In the midsummer of 1859 the burning question among the newsmen of
Washington was the Central American Mission. England and France had
displayed activity in that quarter and it was deemed important that the
United States should sit up and take notice. An Isthmian canal was
being considered.
Speculation was rife whom Mr. Buchanan would send to represent us. The
press gang of the National Capital was all at sea. There was scarcely a
Democratic leader of national prominence whose name was not mentioned
in that connection, though speculation from day to day eddied round Mr.
James S. Rollins, of Missouri, an especial friend of the President and
a most accomplished public man.
At the height of excitement I happened to be in the library of the
State Department. I was on a step-ladder in quest of a book when I
heard a messenger say to the librarian: “The President is in the
Secretary’s room and wants to have Mr. Dimitry come there right away.”
An inspiration shot through me like a flash. They had chosen Alexander
Dimitry for the Central American Mission.
He was the official translator of the Department of State. Though an
able and learned man he was not in the line of preferment. He was
without political standing or backing of any sort. At first blush a
more unlikely, impossible appointment could hardly be suggested. But—so
on the instant I reasoned—he was peculiarly fitted in his own person
for the post in question. Though of Greek origin he looked like a
Spaniard. He spoke the Spanish language fluently. He had the procedure
of the State Department at his finger’s ends. He was the head of a
charming domestic fabric—his daughters the prettiest girls in
Washington. Why not?
I climbed down from my stepladder and made tracks for the office of the
afternoon newspaper for which I was doing all-round work. I was barely
on time, the last forms being locked when I got there. I had the
editorial page opened and inserted at the top of the leading column a
double-leaded paragraph announcing that the agony was over—that the
Gordian knot was cut—that Alexander Dimitry had been selected as Envoy
Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary to the Central American
States.
It proved a veritable sensation as well as a notable scoop. To increase
my glory the correspondents of the New York dailies scouted it. But in
a day or two it was officially confirmed. General Cass, the Secretary
of State, sent for me, having learned that I had been in the department
about the time of the consultation between the President, himself and
Mr. Dimitry.
“How did you get this?” he asked rather sharply.
“Out of my inner consciousness,” I answered with flippant familiarity.
“Didn’t you know that I have what they call second sight?”
The old gentleman laughed amiably. “It would seem so,” he said, and
sent me about my business without further inquiry.
V
In the National Capital the winter of 1860-61 was both stormy and
nebulous. Parties were at sea. The Northerners in Congress had learned
the trick of bullying from the Southerners. In the Senate, Chandler was
a match for Toombs; and in the House, Thaddeus Stevens for Keitt and
Lamar. All of them, more or less, were playing a game. If sectional
war, which was incessantly threatened by the two extremes, had been
keenly realized and seriously considered it might have been averted.
Very few believed that it would come to actual war. A convention of
Border State men, over which ex-President John Tyler presided, was held
in Washington. It might as well have been held at the North Pole.
Moderate men were brushed aside, their counsels whistled down the wind.
There was a group of Senators, headed by Wigfall of Texas, who meant
disunion and war, and another group, headed by Seward, Hale and Chase,
who had been goaded up to this. Reading contemporary history and,
seeing the high-mightiness with which the Germans began what we
conceive their raid upon humanity, we are wont to regard it as evidence
of incredible stupidity, whereas it was, in point of fact, rather a
miscalculation of forces. That was the error of the secession leaders.
They refused to count the cost. Yancey firmly believed that England
would be forced to intervene. The mills of Lancashire he thought could
not get on without Southern cotton. He was sent abroad. He found Europe
solid against slavery and therefore set against the Confederacy. He
came home with what is called a broken heart—the dreams of a lifetime
shattered—and, in a kind of dazed stupor, laid himself down to die.
With Richmond in flames and the exultant shouts of the detested yet
victorious Yankees in his ears, he did die.
Wigfall survived but a few years. He was less a dreamer than Yancey. A
man big of brain and warm of heart he had gone from the ironclad
provincialism of South Carolina to the windswept vagaries of Texas. He
believed wholly the Yancey confession of faith; that secession was a
constitutional right; that African slavery was ordained of God; that
the South was paramount, the North inferior. Yet in worldly knowledge
he had learned more than Yancey—was an abler man than Jefferson
Davis—and but for his affections and generous habits he would have made
a larger figure in the war, having led the South’s exit from the
Senate.