
that it reduces itself chiefly to a problem in that science which
politicians understand so well--applied psychology. Definite types
of men moulded by the conditions of those days are the determining
factors--not the slavery question in itself; not, primarily, economic
forces; not a theory of government, nor a clash of theories; not any one
thing; but the fluid, changeful forces of human nature, battling with
circumstances and expressing themselves in the fashion of men's minds.
To say this is to acknowledge the fatefulness of sheer feeling. Davis
described the situation exactly when he said, in 1860, "A sectional
hostility has been substituted for a general fraternity." To his own
question, "Where is the remedy?" he gave the answer, "In the hearts of
the people." There, after all, is the conclusion of the whole matter.
The strife between North and South had ceased to be a thing of the head;
it had become a thing of the heart. Granted the emotions of 1860,
the way in which our country staggered into war has all the terrible
fascination of a tragedy on the theme of fate.

That a secession movement would begin somewhere in the South before the
end of 1860 was a foregone conclusion. South Carolina was the logical
place, and in South Carolina the inevitable occurred. The presidential
election was quickly followed by an election of delegates, on the 6th of
December, to consider in convention the relations of the State with the
Union. The arguments before the Convention were familiar and had been
advocated since 1851. The leaders of the disunionists were the same
who had led the unsuccessful movement of ten years before. The central
figure was Rhett, who never for a moment had wavered. Consumed his life
long by the one idea of the independence of South Carolina, that stern
enthusiast pressed on to a triumphant conclusion. The powers which had
defeated him in 1851 were now either silent or converted, so that
there was practically no opposition. In a burst of passionate zeal the
independence of South Carolina was proclaimed on December 20, 1860, by
an ordinance of secession.

Simultaneously, by one of those dramatic coincidences which make history
stranger than fiction, Lincoln took a step which supplemented this
action and established its tragic significance. What that step was will
appear in a moment.

Even before the secession began, various types of men in politics had
begun to do each after his kind. Those whom destiny drove first into a
corner were the lovers of political evasion. The issue was forced upon
them by the instantaneous demand of the people of South Carolina for
possession of forts in Charleston Harbor which were controlled by the
Federal Government. Anticipating such a demand, Major Robert Anderson,
the commandant at Charleston, had written to Buchanan on the 23d of
November that "Fort Sumter and Castle Pinckney must be garrisoned
immediately, if the Government determines to keep command of this
harbor."

In the mind of every American of the party of political evasion, there
now began a sad, internal conflict. Every one of them had to choose
among three courses: to shut his eyes and to continue to wail that the
function of government is to do nothing; to make an end of political
evasion and to come out frankly in approval of the Southern position;
or to break with his own record, to emerge from his evasions on the
opposite side, and to confess himself first and before all a supporter
of the Union. One or another of these three courses, sooner or later,
every man of the President's following chose. We shall see presently the
relative strength of the three groups into which that following broke
and what strange courses sometimes tragic, sometimes comic--two of the
three pursued. For the moment our concern is how the division manifested
itself among the heads of the party at Washington.

The President took the first of the three courses. He held it with the
nervous clutch of a weak nature until overmastered by two grim men who
gradually hypnotized his will. The turning-point for Buchanan, and the
last poor crisis in his inglorious career, came on Sunday, December
30th. Before that day arrived, his vacillation had moved his friends to
pity and his enemies to scorn. One of his best friends wrote privately,
"The President is pale with fear"; and the hostile point of view found
expression in such comments as this, "Buchanan, it is said, divides
his time between praying and crying. Such a perfect imbecile never held
office before."

With the question what to do about the forts hanging over his bewildered
soul, Buchanan sent a message to Congress on December 4, 1860, in which
he sought to defend the traditional evasive policy of his party. He
denied the constitutional right of secession, but he was also denied his
own right to oppose such a course. Seward was not unfair to the mental
caliber of the message when he wrote to his wife that Buchanan showed
"conclusively that it is the duty of the President to execute the
laws--unless somebody opposes him; and that no State has a right to go
out of the Union unless it wants to."

This message of Buchanan's hastened the inevitable separation of the
Democratic party into its elements. The ablest Southern member of the
Cabinet, Cobb, resigned. He was too strong an intellect to continue
the policy of "nothing doing" now that the crisis had come. He was too
devoted a Southerner to come out of political evasion except on one
side. On the day Cobb resigned the South Carolina Representatives called
on Buchanan and asked him not to make any change in the disposition
of troops at Charleston, and particularly not to strengthen Sumter,
a fortress on an island in the midst of the harbor, without at least
giving notice to the state authorities. What was said in this interview
was not put in writing but was remembered afterward in different ways
with unfortunate consequences.

Every action of Buchanan in this fateful month continued the
disintegration of his following. Just as Cobb had to choose between his
reasonings as a Democratic party man and his feelings as a Southerner,
so the aged Cass, his Secretary of State, and an old personal friend,
now felt constrained to choose between his Democratic reasoning and
his Northern sympathies, and resigned from the Cabinet on the 11th of
December. Buchanan then turned instinctively to the strongest natures
that remained among his close associates. It is a compliment to the
innate force of Jeremiah S. Black, the Attorney-General, that Buchanan
advanced him to the post of Secretary of State and allowed him to name
as his successor in the Attorney-Generalship Edwin M. Stanton. Both were
tried Democrats of the old style, "let-'em-alone" sort; and both had
supported the President in his Kansas policy. But each, like every
other member of his party, was being forced by circumstances to make his
choice among the three inevitable courses, and each chose the Northern
side. At once the question of the moment was whether the new Secretary
of State and his powerful henchmen would hypnotize the President.

For a couple of weeks the issue hung in the balance. Then there
appeared at Washington commissioners from South Carolina "empowered to
treat...for the delivery of forts...and other real estate" held by
the Federal Government within their State. On the day following their
arrival, Buchanan was informed by telegraph that Anderson had dismantled
Fort Moultrie on the north side of the harbor, had spiked its guns,
and had removed its garrison to the island fortress, Sumter, which
was supposed to be far more defensible. At Charleston his action was
interpreted as preparation for war; and all South Carolinians saw in
it a violation of a pledge which they believed the President had given
their congressmen, three weeks previous, in that talk which had not been
written down. Greatly excited and fearful of designs against them, the
South Carolina commissioners held two conferences with the President
on the 27th and 28th of December. They believed that he had broken his
word, and they told him so. Deeply agitated and refusing to admit
that he had committed himself at the earlier conference, he said that
Anderson had acted on his own responsibility, but he refused to order
him back to the now ruined Fort Moultrie. One remark which he let fall
has been remembered as evidence of his querulous state of mind: "You
are pressing me too importunately" exclaimed the unhappy President;
"you don't give me time to consider; you don't give me time to say my
prayers; I always say my prayers when required to act upon any great
state affair." One remembers Hampden "seeking the Lord" about ship
money, and one realizes that the same act may have a vastly different
significance in different temperaments.

Buchanan, however, was virtually ready to give way to the demand of the
commissioners. He drew up a paper to that effect and showed it to the
Cabinet. Then the turning-point came. In a painful interview, Black,
long one of his most trusted friends, told him of his intention to
resign, and that Stanton would go with him and probably also the
Postmaster-General, Holt. The idea of losing the support of these strong
personalities terrified Buchanan, who immediately fell into a panic.
Handing Black the paper he had drawn up, Buchanan begged him to retain
office and to alter the paper as he saw fit. To this Black agreed. The
demand for the surrender of the forts was refused; Anderson was not
ordered back to Moultrie; and for the brief remainder of Buchanan's
administration Black acted as prime minister.

A very powerful section of the Northern democracy, well typified by
their leaders at Washington, had thus emerged from political evasion
on the Northern side. These men, known afterwards as War Democrats,
combined with the Republicans to form the composite Union party which
supported Lincoln. It is significant that Stanton eventually reappeared
in the Cabinet as Lincoln's Secretary of War, and that along with him
appeared another War Democrat, Gideon Welles, Lincoln's Secretary of the
Navy. With them, at last, Douglas, the greatest of all the old Democrats
of the North, took his position. What became of the other factions of
the old Democratic party remains to be told.

While Buchanan, early in the month, was weeping over the pitilessness
of fate, more practical Northerners were grappling with the question
of what was to be done about the situation. In their thoughts they
anticipated a later statesman and realized that they were confronted by
a condition and not by a theory. Secession was at last a reality. Which
course should they take?

What strikes us most forcibly, as we look back upon that day, is the
widespread desire for peace. The abolitionists form a conspicuous
example. Their watchword was "Let the erring sisters go in peace."
Wendell Phillips, their most gifted orator, a master of spoken style at
once simple and melodious, declaimed splendidly against war. Garrison,
in "The Liberator", followed his example. Whittier put the same feeling
into his verse:

They break the links of Union; shall we light The flames of hell to weld
anew the chain On that red anvil where each blow is pain?

Horace Greeley said in an editorial in the "New York Tribune": "If the
cotton states shall decide that they can do better out of the Union
than in it, we shall insist on letting them go in peace. Whenever a
considerable section of our Union shall deliberately resolve to go out,
we shall resist all coercive measures designed to keep them in. We hope
never to live in a republic where one section is pinned to the residue
by bayonets."

The Democrats naturally clung to their traditions, and, even when they
went over, as Black and Stanton did, to the Anti-Southern group, they
still hoped that war would not be the result. Equally earnest against
war were most of the Republicans, though a few, to be sure, were ready
to swing the "Northern hammer." Summer prophesied that slavery would
"go down in blood." But the bulk of the Republicans were for a sectional
compromise, and among them there was general approbation of a scheme
which contemplated reviving the line of the Missouri Compromise, and
thus frankly admitting the existence of two distinct sections, and
guaranteeing to each the security of its own institutions. The greatest
Republican boss of that day, Thurlow Weed, came out in defense of this
plan.

