THE QUESTION
Many times since Abraham Lincoln has been called to that mansion which
God has reserved for the patriots who have served Him also, Stephen Brice
has thought of that steaming night in the low-ceiled room of the country
tavern, reeking with the smell of coarse food and hot humanity. He
remembers vividly how at first his gorge rose, and recalls how gradually
there crept over him a forgetfulness of the squalidity and discomfort.
Then came a space gray with puzzling wonder. Then the dawning of a
worship for a very ugly man in a rumpled and ill-made coat.
You will perceive that there was hope for Stephen. On his shake-down that
night, oblivious to the snores of his companions and the droning of the
insects, he lay awake. And before his eyes was that strange, marked face,
with its deep lines that blended both humor and sadness there. It was
homely, and yet Stephen found himself reflecting that honesty was just as
homely, and plain truth. And yet both were beautiful to those who had
learned to love them. Just so this Mr. Lincoln.
He fell asleep wondering why Judge Whipple had sent him.
It was in accord with nature that reaction came with the morning. Such a
morning, and such a place!
He was awakened, shivering, by the beat of rain on the roof, and
stumbling over the prostrate forms of the four Beaver brothers, reached
the window. Clouds filled the sky, and Joshway, whose pallet was under
the sill, was in a blessed state of moisture.
No wonder some of his enthusiasm had trickled away!
He made his toilet in the wet under the pump outside; where he had to
wait his turn. And he rather wished he were going back to St. Louis. He
had an early breakfast of fried eggs and underdone bacon, and coffee
which made him pine for Hester's. The dishes were neither too clean nor
too plentiful, being doused in water as soon as ever they were out of
use.
But after breakfast the sun came out, and a crowd collected around the
tavern, although the air was chill and the muck deep in the street.
Stephen caught glimpses of Mr. Lincoln towering above the knots of
country politicians who surrounded him, and every once in a while a knot
would double up with laughter. There was no sign that the senatorial
aspirant took the situation seriously; that the coming struggle with his
skilful antagonist was weighing him down in the least. Stephen held aloof
from the groups, thinking that Mr. Lincoln had forgotten him. He decided
to leave for St. Louis on the morning train, and was even pushing toward
the tavern entrance with his bag in his hand, when he was met by Mr.
Hill.
"I had about given you up, Mr. Brice," he said. "Mr. Lincoln asked me to
get hold of you, and bring you to him alive or dead."
Accordingly Stephen was led to the station, where a long train of twelve
cars was pulled up, covered with flags and bunting. On entering one of
these, he perceived Mr. Lincoln sprawled (he could think of no other word
to fit the attitude) on a seat next the window, and next him was Mr.
Medill of the Press and Tribune. The seat just in front was reserved for
Mr. Hill, who was to make any notes necessary. Mr. Lincoln looked up. His
appearance was even less attractive than the night before, as he had on a
dirty gray linen duster.
"I thought you'd got loose, Steve," he said, holding out his hand. "Glad
to see you. Just you sit down there next to Bob, where I can talk to
you."
Stephen sat down, diffident, for he knew that there were others in that
train who would give ten years of their lives for that seat.
"I've taken a shine to this Bostonian, Joe," said Mr Lincoln to Mr.
Medill. "We've got to catch 'em young to do anything with 'em, you know.
Now, Steve, just give me a notion how politics are over in St. Louis.
What do they think of our new Republican party? Too bran new for old St.
Louis, eh?"
Stephen saw expostulation in Mr. Medill's eyes, and hesitated. And Mr.
Lincoln seemed to feel Medill's objections, as by mental telepathy. But
he said:-- "We'll come to that little matter later, Joe, when the cars
start."
Naturally, Stephen began uneasily. But under the influence of that kindly
eye he thawed, and forgot himself. He felt that this man was not one to
feign an interest. The shouts of the people on the little platform
interrupted the account, and the engine staggered off with its load.
"I reckon St. Louis is a nest of Southern Democrats," Mr. Lincoln
remarked, "and not much opposition."
"There are quite a few Old Line Whigs, sir," ventured Stephen, smiling.
"Joe," said Mr. Lincoln, "did you ever hear Warfield's definition of an
Old Line Whig?"
Mr. Medill had not.
"A man who takes his toddy regularly, and votes the Democratic ticket
occasionally, and who wears ruffled shirts."
Both of these gentlemen laughed, and two more in the seat behind, who had
an ear to the conversation.
"But, sir," said Stephen, seeing that he was expected to go on, "I think
that the Republican party will gather a considerable strength there in
another year or two. We have the material for powerful leaders in Mr.
Blair and others" (Mr. Lincoln nodded at the name). "We are getting an
ever increasing population from New England, mostly of young men who will
take kindly to the new party." And then he added, thinking of his
pilgrimage the Sunday before: "South St. Louis is a solid mass of
Germans, who are all antislavery. But they are very foreign still, and
have all their German institutions."