No power was arrayed more zealously on the side of peace of any kind
than the power of money. It was estimated that two hundred millions of
dollars were owed by Southerners to Northerners. War, it was reasoned,
would cause the cancellation of these obligations. To save their
Southern accounts, the moneyed interests of the North joined the
extremists of Abolition in pleading to let the erring sisters go
in peace, if necessary, rather than provoke them to war and the
confiscation of debts. It was the dread of such an outcome--which
finally happened and ruined many Northern firms--that caused the
stock-market in New York to go up and down with feverish uncertainty.
Banks suspended payment in Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia.
The one important and all-engrossing thing in the mind's eye of all
the financial world at this moment was that specter of unpaid Southern
accounts.

At this juncture, Senator Crittenden of Kentucky submitted to the Senate
a plan which has been known ever since as the Crittenden Compromise. It
was similar to Weed's plan, but it also provided that the division of
the country on the Missouri Compromise line should be established by
a constitutional amendment, which would thus forever solidify
sectionalism. Those elements of the population generally called the
conservative and the responsible were delighted. Edward Everett wrote to
Crittenden, "I saw with great satisfaction your patriotic movement, and
I wish from the bottom of my heart it might succeed"; and August Belmont
in a letter to Crittenden spoke for the moneyed interest: "I have yet
to meet the first Union-loving man, in or out of politics, who does not
approve your compromise proposition...."

The Senate submitted the Compromise to a Committee of Thirteen. In this
committee the Southern leaders, Toombs and Davis, were both willing to
accept the Compromise, if a majority of the Republican members would
agree. Indeed, if the Republicans would agree to it, there seemed
no reason why a new understanding between the sections might not be
reached, and no reason why sectionalism, if accepted as the basis of the
government, might not solve the immediate problem and thus avert war.

In this crisis all eyes were turned to Seward, that conspicuous
Republican who was generally looked upon as the real head of his
party. And Seward, at that very moment, was debating whether to accept
Lincoln's offer of the Secretaryship of State, for he considered it
vital to have an understanding with Lincoln on the subject of the
Compromise. He talked the matter over with Weed, and they decided that
Weed should go to Springfield and come to terms with Lincoln. It was the
interview between Weed and Lincoln held, it seems, on the very day on
which the Ordinance of Secession was adopted--which gave to that day its
double significance.

Lincoln refused point-blank to accept the compromise and he put his
refusal in writing. The historic meaning of his refusal, and the
significance of his determination not to solve the problem of the hour
by accepting a dual system of government based on frankly sectional
assumptions, were probably, in a measure, lost on both Weed and Seward.
They had, however, no misunderstanding of its practical effect. This
crude Western lawyer had certain ideas from which he would not budge,
and the party would have to go along with him. Weed and Seward therefore
promptly fell into line, and Seward accepted the Secretaryship and came
out in opposition to the Compromise. Other Republicans with whom Lincoln
had communicated by letter made known his views, and Greeley announced
them in The Tribune. The outcome was the solid alignment of all the
Republicans in Congress against the Compromise. As a result, this last
attempt to reunite the sections came to nothing.

Not more than once or twice, if ever, in American history, has there
been such an anxious New Year's Day as that which ushered in 1861. A
few days before, a Republican Congressman had written to one of his
constituents: "The heavens are indeed black and an awful storm is
gathering...I see no way that either North or South can escape its
fury." Events were indeed moving fast toward disaster. The garrison at
Sumter was in need of supplies, and in the first week of the new year
Buchanan attempted to relieve its wants. But a merchant vessel, the Star
of the West, by which supplies were sent, was fired upon by the South
Carolina authorities as it approached the harbor and was compelled to
turn back. This incident caused the withdrawal from the Cabinet of the
last opposition members--Thompson, of Mississippi, the Secretary of the
Interior, and Thomas, of Maryland, the Secretary of the Treasury. In the
course of the month five Southern States followed South Carolina out
of the Union, and their Senators and Representatives resigned from the
Congress of the United States.

The resignation of Jefferson Davis was communicated to the Senate in a
speech of farewell which even now holds the imagination of the student,
and which to the men of that day, with the Union crumbling around
them, seemed one of the most mournful and dramatic of orations. Davis
possessed a beautiful, melodious voice; he had a noble presence, tall,
erect, spare, even ascetic, with a flashing blue eye. He was deeply
moved by the occasion; his address was a requiem. That he withdrew in
sorrow but with fixed determination, no one who listened to him could
doubt. Early in February, the Southern Confederacy was formed with Davis
as its provisional President. With the prophetic vision of a logical
mind, he saw that war was inevitable, and he boldly proclaimed his
vision. In various speeches on his way South, he had assured the
Southern people that war was coming, and that it would be long and
bloody.

The withdrawal of these Southern members threw the control of the House
into the hands of the Republicans. Their realization of their power
was expressed in two measures which also passed the Senate; Kansas was
admitted--as a State with an anti-slavery constitution; and the Morrill
tariff, which they had failed to pass the previous spring, now
became law. Thus the Republicans began redeeming their pledges to the
anti-slavery men on the one hand and to the commercial interest on the
other. The time had now arrived for the Republican nominee to proceed
from Springfield to Washington. The journey was circuitous in order to
enable Lincoln to speak at a number of places. Never before, probably,
had the Northern people felt such tense strain as at that moment; never
had they looked to an incoming President with such anxious doubt.
Would he prevent war? Or, if he could not do that, would he be able
to extricate the country--Heaven alone knew how!--without a terrible
ordeal? Since his election, Lincoln had remained quietly at Springfield.
Though he had influenced events through letters to Congressmen, his one
conspicuous action during that winter was the defeat of the Crittenden
Compromise. The Southern President had called upon his people to put
their house in order as preparation for war. What, now, had Lincoln to
say to the people of the North?

The biographers of Lincoln have not satisfactorily revealed the state of
his mind between election and inauguration. We may safely guess that his
silence covered a great internal struggle. Except for his one action in
defeating the Compromise, he had allowed events to drift; but by that
one action he had taken upon himself the responsibility for the drift.
Though the country at that time did not fully appreciate this aspect of
the situation, who now can doubt that Lincoln did? His mind was always a
lonely one. His very humor has in it, so often, the note of solitude,
of one who is laughing to make the best of things, of one who is
spiritually alone. During those months when the country drifted from
its moorings, and when war was becoming steadily more probable, Lincoln,
after the manner of the prophets, wrestled alone with the problems which
he saw before him. From the little we know of his inward state, it is
hard for us to conclude that he was happy. A story which is told by his
former partner, Mr. Herndon, seems significant. As Lincoln was leaving
his unpretentious law-office for the last time, he turned to Mr. Herndon
and asked him not to take down their old sign. "Let it hang there
undisturbed," said he. "Give our clients to understand that the election
of a President makes no difference in the firm.... If I live, I'm coming
back some time, and then we'll go right on practising law as if nothing
had happened."

How far removed from self-sufficiency was the man whose thoughts, on
the eve of his elevation to the Presidency, lingered in a provincial law
office, fondly insistent that only death should prevent his returning
some time and resuming in those homely surroundings the life he had
led previous to his greatness. In a mood of wistfulness and of intense
preoccupation, he began his journey to Washington. It was not the mood
from which to strike fire and kindle hope. To the anxious, listening
country his speeches on the journey to Washington were disappointing.
Perhaps his strangely sensitive mind felt too powerfully the fatefulness
of the moment and reacted with a sort of lightness that did not really
represent the real man. Be that as it may, he was never less convincing
than at that time. Nor were people impressed by his bearing. Often he
appeared awkward, too much in appearance the country lawyer. He acted as
a man who was ill at ease and he spoke as a man who had nothing to say.
Gloom darkened the North as a consequence of these unfortunate speeches,
for they expressed an optimism which we cannot believe he really felt,
and which hurt him in the estimation of the country. "There is no
crisis but an artificial one," was one of his ill-timed assurances, and
another, "There is nothing going wrong.... There is nothing that really
hurts any one." Of his supporters some were discouraged; others were
exasperated; and an able but angry partisan even went so far as to write
in a private letter, "Lincoln is a Simple Susan."

The fourth of March arrived, and with it the end of Lincoln's
blundering. One good omen for the success of the new Administration was
the presence of Douglas on the inaugural platform. He had accepted fate,
deeply as it wounded him, and had come out of the shattered party of
evasion on the side of his section. For the purpose of showing his
support of the administration at this critical time, he had taken a
place on the stand where Lincoln was to speak. By one of those curious
little dramatic touches with which chance loves to embroider history,
the presence of Douglas became a gracious detail in the memory of the
day. Lincoln, worn and awkward, continued to hold his hat in his hand.
Douglas, with the tact born of social experience, stepped forward and
took it from him without--exposing Lincoln's embarrassment.

The inaugural address which Lincoln now pronounced had little similarity
to those unfortunate utterances which he had made on the journey to
Washington. The cloud that had been over him, whatever it was, had
lifted. Lincoln was ready for his great labor. The inaugural contained
three main propositions. Lincoln pledged himself not to interfere
directly or indirectly with slavery in the States where it then existed;
he promised to support the enforcement of the fugitive slave law; and he
declared he would maintain the Union. "No State," said he, "upon its own
mere motion can lawfully get out of the Union.... To the extent of my
ability I shall take care, as the Constitution itself expressly enjoins
upon me, that the laws of the Union be faithfully executed in all the
States.... In doing this, there need be no bloodshed or violence; and
there shall be none, unless it be forced upon the national authority.
The power confided to me will be used to hold, occupy, and possess
the property and places belonging to the government." Addressing the
Southerners, he said: "In your hands, my dissatisfied fellow-countrymen,
and not in mine, is the momentous issue of civil war. The Government
will not assail you.... We are not enemies but friends.... The mystic
cords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to
every living heart and hearthstone, all over this broad land, will yet
swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will
be, by the better angels of our nature."

Gentle, as was the phrasing of the inaugural, it was perfectly firm, and
it outlined a policy which the South would not accept, and which, in the
opinion of the Southern leaders, brought them a step nearer war. Wall
Street held the same belief, and as a consequence the price of stocks
fell.



CHAPTER VI. WAR

On the day following the inauguration, commissioners of the newly formed
Confederacy appeared at Washington and applied to the Secretary of State
for recognition as envoys of a foreign power. Seward refused them such
recognition. But he entered into a private negotiation with them which
is nearly, if not quite, the strangest thing in our history. Virtually,
Seward intrigued against Lincoln for control of the Administration. The
events of the next five weeks have an importance out of all proportion
to the brevity of the time. This was Lincoln's period of final
probation. The psychological intensity of this episode grew from the
consciousness in every mind that now, irretrievably, destiny was to be
determined. War or peace, happiness or adversity, one nation or two--all
these were in the balance. Lincoln entered the episode a doubtful
quantity, not with certainty the master even in his own Cabinet. He
emerged dominating the situation, but committed to the terrible course
of war.

One cannot enter upon this great episode, truly the turning point in
American history, without pausing for a glance at the character of
Seward. The subject is elusive. His ablest biographer* plainly is so
constantly on guard not to appear an apologist that he ends by reducing
his portrait to a mere outline, wavering across a background of
political details. The most recent study of Seward** surely reveals
between the lines the doubtfulness of the author about pushing his
points home. The different sides of the man are hard to reconcile. Now
he seemed frank and honest; again subtle and insincere. As an active
politician in the narrow sense, he should have been sagacious and
astute, yet he displayed at the crisis of his life the most absolute
fatuity. At times he had a buoyant and puerile way of disregarding
fact and enveloping himself in a world of his own imagining. He could
bluster, when he wished, like any demagogue; and yet he could be
persuasive, agreeable, and even personally charming.

     *Frederic Bancroft, "Life of William H. Seward".

     ** Gamaliel Bradford, "Union Portraits".

But of one thing with regard to Seward, in the first week of March,
1861, there can be no doubt: he thought himself a great statesman--and
he thought Lincoln "a Simple Susan." He conceived his role in the new
administration to involve a subtle and patient manipulation of his
childlike superior. That Lincoln would gradually yield to his spell
and insensibly become his figurehead; that he, Seward, could save the
country and would go down to history a statesman above compare, he took
for granted. Nor can he fairly be called conceited, either; that is part
of his singularity.

Lincoln's Cabinet was, as Seward said, a compound body. With a view to
strengthening his position, Lincoln had appointed to cabinet positions
all his former rivals for the Republican nomination. Besides Seward,
there was Chase as Secretary of the Treasury; Simon Cameron of
Pennsylvania as Secretary of War; Edward Bates of Missouri as
Attorney-General. The appointment of Montgomery Blair of Maryland as
Postmaster-General was intended to placate the border Slave States. The
same motive dictated the later inclusion of James Speed of Kentucky in
the Cabinet. The Black-Stanton wing of the Democrats was represented in
the Navy Department by Gideon Welles, and in course of time in the War
Department also, when Cameron resigned and Stanton succeeded him. The
West of that day was represented by Caleb B. Smith of Indiana.

Seward disapproved of the composition of the Cabinet so much that,
almost at the last moment, he withdrew his acceptance of the State
Department. It was Lincoln's gentleness of argument which overcame his
reluctance to serve. We may be sure, however, that Seward failed to
observe that Lincoln's tactlessness in social matters did not extend to
his management of men in politics; we may feel sure that what remained
in his mind was Lincoln's unwillingness to enter office without William
Henry Seward as Secretary of State.

The promptness with which Seward assumed the role of prime minister
bears out this inference. The same fact also reveals a puzzling detail
of Seward's character which amounted to obtuseness--his forgetfulness
that appointment to cabinet offices had not transformed his old
political rivals Chase and Cameron, nor softened the feelings of an
inveterate political enemy, Welles, the Secretary of the Navy. The
impression which Seward made on his colleagues in the first days of the
new Government has been thus sharply recorded by Welles: "The Secretary
of State was, of course, apprised of every meeting [of ministers] and
never failed in his attendance, whatever was the subject-matter,
and though entirely out of his official province. He was vigilantly
attentive to every measure and movement in other Departments, however
trivial--as much so as to his own--watched and scrutinized every
appointment that was made, or proposed to be made, but was not
communicative in regard to the transaction of the State Department."
So eager was Seward to keep all the threads of affairs in his own hands
that he tried to persuade Lincoln not to hold cabinet meetings but
merely to consult with particular ministers, and with the Secretary
of State, as occasion might demand. A combined protest from the other
Secretaries, however, caused the regular holding of Cabinet meetings.

With regard to the Confederacy, Seward's policy was one of
non-resistance. For this he had two reasons. The first of these was
his rooted delusion that the bulk of the Southerners were opposed to
secession and, if let alone, would force their leaders to reconsider
their action. He might have quoted the nursery rhyme, "Let them alone
and they'll come home"; it would have been like him and in tune with
a frivolous side of his nature. He was quite as irresponsible when he
complacently assured the North that the trouble would all blow over
within ninety days. He also believed that any display of force would
convert these hypothetical Unionists of the South from friends to
enemies and would consolidate opinion in the Confederacy to produce
war. In justice to Seward it must be remembered that on this point time
justified his fears.

His dealings with the Confederate commissioners show that he was playing
to gain time, not with intent to deceive the Southerners but to acquire
that domination over Lincoln which he felt was his by natural right.
Intending to institute a peace policy the moment he gained this
ascendency, he felt perfectly safe in making promises to the
commissioners through mutual friends. He virtually told them that Sumter
would eventually be given up and that all they need do was to wait.

Seward brought to bear upon the President the opinions of various
military men who thought the time had passed when any expedition for the
relief of Sumter could succeed. For some time Lincoln seemed about
to consent, though reluctantly, to Seward's lead in the matter of the
forts. He was pulled up standing, however, by the threatened resignation
of the Postmaster-General, Blair. After a conference with leading
Republican politicians the President announced to his Cabinet that
his policy would include the relief of Sumter. "Seward," says Welles,
"...was evidently displeased."

Seward now took a new tack. Fort Pickens, at Pensacola, was a problem
similar to that of Sumter at Charleston. Both were demanded by the
Confederates, and both were in need of supplies. But Fort Pickens lay
to one side, so to speak, of the public mind, and there was not
conspicuously in the world's eye the square issue over it that there
was over Sumter. Seward conceived the idea that, if the President's
attention were diverted from Sumter to Pickens and a relief expedition
were sent to the latter but none to the former, his private negotiations
with the Confederates might still be kept going; Lincoln might yet be
hypnotized; and at last all would be well.

On All-Fools' Day, 1861, in the midst of a press of business, he
obtained Lincoln's signature to some dispatches, which Lincoln, it
seems, discussed with him hurriedly and without detailed consideration.
There were now in preparation two relief expeditions, one to carry
supplies to Pensacola, the other to Charleston. Neither was to fight
if it was not molested. Both were to be strong enough to fight if
their commanders deemed it necessary. As flagship of the Charleston
expedition, Welles had detailed the powerful warship Powhatan, which
was rapidly being made ready at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Such was the
situation as Welles understood it when he was thinking of bed late on
the night of the 6th of April. Until then he had not suspected that
there was doubt and bewilderment about the Powhatan at Brooklyn. One
of those dispatches which Lincoln had so hastily signed provided for
detaching the Powhatan from the Charleston expedition and sending it
safe out of harm's way to Pensacola. The commander of the ship had
before him the conflicting orders, one from the President, one from the
Secretary of the Navy. He was about to sail under the President's
orders for Pensacola; but wishing to make sure of his authority, he
had telegraphed to Washington. Gideon Welles was a pugnacious man. His
dislike for Seward was deepseated. Imagine his state of mind when it was
accidently revealed to him that Seward had gone behind his back and had
issued to naval officers orders which were contradictory to his own!
The immediate result was an interview that same night between Seward and
Welles in which, as Welles coldly admitted in after days, the Secretary
of the Navy showed "some excitement." Together they went, about
midnight, to the White House. Lincoln had some difficulty recalling the
incident of the dispatch on the 1st of April; but when he did remember,
he took the responsibility entirely upon himself, saying he had had
no purpose but to strengthen the Pickens expedition, and no thought of
weakening the expedition to Charleston. He directed Seward to telegraph
immediately cancelling the order detaching the Powhatan. Seward made a
desperate attempt to put him off, protesting, it was too late to send
a telegram that night. "But the President was imperative," writes
Secretary Welles, in describing the incident, and a dispatch was sent.

Seward then, doubtless in his agitation, did a strange thing. Instead
of telegraphing in the President's name, the dispatch which he sent read
merely, "Give up the Powhatan...Seward." When this dispatch was received
at Brooklyn, the Powhatan was already under way and had to be overtaken
by a fast tug. In the eyes of her commander, however, a personal
telegram from the Secretary of State appeared as of no weight against
the official orders of the President, and he continued his voyage to
Pensacola.

The mercurial temper of Seward comes out even in the caustic narrative
written afterwards by Welles. Evidently Seward was deeply mortified and
depressed by the incident. He remarked, says Welles, that old as he was
he had learned a lesson, and that was that he had better attend to his
own business. "To this," commented his enemy, "I cordially assented."

Nevertheless Seward's loss of faith in himself was only momentary. A
night's sleep was sufficient to restore it. His next communication to
the commissioners shows that he was himself again, sure that destiny
owed him the control of the situation. On the following day the
commissioners had got wind of the relief expedition and pressed him for
information, recalling his assurance that nothing would be done to their
disadvantage. In reply, still through a third person, Seward sent them
the famous message, over the precise meaning of which great debate has
raged: "Faith as to Sumter fully kept; wait and see." If this infatuated
dreamer still believed he could dominate Lincoln, still hoped at the
last moment to arrest the expedition to Charleston, he was doomed to
bitterest disappointment.

On the 9th of April, the expedition to Fort Sumter sailed, but without,
as we have seen, the assistance of the much needed warship, the
Powhatan. As all the world knows, the expedition had been too long
delayed and it accomplished nothing. Before it arrived, the surrender
of Sumter had been demanded and refused--and war had begun. During the
bombardment of Sumter, the relief expedition appeared beyond the bar,
but its commander had no vessels of such a character as to enable him
to carry aid to the fortress. Furthermore, he had not been informed that
the Powhatan had been detached from his squadron, and he expected to
meet her at the mouth of the harbor. There his ships lay idle until the
fort was surrendered, waiting for the Powhatan--for whose detachment
from the squadron Seward was responsible.

To return to the world of intrigue at Washington, however, it must not
be supposed, as is so often done, that Fort Sumter was the one concern
of the new government during its first six weeks. In fact, the subject
occupied but a fraction of Lincoln's time. Scarcely second in importance
was that matter so curiously bound up with the relief of the forts--the
getting in hand of the strangely vain glorious Secretary of State.
Mention has already been made of All-Fools' Day, 1861. Several marvelous
things took place on that day. Strangest of all was the presentation of
a paper by the Secretary of State to his chief, entitled "Thoughts for
the President's Consideration". Whether it be regarded as a state paper
or as a biographical detail in the career of Seward, it proves to be
quite the most astounding thing in the whole episode. The "Thoughts"
outlined a course of policy by which the buoyant Secretary intended to
make good his prophecy of domestic peace within ninety days. Besides
calmly patronizing Lincoln, assuring him that his lack of "a policy
either domestic or foreign" was "not culpable and... even unavoidable,"
the paper warned him that "policies...both domestic and foreign" must
immediately be adopted, and it proceeded to point out what they ought to
be. Briefly stated, the one true policy which he advocated at home was
to evacuate Sumter (though Pickens for some unexplained reason might be
safely retained) and then, in order to bring the Southerners back into
the Union, to pick quarrels with both Spain and France; to proceed as
quickly as possible to war with both powers; and to have the ultimate
satisfaction of beholding the reunion of the country through the general
enthusiasm that was bound to come. Finally, the paper intimated that the
Secretary of State was the man to carry this project through to success.

All this is not opera bouffe, but serious history. It must have taxed
Lincoln's sense of humor and strained his sense of the fitness of things
to treat such nonsense with the tactful forbearance which he showed and
to relegate it to the pigeonhole without making Seward angry. Yet this
he contrived to do; and he also managed, gently but firmly, to make it
plain that the President intended to exercise his authority as the chief
magistrate of the nation. His forbearance was further shown in passing
over without rebuke Seward's part in the affair of Sumter, which might
so easily have been made to appear treacherous, and in shouldering
himself with all responsibility for the failure of the Charleston
expedition. In the wave of excitement following the surrender, even so
debonair a minister as Seward must have realized how fortunate it was
for him that his chief did not tell all he knew. About this time Seward
began to perceive that Lincoln had a will of his own, and that it was
not safe to trifle further with the President. Seward thereupon ceased
his interference.

It was in the dark days preceding the fall of Sumter that a crowd of
office-seekers gathered at Washington, most of them men who had little
interest in anything but the spoils. It is a distressing commentary on
the American party system that, during the most critical month of the
most critical period of American history, much of the President's time
was consumed by these political vampires who would not be put off, even
though a revolution was in progress and nations, perhaps, were dying
and being born. "The scramble for office," wrote Stanton, "is
terrible." Seward noted privately: "Solicitants for office besiege the
President.... My duties call me to the White House two or three times a
day. The grounds, halls, stairways, closets, are filled with applicants
who render ingress and egress difficult."

Secretary Welles has etched the Washington of that time in his coldly
scornful way:

"A strange state of things existed at that time in Washington.
The atmosphere was thick with treason. Party spirit and old party
differences prevailed, however, amidst these accumulated dangers.
Secession was considered by most persons as a political party question,
not as rebellion. Democrats to a large extent sympathized with the
Rebels more than with the Administration, which they opposed, not that
they wished Secession to be successful and the Union divided, but they
hoped that President Lincoln and the Republicans would, overwhelmed by
obstacles and embarrassments, prove failures. The Republicans on the
other hand, were scarcely less partisan and unreasonable. Patriotism was
with them no test, no shield from party malevolence. They demanded
the proscription and exclusion of such Democrats as opposed the Rebel
movement and clung to the Union, with the same vehemence that they
demanded the removal of the worst Rebels who advocated a dissolution of
the Union. Neither party appeared to be apprehensive of, or to realize
the gathering storm."

Seen against such a background, the political and diplomatic frivolity
of the Secretary of State is not so inexplicable as it would otherwise
be. This background, as well as the intrigue of the Secretary, helps
us to understand Lincoln's great task inside his Cabinet. At first the
Cabinet was a group of jealous politicians new to this sort of office,
drawn from different parties, and totally lacking in a cordial sense
of previous action together. None of them, probably, when they first
assembled had any high opinion of their titular head. He was looked upon
as a political makeshift. The best of them had to learn to appreciate
the fact that this strange, ungainly man, sprung from plainest origin,
without formal education, was a great genius. By degrees, however, the
large minds in the Cabinet became his cordial admirers. While Lincoln
was quietly, gradually exercising his strong will upon Seward, he was
doing the same with the other members of his council. Presently they
awoke--the majority of them at least--to the truth that he, for all his
odd ways, was their master.

Meanwhile the gradual readjustment of all factions in the North was
steadily going forward. The Republicans were falling into line behind
the Government; and by degrees the distinction between Seward and
Lincoln, in the popular mind, faded into a sort of composite picture
called "the Administration." Lincoln had the reward of his long
forbearance with his Secretary. For Seward it must be said that, however
he had intrigued against his chief at Washington, he did not intrigue
with the country. Admitting as he had, too, that he had met his master,
he took the defeat as a good sportsman and threw all his vast party
influence into the scale for Lincoln's fortunes. Thus, as April wore on,
the Republican party settled down to the idea that it was to follow the
Government at Washington upon any course that might develop.

The Democrats in the North were anti-Southern in larger proportion,
probably, than at any other time during the struggle of the sections.
We have seen that numbers of them had frankly declared for the Union.
Politics had proved weaker than propinquity. There was a moment when it
seemed--delusively, as events proved--that the North was united as one
man to oppose the South.

There is surely not another day in our history that has witnessed so
much nervous tension as Saturday, April 13, 1861, for on that morning
the newspapers electrified the North with the news that Sumter had been
fired on from Confederate batteries on the shore of Charleston Harbor.
In the South the issue was awaited confidently, but many minds at
least were in that state of awed suspense natural to a moment which the
thoughtful see is the stroke of fate. In the North, the day passed for
the most part in a quiet so breathless that even the most careless could
have foretold the storm which broke on the following day. The account
of this crisis which has been given by Lincoln's private secretary is
interesting:

"That day there was little change in the business routine of the
Executive office. Mr. Lincoln was never liable to sudden excitement
or sudden activity.... So while the Sumter telegrams were on every
tongue...leading men and officials called to learn or impart the news.
The Cabinet, as by common impulse, came together and deliberated. All
talk, however, was brief, sententious, formal. Lincoln said but little
beyond making inquiries about the current reports and criticizing the
probability or accuracy of their details, and went on as usual
receiving visitors, listening to suggestions, and signing routine papers
throughout the day." Meanwhile the cannon were booming at Charleston.
The people came out on the sea-front of the lovely old city and watched
the duel of the cannon far down the harbor, and spoke joyously of the
great event. They saw the shells of the shore batteries ignite
portions of the fortress on the island. They watched the fire of the
defenders--driven by the flames into a restricted area--slacken and
cease. At last the flag of the Union fluttered down from above Fort
Sumter.

When the news flashed over the North, early Sunday morning, April 14th,
the tension broke. For many observers then and afterward, the only North
discernible that fateful Sabbath was an enraged, defiant, impulsive
nation, forgetful for the moment of all its differences, and uniting all
its voices in one hoarse cry for vengeance. There seemed to be no other
thought. Lincoln gave it formal utterance, that same day, by assembling
his Cabinet and drawing up a proclamation which called for 75,000
volunteer troops.

An incident of this day which is as significant historically as any
other was on the surface no more than a friendly talk between two men.
Douglas called at the White House. For nearly two hours he and Lincoln
conferred in private. Hitherto it had been a little uncertain what
course Douglas was going to take. In the Senate, though condemning
disunion, he had opposed war. Few matters can have troubled Lincoln more
deeply than the question which way Douglas's immense influence would be
thrown. The question was answered publicly in the newspapers of Monday,
April 15th. Douglas announced that while he was still "unalterably
opposed to the Administration on all its political issues, he
was prepared to sustain the President in the exercise of all his
constitutional functions to preserve the Union, and maintain the
Government, and defend the federal capital."

There remained of Douglas's life but a few months. The time was filled
with earnest speechmaking in support of the Government. He had started
West directly following his conference with Lincoln. His speeches in
Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, were perhaps the greatest single force in
breaking up his own following, putting an end to the principle of doing
nothing, and forcing every Democrat to come out and show his colors.
In Shakespeare's phrase, it was--"Under which king, Bezonian? speak or
die!" In Douglas's own phrase: "There can be no neutrals in this war;
ONLY PATRIOTS--OR TRAITORS."

Side by side with Douglas's manifesto to the Democrats there appeared in
the Monday papers Lincoln's call for volunteers. The militia of several
Northern States at once responded.

On Wednesday, the 17th of April, the Sixth Massachusetts Regiment
entrained for Washington. Two days later it was in Baltimore. There it
was attacked by a mob; the soldiers fired; and a number of civilians
were killed as well as several soldiers.

These shots at Baltimore aroused the Southern party in Maryland. Led
by the Mayor of the city, they resolved to prevent the passage of other
troops across their State to Washington. Railway tracks were torn up
by order of the municipal authorities, and bridges were burnt. The
telegraph was cut. As in a flash, after issuing his proclamation,
Lincoln found himself isolated at Washington with no force but a handful
of troops and the government clerks. And while Maryland rose against him
on one side, Virginia joined his enemies on the other. The day the Sixth
Massachusetts left Boston, Virginia seceded. The Virginia militia were
called to their colors. Preparations were at once set on foot for the
seizure of the great federal arsenal at Harper's Ferry and the Navy Yard
at Norfolk. The next day a handful of federal troops, fearful of being
overpowered at Harper's Ferry, burned the arsenal and withdrew to
Washington. For the same reason the buildings of the great Navy Yard
were blown up or set on fire, and the ships at anchor were sunk. So
desperate and unprepared were the Washington authorities that they took
these extreme measures to keep arms and ammunition out of the hands of
the Virginians. So hastily was the destruction carried out, that it was
only partially successful and at both places large stores of ammunition
were seized by the Virginia troops. While Washington was isolated,
and Lincoln did not know what response the North had made to his
proclamation, Robert E. Lee, having resigned his commission in the
federal army, was placed in command of the Virginia troops.

The secretaries of Lincoln have preserved a picture of his desperate
anxiety, waiting, day after day, for relief from the North which
he hoped would speedily come by sea. Outwardly he maintained his
self-control. But once, on the afternoon of the 23d, the business of
the day being over, the Executive office being deserted, after walking
the floor alone in silent thought for nearly half an hour, he stopped
and gazed long and wistfully out of the window down the Potomac in the
direction of the expected ships; and, unconscious of other presence in
the room, at length broke out with irrepressible anguish in the repeated
exclamation, "Why don't they come! Why don't they come!"

During these days of isolation, when Washington, with the telegraph
inoperative, was kept in an appalling uncertainty, the North rose.
There was literally a rush to volunteer. "The heather is on fire," wrote
George Ticknor, "I never before knew what a popular excitement can
be." As fast as possible militia were hurried South. The crack New York
regiment, the famous, dandified Seventh, started for the front amid
probably the most tempestuous ovation which until that time was ever
given to a military organization in America. Of the march of the
regiment down Broadway, one of its members wrote, "Only one who passed
as we did, through the tempest of cheers two miles long, can know the
terrible enthusiasm of the occasion."

To reach Washington by rail was impossible. The Seventh went by boat
to Annapolis. The same course was taken by a regiment of Massachusetts
mechanics, the Eighth. Landing at Annapolis, the two regiments, dandies
and laborers, fraternized at once in the common bond of loyalty to the
Union. A branch railway led from Annapolis to the main line between
Washington and Baltimore. The rails had been torn up. The Massachusetts
mechanics set to work to relay them. The Governor of Maryland protested.
He was disregarded. The two regiments toiled together a long day and
through the night following, between Annapolis and the Washington
junction, bringing on their baggage and cannon over relaid tracks.
There, a train was found which the Seventh appropriated. At noon, on
the 25th of April, that advance guard of the Northern hosts entered
Washington, and Lincoln knew that he had armies behind him.



CHAPTER VII. LINCOLN

The history of the North had virtually become, by April, 1861, the
history of Lincoln himself, and during the remaining four years of the
President's life it is difficult to separate his personality from the
trend of national history. Any attempt to understand the achievements
and the omissions of the Northern people without undertaking an
intelligent estimate of their leader would be only to duplicate the
story of "Hamlet" with Hamlet left out. According to the opinion of
English military experts*, "Against the great military genius of certain
Southern leaders fate opposed the unbroken resolution and passionate
devotion to the Union, which he worshiped, of the great Northern
President. As long as he lived and ruled the people of the North, there
could be no turning back."

     * Wood and Edmonds. "The Civil War in the United States."

Lincoln has been ranked with Socrates; but he has also been compared
with Rabelais. He has been the target of abuse that knew no mercy; but
he has been worshiped as a demigod. The ten big volumes of his official
biography are a sustained, intemperate eulogy in which the hero does
nothing that is not admirable; but as large a book could be built up
out of contemporaneous Northern writings that would paint a picture of
unmitigated blackness--and the most eloquent portions of it would be
signed by Wendell Phillips.

The real Lincoln is, of course, neither the Lincoln of the official
biography nor the Lincoln of Wendell Phillips. He was neither a saint
nor a villain. What he actually was is not, however, so easily stated.
Prodigious men are never easy to sum up; and Lincoln was a prodigious
man. The more one studies him, the more individual he appears to be. By
degrees one comes to understand how it was possible for contemporaries
to hold contradictory views of him and for each to believe frantically
that his views were proved by facts. For anyone who thinks he can hit
off in a few neat generalities this complex, extraordinary personality,
a single warning may suffice. Walt Whitman, who was perhaps the most
original thinker and the most acute observer who ever saw Lincoln face
to face has left us his impression; but he adds that there was something
in Lincoln's face which defied description and which no picture had
caught. After Whitman's conclusion that "One of the great portrait
painters of two or three hundred years ago is needed," the mere
historian should proceed with caution.

There is historic significance in his very appearance. His huge,
loose-knit figure, six feet four inches high, lean, muscular, ungainly,
the evidence of his great physical strength, was a fit symbol of those
hard workers, the children of the soil, from whom he sprang. His face
was rugged like his figure, the complexion swarthy, cheek bones high,
and bushy black hair crowning a great forehead beneath which the eyes
were deep-set, gray, and dreaming. A sort of shambling powerfulness
formed the main suggestion of face and figure, softened strangely by the
mysterious expression of the eyes, and by the singular delicacy of the
skin. The motions of this awkward giant lacked grace; the top hat and
black frock coat, sometimes rusty, which had served him on the western
circuit continued to serve him when he was virtually the dictator of his
country. It was in such dress that he visited the army, where he towered
above his generals.

Even in a book of restricted scope, such as this, one must insist upon
the distinction between the private and public Lincoln, for there is
as yet no accepted conception of him. What comes nearest to an accepted
conception is contained probably in the version of the late Charles
Francis Adams. He tells us how his father, the elder Charles Francis
Adams, ambassador to London, found Lincoln in 1861 an offensive
personality, and he insists that Lincoln under strain passed through a
transformation which made the Lincoln of 1864 a different man from the
Lincoln of 1861. Perhaps; but without being frivolous, one is tempted
to quote certain old-fashioned American papers that used to label their
news items "important if true."

What then, was the public Lincoln? What explains his vast success? As
a force in American history, what does he count for? Perhaps the most
significant detail in an answer to these questions is the fact that he
had never held conspicuous public office until at the age of fifty-two
he became President. Psychologically his place is in that small group of
great geniuses whose whole significant period lies in what we commonly
think of as the decline of life. There are several such in history:
Rome had Caesar; America had both Lincoln and Lee. By contrasting these
instances with those of the other type, the egoistic geniuses such as
Alexander or Napoleon, we become aware of some dim but profound dividing
line separating the two groups. The theory that genius, at bottom, is
pure energy seems to fit Napoleon; but does it fit these other minds who
appear to meet life with a certain indifference, with a carelessness of
their own fate, a willingness to leave much to chance? That irresistible
passion for authority which Napoleon had is lacking in these others.
Their basal inspiration seems to resemble the impulse of the artist to
express, rather than the impulse of the man of action to possess. Had
it not been for secession, Lee would probably have ended his days as an
exemplary superintendent of West Point. And what of Lincoln? He dabbled
in politics, early and without success; he left politics for the law,
and to the law he gave during many years his chief devotion. But the
fortuitous break-up of parties, with the revival of the slavery issue,
touched some hidden spring; the able provincial lawyer felt again the
political impulse; he became a famous maker of political phrases; and on
this literary basis he became the leader of a party.

Too little attention has been paid to this progression of Lincoln
through literature into politics. The ease with which he drifted from
one to the other is also still to be evaluated. Did it show a certain
slackness, a certain aimlessness, at the bottom of his nature? Had
it, in a way, some sort of analogy--to compare homespun with things
Olympian--to the vein of frivolity in the great Caesar? One is
tempted to think so. Surely, here was one of those natures which need
circumstance to compel them to greatness and which are not foredoomed,
Napoleon-like, to seize greatness. Without encroaching upon the
biographical task, one may borrow from biography this insistent echo:
the anecdotes of Lincoln sound over and over the note of easy-going good
nature; but there is to be found in many of the Lincoln anecdotes an
overtone of melancholy which lingers after one's impression of his good
nature. Quite naturally, in such a biographical atmosphere, we find
ourselves thinking of him at first as a little too good-humored, a
little too easy-going, a little prone to fall into reverie. We are not
surprised when we find his favorite poem beginning "Oh, why should the
spirit of mortal be proud."

This enigmatical man became President in his fifty-second year. We
have already seen that his next period, the winter of 1860-61, has its
biographical problems. The impression which he made on the country as
President-elect was distinctly unfavorable. Good humor, or opportunism,
or what you will, brought together in Lincoln's Cabinet at least three
men more conspicuous in the ordinary sense than he was himself. We
forget, today, how insignificant he must have seemed in a Cabinet that
embraced Seward, Cameron, and Chase--all large national figures. What
would not history give for a page of self-revelation showing us how he
felt in the early days of that company! Was he troubled? Did he doubt
his ability to hold his own? Was he fatalistic? Was his sad smile his
refuge? Did he merely put things by, ignoring tomorrow until tomorrow
should arrive?

However we may guess at the answers to such questions, one thing now
becomes certain. His quality of good humor began to be his salvation.
It is doubtful if any President except Washington had to manage so
difficult a Cabinet. Washington had seen no solution to the problem but
to let Jefferson go. Lincoln found his Cabinet often on the verge of a
split, with two powerful factions struggling to control it and neither
ever gaining full control. Though there were numerous withdrawals, no
resigning secretary really split Lincoln's Cabinet. By what turns and
twists and skillful maneuvers Lincoln prevented such a division and
kept such inveterate enemies as Chase and Seward steadily at their
jobs--Chase during three years, Seward to the end--will partly appear
in the following pages; but the whole delicate achievement cannot be
properly appreciated except in detailed biography.

All criticism of Lincoln turns eventually on one question: Was he an
opportunist? Not only his enemies in his own time but many politicians
of a later day were eager to prove that he was the latter--indeed,
seeking to shelter their own opportunism behind the majesty of his
example. A modern instance will perhaps make vivid this long standing
debate upon Lincoln and his motives. Merely for historic illumination
and without becoming invidious, we may recall the instance of President
Wilson and the resignation of his Secretary of War in 1916 because
Congress would not meet the issue of preparedness. The President
accepted the resignation without forcing the issue, and Congress went
on fiddling while Rome burned. Now, was the President an opportunist,
merely waiting to see what course events would take, or was he a
political strategist, astutely biding his time? Similar in character
is this old debate upon Lincoln, which is perhaps best focussed in the
removal of Secretary Blair which we shall have to note in connection
with the election of 1864.

It is difficult for the most objective historian to deal with such
questions without obtruding his personal views, but there is nothing
merely individual in recording the fact that the steady drift of opinion
has been away from the conception of Lincoln as an opportunist. What
once caused him to be thus conceived appears now to have been a failure
to comprehend intelligently the nature of his undertaking. More and
more, the tendency nowadays is to conceive his career as one of
those few instances in which the precise faculties needed to solve a
particular problem were called into play at exactly the critical moment.
Our confusions with regard to Lincoln have grown out of our failure
to appreciate the singularity of the American people, and their
ultra-singularity during the years in which he lived. It remains to be
seen hereafter what strange elements of sensibility, of waywardness,
of lack of imagination, of undisciplined ardor, of selfishness, of
deceitfulness, of treachery, combined with heroic ideality, made up
the character of that complex populace which it was Lincoln's task to
control. But he did more than control it: he somehow compounded much of
it into something like a unit. To measure Lincoln's achievement in this
respect, two things must be remembered: on the one hand, his task was
not as arduous as it might have been, because the most intellectual part
of the North had definitely committed itself either irretrievably for,
or irreconcilably against, his policy. Lincoln, therefore, did not have
to trouble himself with this portion of the population. On the
other hand, that part which he had to master included such emotional
rhetoricians as Horace Greeley; such fierce zealots as Henry Winter
Davis of Maryland, who made him trouble indeed, and Benjamin Wade, whom
we have met already; such military egoists as McClellan and Pope; such
crafty double-dealers as his own Secretary of the Treasury; such astute
grafters as Cameron; such miserable creatures as certain powerful
capitalists who sacrificed his army to their own lust for profits
filched from army contracts.

The wonder of Lincoln's achievement is that he contrived at last to
extend his hold over all these diverse elements; that he persuaded some,
outwitted others, and overcame them all. The subtlety of this task would
have ruined any statesman of the driving sort. Explain Lincoln by any
theory you will, his personality was the keystone of the Northern arch;
subtract it, and the arch falls. The popular element being as complex
and powerful as it was, how could the presiding statesman have mastered
the situation if he had not been of so peculiar a sort that he could
influence all these diverse and powerful interests, slowly, by degrees,
without heat, without the imperative note, almost in silence, with the
universal, enfolding irresistibility of the gradual things in nature,
of the sun and the rain. Such was the genius of Lincoln--all but
passionless, yet so quiet that one cannot but believe in the great depth
of his nature.

We are, even today, far from a definitive understanding of Lincoln's
statecraft, but there is perhaps justification for venturing upon one
prophecy. The farther from him we get and the more clearly we see him in
perspective, the more we shall realize his creative influence upon his
party. A Lincoln who is the moulder of events and the great creator of
public opinion will emerge at last into clear view. In the Lincoln
of his ultimate biographer there will be more of iron than of a less
enduring metal in the figure of the Lincoln of present tradition. Though
none of his gentleness will disappear, there will be more emphasis
placed upon his firmness, and upon such episodes as that of December,
1860, when his single will turned the scale against compromise; upon
his steadiness in the defeat of his party at the polls in 1862; or his
overruling of the will of Congress in the summer of 1864 on the question
of reconstruction; or his attitude in the autumn of that year when
he believed that he was losing his second election. Behind all his
gentleness, his slowness, behind his sadness, there will eventually
appear an inflexible purpose, strong as steel, unwavering as fate.

The Civil War was in truth Lincoln's war. Those modern pacifists who
claim him for their own are beside the mark. They will never get over
their illusions about Lincoln until they see, as all the world is
beginning to see, that his career has universal significance because of
its bearing on the universal modern problem of democracy. It will not do
ever to forget that he was a man of the people, always playing the hand
of the people, in the limited social sense of that word, though playing
it with none of the heat usually met with in the statesmen of successful
democracy from Cleon to Robespierre, from Andrew Jackson to Lloyd
George. His gentleness does not remove Lincoln from that stern category.
Throughout his life, besides his passion for the Union, besides his
antipathy to slavery, there dwelt in his very heart love of and faith
in the plain people. We shall never see him in true historic perspective
until we conceive him as the instrument of a vast social idea--the
determination to make a government based on the plain people successful
in war.

He did not scruple to seize power when he thought the cause of the
people demanded it, and his enemies were prompt to accuse him of holding
to the doctrine that the end justified the means--a hasty conclusion
which will have to be reconsidered; what concerns us more closely is the
definite conviction that he felt no sacrifice too great if it advanced
the happiness of the generality of mankind.

The final significance of Lincoln as a statesman of democracy is brought
out most clearly in his foreign relations. Fate put it into the hands of
England to determine whether his Government should stand or fall. Though
it is doubtful how far the turning of the scale of English policy in
Lincoln's favor was due to the influence of the rising power of English
democracy, it is plain that Lincoln thought of himself as having one
purpose with that movement which he regarded as an ally. Beyond all
doubt among the most grateful messages he ever received were the New
Year greetings of confidence and sympathy which were sent by English
workingmen in 1863. A few sentences in his "Letter to the Workingmen
of London" help us to look through his eyes and see his life and its
struggles as they appeared to him in relation to world history:

"As these sentiments [expressed by the English workmen] are manifestly
the enduring support of the free institutions of England, so am I sure
that they constitute the only reliable basis for free institutions
throughout the world.... The resources, advantages, and power of the
American people are very great, and they have consequently succeeded to
equally great responsibilities. It seems to have devolved upon them to
test whether a government established on the principles of human freedom
can be maintained against an effort to build one upon the exclusive
foundation of human bondage. They will rejoice with me in the new
evidence which your proceedings furnish that the magnanimity they
are exhibiting is justly estimated by the true friends of freedom and
humanity in foreign countries."

Written at the opening of that terrible year, 1863, these words are a
forward link with those more celebrated words spoken toward its close
at Gettysburg. Perhaps at no time during the war, except during the few
days immediately following his own reelection a year later, did Lincoln
come so near being free from care as then. Perhaps that explains why
his fundamental literary power reasserted itself so remarkably, why this
speech of his at the dedication of the National Cemetery at Gettysburg
on the 19th of November, 1863, remains one of the most memorable
orations ever delivered:

"Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this
continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the
proposition that all men are created equal.

"Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation,
or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met
on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion
of that field as a final resting-place for those who here gave their
lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper
that we should do this.

"But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we
cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled
here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The
world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can
never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to
be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have
thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to
the great task remaining before us: that from these honored dead we
take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full
measure of devotion; that we here highly resolve that these dead shall
not have died in vain; that this nation, under God, shall have a new
birth of freedom; and that government of the people, by the people, and
for the people, shall not perish from the earth."



CHAPTER VIII. THE RULE OF LINCOLN

The fundamental problem of the Lincoln Government was the raising of
armies, the sudden conversion of a community which was essentially
industrial into a disciplined military organization. The accomplishment
of so gigantic a transformation taxed the abilities of two Secretaries
of War. The first, Simon Cameron, owed his place in the Cabinet to
the double fact of being one of the ablest of political bosses and
of standing high among Lincoln's competitors for the Presidential
nomination. Personally honest, he was also a political cynic to whom
tradition ascribes the epigram defining an honest politician as one who
"when he is bought, will stay bought." As Secretary of War he showed no
particular ability.

In 1861, when the tide of enthusiasm was in flood, and volunteers
in hosts were responding to acts of Congress for the raising and
maintenance of a volunteer army, Cameron reported in December that the
Government had on foot 660,971 men and could have had a million except
that Congress had limited the number of volunteers to be received. When
this report was prepared, Lincoln was, so to speak, in the trough of two
seas. The devotion which had been offered to him in April, 1861, when
the North seemed to rise as one man, had undergone a reaction. Eight
months without a single striking military success, together with
the startling defeat at Bull Run, had had their inevitable effect.
Democracies are mercurial; variability seems to be part of the price of
freedom. With childlike faith in their cause, the Northern people,
in midsummer, were crying, "On to Richmond!" In the autumn, stung by
defeat, they were ready to cry, "Down with Lincoln."

In a subsequent report, the War Department confessed that at the
beginning of hostilities, "nearly all our arms and ammunition" came from
foreign countries. One great reason why no military successes relieve
the gloom of 1861 was that, from a soldier's point of view, there
were no armies. Soldiers, it is true, there were in myriads; but arms,
ammunition, and above all, organization were lacking. The supplies
in the government arsenals had been provided for an army of but a few
thousand. Strive as they would, all the factories in the country could
not come anywhere near making arms for half a million men; nor did the
facilities of those days make it possible for munition plants to spring
up overnight. Had it not been that the Confederacy was equally hard
pushed, even harder pushed, to find arms and ammunition, the war would
have ended inside Seward's ninety days, through sheer lack of powder.

Even with the respite given by the unpreparedness of the South, and
while Lincoln hurriedly collected arms and ammunition from abroad, the
startled nation, thus suddenly forced into a realization of what
war meant, lost its head. From its previous reckless trust in sheer
enthusiasm, it reacted to a distrust of almost everything. Why were the
soldiers not armed? Why did not millions of rounds of cartridges fall
like manna out of the sky? Why did not the crowds of volunteers become
armies at a word of command? One of the darkest pages in American
history records the way in which the crowd, undisciplined to endure
strain, turned upon Lincoln in its desire to find in the conduct of
their leader a pretext for venting upon him the fierceness of their
anxiety. Such a pretext they found in his treatment of Fremont.

The singular episode of Fremont's arrogance in 1861 is part of the
story of the border States whose friendship was eagerly sought by both
sides--Maryland, Kentucky, Missouri, and those mountainous counties
which in time were to become West Virginia. To retain Maryland and thus
to keep open the connection between the Capital and the North was one
of Lincoln's deepest anxieties. By degrees the hold of the Government
in Maryland was made secure, and the State never seceded. Kentucky, too,
held to the Union, though, during many anxious months in 1861, Lincoln
did not know whether this State was to be for him or against him. The
Virginia mountains, from the first, seemed a more hopeful field, for the
mountaineers had opposed the Virginia secession and, as soon as it was
accomplished, had begun holding meetings of protest. In the meantime
George B. McClellan, with the rank of general bestowed upon him by the
Federal Government, had been appointed to command the militia of Ohio.
He was sent to assist the insurgent mountaineers, and with him went the
Ohio militia. From this situation and from the small engagements with
Confederate forces in which McClellan was successful, there resulted the
separate State of West Virginia and the extravagant popular notion that
McClellan was a great general. His successes were contrasted in the
ordinary mind with the crushing defeat at Bull Run, which happened at
about the same time.

The most serious of all these struggles in the border States, however,
was that which took place in Missouri, where, owing to the strength
of both factions and their promptness in organizing, real war began
immediately. A Union army led by General Nathaniel Lyon attacked the
Confederates with great spirit at Wilson's Creek but was beaten back in
a fierce and bloody battle in which their leader was killed.

Even before these events Fremont had been appointed to chief command
in Missouri, and here he at once began a strange course of dawdling and
posing. His military career must be left to the military historians--who
have not ranked him among the great generals. Civil history accuses him,
if not of using his new position to make illegitimate profits, at least
of showing reckless favoritism toward those who did. It is hardly unfair
to say that Lincoln, in bearing with Fremont as long as he did, showed
a touch of amiable weakness; and yet, it must be acknowledged that the
President knew that the country was in a dangerous mood, that Fremont
was immensely popular, and that any change might be misunderstood.
Though Lincoln hated to appear anything but a friend to a fallen
political rival, he was at last forced to act. Frauds in government
contracts at St. Louis were a public scandal, and the reputation of the
government had to be saved by the removal of Fremont in November, 1861.
As an immediate consequence of this action the overstrained nerves of
great numbers of people snapped. Fremont's personal followers, as well
as the abolitionists whom he had actively supported while in command in
Missouri, and all that vast crowd of excitable people who are unable to
stand silent under strain, clamored against Lincoln in the wildest and
most absurd vein. He was accused of being a "dictator"; he was called an
"imbecile"; he ought to be impeached, and a new party, with Fremont as
its leader, should be formed to prosecute the war. But through all this
clamor Lincoln kept his peace and let the heathen rage.

Toward the end of the year, popular rage turned suddenly on Cameron,
who, as Secretary of War, had taken an active but proper part in the
investigation of Fremont's conduct. It was one of those tremulous
moments when people are desperately eager to have something done and are
ready to believe anything. Though McClellan, now in chief command of
the Union forces, had an immense army which was fast getting properly
equipped, month faded into month without his advancing against the
enemy. Again the popular cry was raised, "On to Richmond!" It was at
this moment of military inactivity and popular restlessness that charges
of peculation were brought forward against Cameron.

These charges both were and were not well founded. Himself a rich
man, it is not likely that Cameron profited personally by government
contracts, even though the acrimonious Thad Stevens said of his
appointment as Secretary that it would add "another million to his
fortune." There seems little doubt, however, that Cameron showered
lucrative contracts upon his political retainers. And no boss has ever
held the State of Pennsylvania in a firmer grip. His tenure of the
Secretaryship of War was one means to that end.

The restless alarm of the country at large expressed itself in such
extravagant words as these which Senator Grimes wrote to Senator
Fessenden: "We are going to destruction as fast as imbecility,
corruption, and the wheels of time can carry us." So dissatisfied,
indeed, was Congress with the conduct of the war that it appointed a
committee of investigation. During December, 1861, and January, 1862,
the committee was summoning generals before it, questioning them,
listening to all manner of views, accomplishing nothing, but rendering
more and more feverish an atmosphere already surcharged with anxiety.
On the floors of Congress debate raged as to who was responsible for
the military inaction--for the country's "unpreparedness," we should say
today--and as to whether Cameron was honest. Eventually the House in a
vote of censure condemned the Secretary of War.

Long before this happened, however, Lincoln had interfered and very
characteristically removed the cause of trouble, while taking upon
himself the responsibility for the situation, by nominating Cameron
minister to Russia, and by praising him for his "ability, patriotism,
and fidelity to the public trust." Though the President had not
sufficient hold upon the House to prevent the vote of censure, his
influence was strong in the Senate, and the new appointment of Cameron
was promptly confirmed.

There was in Washington at this time that grim man who had served
briefly as Attorney-General in the Cabinet of Buchanan--Edwin M.
Stanton. He despised the President and expressed his opinion in such
words as "the painful imbecility of Lincoln." The two had one personal
recollection in common: long before, in a single case, at Cincinnati,
the awkward Lincoln had been called in as associate counsel to serve the
convenience of Stanton, who was already a lawyer of national repute.
To his less-known associate Stanton showed a brutal rudeness that was
characteristic. It would have been hard in 1861 to find another man more
difficult to get on with. Headstrong, irascible, rude, he had a sharp
tongue which he delighted in using; but he was known to be inflexibly
honest, and was supposed to have great executive ability. He was also
a friend of McClellan, and if anybody could rouse that tortoise-like
general, Stanton might be supposed to be the man. He had been a valiant
Democrat, and Democratic support was needed by the government. Lincoln
astonished him with his appointment as Secretary of War in January,
1862. Stanton justified the President's choice, and under his strong
if ruthless hand the War Department became sternly efficient. The whole
story of Stanton's relations to his chief is packed, like the Arabian
genius in the fisherman's vase, into one remark of Lincoln's. "Did
Stanton tell you I was a fool?" said Lincoln on one occasion, in the
odd, smiling way he had. "Then I expect I must be one, for he is almost
always right, and generally says what he means."

In spite of his efficiency and personal force, Stanton was unable to
move his friend McClellan, with whom he soon quarreled. Each now sought
in his own way to control the President, though neither understood
Lincoln's character. From McClellan, Lincoln endured much condescension
of a kind perilously near impertinence. To Stanton, Lincoln's patience
seemed a mystery; to McClellan--a vain man, full of himself--the
President who would merely smile at this bullyragging on the part of
one of his subordinates seemed indeed a spiritless creature. Meanwhile
Lincoln, apparently devoid of sensibility, was seeking during the
anxious months of 1862, in one case, merely how to keep his petulant
Secretary in harness; in the other, how to quicken his tortoise of a
general.

Stanton made at least one great blunder. Though he had been three months
in office, and McClellan was still inactive, there were already several
successes to the credit of the Union arms. The Monitor and Virginia
(Merrimac) had fought their famous duel, and Grant had taken Fort
Donelson. The latter success broke through the long gloom of the North
and caused, as Holmes wrote, "a delirium of excitement." Stanton rashly
concluded that he now had the game in his hands, and that a sufficient
number of men had volunteered. This civilian Secretary of War, who had
still much to learn of military matters, issued an order putting a stop
to recruiting. Shortly afterwards great disaster befell the Union arms.
McClellan, before Richmond, was checked in May. Early in July, his
peninsula campaign ended disastrously in the terrible "Seven Days'
Battle."

Anticipating McClellan's failure, Lincoln had already determined to call
for more troops. On July 1st, he called upon the Governors of the
States to provide him with 300,000 men to serve three years. But the
volunteering enthusiasm--explain it as you will--had suffered a check.
The psychological moment had passed. So slow was the response to the
call of July 1st, that another appeal was made early in August, this
time for 300,000 men to serve only nine months. But this also failed
to rouse the country. A reinforcement of only 87,000 men was raised in
response to this emergency call. The able lawyer in the War Department
had still much to learn about men and nations.

After this check, terrible incidents of war came thick and fast--the
defeat at Second Manassas, in late August; the horrible drawn battle
of Antietam-Sharpsburg, in September; Fredericksburg, that carnival of
slaughter, in December; the dearly bought victory of Murfreesboro, which
opened 1863. There were other disastrous events at least as serious.
Foreign affairs* were at their darkest. Within the political coalition
supporting Lincoln, contention was the order of the day. There was
general distrust of the President. Most alarming of all, that ebb of the
wave of enthusiasm which began in midsummer, 1861, reached in the autumn
of 1862 perhaps its lowest point. The measure of the reaction against
Lincoln was given in the Congressional election, in which, though the
Government still retained a working majority, the Democrats gained
thirty-three seats.

     * See Chapter IX.

If there could be such a thing as a true psychological history of the
war, one of its most interesting pages would determine just how far
Stanton was responsible, through his strange blunder over recruiting,
for the check to enthusiasm among the Northern people. With this
speculation there is connected a still unsolved problem in statistics.
To what extent did the anti-Lincoln vote, in 1862, stand for sympathy
with the South, and how far was it the hopeless surrender of Unionists
who felt that their cause was lost? Though certainty on this point is
apparently impossible, there can be no doubt that at the opening of
1863, the Government felt it must apply pressure to the flagging spirits
of its supporters. In order to reenforce the armies and to push the war
through, there was plainly but one course to be followed--conscription.

The government leaders in Congress brought in a Conscription Act early
in the year. The hot debates upon this issue dragged through a month's
time, and now make instructive reading for the present generation
that has watched the Great War*. The Act of 1863 was not the work of
soldiers, but was literally "made in Congress." Stanton grimly made
the best of it, though he unwaveringly condemned some of its most
conspicuous provisions. His business was to retrieve his blunder of
the previous year, and he was successful. Imperfect as it was, the
Conscription Act, with later supplementary legislation, enabled him to
replace the wastage of the Union armies and steadily to augment them.
At the close of the war, the Union had on foot a million men with an
enrolled reserve of two millions and a half, subject to call.

     * The battle over conscription in England was anticipated in
     America sixty-four years ago.  Bagot says that the average
     British point of view may be expressed thus: "What I am
     sayin' is this here as I was a sayin' yesterday."  The
     Anglo-Saxon mind is much the same the world over.  In
     America, today, the enemies of effective military
     organization would do well to search the arguments of their
     skillful predecessors in 1888, who fought to the last ditch
     for a military system that would make inescapable "peace at
     any price."  For the modern believers in conscription, one
     of their best bits of political thunder is still the defense
     of it by Lincoln.

The Act provided for a complete military census, for which purpose the
country was divided into enrollment districts. Every able-bodied
male citizen, or intending citizen, between the ages of twenty and
forty-five, unless exempted for certain specified reasons, was to be
enrolled as a member of the national forces; these forces were to be
called to the colors--"drafted," the term was--as the Government found
need of them; each successive draft was to be apportioned among the
districts in the ratio of the military population, and the number
required was to be drawn by lot; if the district raised its quota
voluntarily, no draft would be made; any drafted man could offer a
substitute or could purchase his discharge for three hundred dollars.
The latter provision especially was condemned by Stanton. It was seized
upon by demagogues as a device for giving rich men an advantage over
poor men.

American politics during the war form a wildly confused story, so
intricate that it cannot be made clear in a brief statement. But
this central fact may be insisted upon: in the North, there were two
political groups that were the poles around which various other groups
revolved and combined, only to fly asunder and recombine, with all the
maddening inconstancy of a kaleidoscope. The two irreconcilable elements
were the "war party" made up of determined men resolved to see things
through, and the "copperheads"* who for one reason or another united
in a faithful struggle for peace at any price. Around the copperheads
gathered the various and singular groups who helped to make up the ever
fluctuating "peace party." It is an error to assume that this peace
party was animated throughout by fondness for the Confederacy. Though
many of its members were so actuated, the core of the party seems to
have been that strange type of man who sustained political evasion
in the old days, who thought that sweet words can stop bullets, whose
programme in 1863 called for a cessation of hostilities and a general
convention of all the States, and who promised as the speedy result of
a debauch of talk a carnival of bright eyes glistening with the tears
of revived affection. With these strange people in 1863 there combined
a number of different types: the still stranger, still less creditable
visionary, of whom much hereafter; the avowed friends of the principle
of state rights; all those who distrusted the Government because of its
anti-slavery sympathies; Quakers and others with moral scruples against
war; and finally, sincere legalists to whom the Conscription Act
appeared unconstitutional. In the spring of 1863 the issue of
conscription drew the line fairly sharply between the two political
coalitions, though each continued to fluctuate, more or less, to the end
of the war.

     * The term arose, it has been said, from the use of the
     copper cent with its head of Liberty as a peace button.  But
     a more plausible explanation associates the peace advocates
     with the deadly copperhead snake.

The peace party of 1863 has been denounced hastily rather than carefully
studied. Its precise machinations are not fully known, but the ugly fact
stands forth that a portion of the foreign population of the North was
roused in 1863 to rebellion. The occasion was the beginning of the first
draft under the new law, in July, 1863, and the scene of the rebellion
was the City of New York. The opponents of conscription had already
made inflammatory attacks on the Government. Conspicuous among them was
Horatio Seymour, who had been elected Governor of New York in that wave
of reaction in the autumn of 1862. Several New York papers joined the
crusade. In Congress, the Government had already been threatened with
civil war if the act was enforced. Nevertheless, the public drawing
by lot began on the days announced. In New York the first drawing took
place on Saturday, July 12th, and the lists were published in the Sunday
papers. As might be expected, many of the men drawn were of foreign
birth, and all day Sunday, the foreign quarter of New York was a
cauldron boiling.

On Monday, the resumption of the drawing was the signal for revolt.
A mob invaded one of the conscription offices, drove off the men in
charge, and set fire to the building. In a short while, the streets were
filled with dense crowds of foreignborn workmen shouting, "Down with
the rich men," and singing, "We'll hang Horace Greeley on a sour apple
tree." Houses of prominent citizens were attacked and set on fire, and
several drafting offices were burned. Many negroes who were seized were
either clubbed to death or hanged to lamp posts. Even an orphan asylum
for colored children was burned. The office of the "Tribune" was raided,
gutted, and set on fire. Finally a dispatch to Stanton, early in the
night, reported that the mob had taken possession of the city.

The events of the next day were no less shocking. The city was almost
stripped of soldiers, as all available reserves had already been hurried
south when Lee was advancing toward Gettysburg. But such militia as
could be mustered, with a small force of federal troops, fought the mob
in the streets. Barricades were carried by storm; blood was freely shed.
It was not, however, until the fourth day that the rebellion was finally
quelled, chiefly by New York regiments, hurried north by Stanton--among
them the famous Seventh--which swept the streets with cannon.

The aftermath of the New York riots was a correspondence between Lincoln
and Seymour. The latter had demanded a suspension of the draft until the
courts could decide on the constitutionality of the Conscription Act.
Lincoln refused. With ten thousand troops now assembled in New York, the
draft was resumed, and there was no further trouble.

The resistance to the Government in New York was but the most terrible
episode in a protracted contention which involves, as Americans are
beginning to see, one of the most fundamental and permanent questions
of Lincoln's rule: how can the exercise of necessary war powers by
the President be reconciled with the guarantees of liberty in the
Constitution? It is unfortunate that Lincoln did not draw up a fully
rounded statement of his own theory regarding this problem, instead
of leaving it to be inferred from detached observations and from his
actions. Apparently, he felt there was nothing to do but to follow the
Roman precedent and, in a case of emergency, frankly permit the use
of extraordinary power. We may attribute to him that point of view
expressed by a distinguished Democrat of our own day: "Democracy has to
learn how to use the dictator as a necessary war tool."* Whether Lincoln
set a good model for democracy in this perilous business is still to be
determined. His actions have been freely labeled usurpation. The first
notorious instance occurred in 1861, during the troubles in Maryland,
when he authorized military arrests of suspected persons. For the
release of one of these, a certain Merryman, Chief Justice Taney
issued a writ of habeas corpus**. Lincoln authorized his military
representatives to disregard the writ. In 1862 he issued a proclamation
suspending the privileges of the writ of habeas corpus in cases of
persons charged with "discouraging volunteer enlistments, resisting
military drafts, or guilty of any disloyal practice...." Such persons
were to be tried by military commissions.

     *President Edwin A. Alderman, of the University of Virginia.

     ** The Constitution permits the suspension of the privileges
     of the writ of habeas corpus "when in cases of rebellion or
     invasion the public safety may require it," but fails to
     provide a method of suspension.  Taney held that the power
     to suspend lay with Congress.  Five years afterward, when
     Chase was Chief Justice, the Supreme Court, in ex parte
     Milligan, took the same view and further declared that even
     Congress could not deprive a citizen of his right to trial
     by jury so long as the local civil courts are in operation.
     The Confederate experience differed from the Federal
     inasmuch as Congress kept control of the power to suspend
     the writ.  But both governments made use of such suspension
     to set up martial law in districts where the local courts
     were open but where, from one cause or another, the
     Administration had not confidence in their effectiveness.
     Under ex parte Milligan, both Presidents and both Congresses
     were guilty of usurpation. The mere layman waits for the
     next great hour of trial to learn whether this
     interpretation will stand.  In the Milligan case the Chief
     Justice and three others dissented.

There can be little doubt that this proclamation caused something like
a panic in many minds, filled them with the dread of military despotism,
and contributed to the reaction against Lincoln in the autumn of 1862.
Under this proclamation many arrests were made and many victims were
sent to prison. So violent was the opposition that on March 3, 1863,
Congress passed an act which attempted to bring the military and civil
courts into cooperation, though it did not take away from the President
all the dictatorial power which he had assumed. The act seems; however,
to have had little general effect, and it was disregarded in the
most celebrated of the cases of military arrest, that of Clement L.
Vallandigham.

A representative from Ohio and one of the most vituperative anti-Lincoln
men in Congress, Vallandigham in a sensational speech applied to the
existing situation Chatham's words, "My lords, you cannot conquer
America." He professed to see before him in the future nothing "but
universal political and social revolution, anarchy, and bloodshed,
compared with which the Reign of Terror in France was a merciful
visitation." To escape such a future, he demanded an armistice, to be
followed by a friendly peace established through foreign mediation.

Returning to Ohio after the adjournment of Congress, Vallandigham spoke
to a mass-meeting in a way that was construed as rank treason by General
Burnside who was in command at Cincinnati. Vallandigham was arrested,
tried by court martial, and condemned to imprisonment. There was an
immediate hue and cry, in consequence of which Burnside, who reported
the affair, felt called upon also to offer to resign. Lincoln's reply
was characteristic: "When I shall wish to supersede you I shall let
you know. All the Cabinet regretted the necessity for arresting, for
instance, Vallandigham, some perhaps doubting there was a real necessity
for it; but being done, all were for seeing you through with it."
Lincoln, however, commuted the sentence to banishment and had
Vallandigham sent through the lines into the Confederacy.

It seems quite plain that the condemnation of Lincoln on this issue of
usurpation was not confined to the friends of the Confederacy, nor has
it been confined to his enemies in later days. One of Lincoln's
most ardent admirers, the historian Rhodes, condemns his course
unqualifiedly. "There can be no question," he writes, "that from the
legal point of view the President should have rescinded the sentence and
released Vallandigham." Lincoln, he adds, "stands responsible for
the casting into prison of citizens of the United States on orders as
arbitrary as the lettres-de-cachet of Louis XIV." Since Mr. Rhodes,
uncompromising Unionist, can write as he does upon this issue, it is
plain that the opposition party cannot be dismissed as through 

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