"The Turner Halls?" Mr. Lincoln surprised him by inquiring.
"Yes. And I believe that they drill there."
"Then they will the more easily be turned into soldiers if the time
should come," said Mr. Lincoln. And he added quickly, "I pray that it may
not."
Stephen had cause to remember that observation, and the acumen it showed,
long afterward.
The train made several stops, and at each of them shoals of country
people filled the aisles, and paused for a most familiar chat with the
senatorial candidate. Many called him Abe. His appearance was the equal
in roughness to theirs, his manner if anything was more democratic,--yet
in spite of all this Stephen in them detected a deference which might
almost be termed a homage. There were many women among them. Had our
friend been older, he might have known that the presence of good women in
a political crowd portends something. As it was, he was surprised. He was
destined to be still more surprised that day.
When they had left behind them the shouts of the little down of Dixon,
Mr. Lincoln took off his hat, and produced a crumpled and not too
immaculate scrap of paper from the multitude therein.
"Now, Joe," said he, "here are the four questions I intend to ask Judge
Douglas. I am ready for you. Fire away."
"We don't care anything about the others," answered Mr. Medill. "But I
tell you this. If you ask that second one, you'll never see the United
States Senate."
"And the Republican party in this state will have had a blow from which
it can scarcely recover," added Mr. Judd, chairman of the committee.
Mr. Lincoln did not appear to hear them. His eyes were far away over the
wet prairie.
Stephen held his breath. But neither he, nor Medill, nor Judd, nor Hill
guessed at the pregnancy of that moment. How were they to know that the
fate of the United States of America was concealed in that Question,
--was to be decided on a rough wooden platform that day in the town of
Freeport, Illinois?
But Abraham Lincoln, the uncouth man in the linen duster with the tousled
hair, knew it. And the stone that was rejected of the builders was to
become the corner-stone of the temple.
Suddenly Mr. Lincoln recalled himself, glanced at the paper, and cleared
his throat. In measured tones, plainly heard above the rush and roar of
the train, he read the 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?"
Mr. Medill listened intently.
"Abe," said he, solemnly, "Douglas will answer yes, or equivocate, and
that is all the assurance these Northern Democrats want to put Steve
Douglas in the Senate. They'll snow you under."
"All right," answered Mr. Lincoln, quietly.
"All right?" asked Mr. Medill, reflecting the sheer astonishment of the
others; "then why the devil are you wearing yourself out? And why are we
spending our time and money on you?"
Mr. Lincoln laid his hand on Medill's sleeve.
"Joe," said he, "a rat in the larder is easier to catch than a rat that
has the run of the cellar. You know, where to set your trap in the
larder. I'll tell you why I'm in this campaign: to catch Douglas now, and
keep him out of the White House in 1860. To save this country of ours,
Joe. She's sick."
There was a silence, broken by two exclamations.
"But see here, Abe," said Mr. Medill, as soon as ever he got his breath,
"what have we got to show for it? Where do you come in?"
Mr. Lincoln smiled wearily.
"Nowhere, I reckon," he answered simply.
"Good Lord!" said Mr. Judd.
Mr. Medill gulped.
"You mean to say, as the candidate of the Republican party, you don't
care whether you get to the Senate?"
"Not if I can send Steve Douglas there with his wings broken," was the
calm reply.
"Suppose he does answer yes, that slavery can be excluded?" said Mr.
Judd.
"Then," said Mr. Lincoln, "then Douglas loses the vote of the great
slave-holders, the vote of the solid South, that he has been fostering
ever since he has had the itch to be President. Without the solid South
the Little Giant will never live in the White House. And unless I'm
mightily mistaken, Steve Douglas has had his aye as far ahead as 1860 for
some time."
Another silence followed these words. There was a stout man standing in
the aisle, and he spat deftly out of the open window.
"You may wing Steve Douglas, Abe," said he, gloomily, "but the gun will
kick you over the bluff."
"Don't worry about me, Ed," said Mr. Lincoln. "I'm not worth it."
In a wave of comprehension the significance of all this was revealed to
Stephen Brice, The grim humor, the sagacious statesmanship, and (best of
all)--the superb self sacrifice of it, struck him suddenly. I think it
was in that hour that he realized the full extent of the wisdom he was
near, which was like unto Solomon's.
Shame surged in Stephen's face that he should have misjudged him. He had
come to patronize. He had remained to worship. And in after years, when
he thought of this new vital force which became part of him that day, it
was in the terms of Emerson: "Pythagoras was misunderstood, and Socrates,
and Jesus, and Luther, and Copernicus, and Galileo, and Newton, and every
pure and wise spirit that ever took flesh. To be great is to be
misunderstood."
How many have conversed with Lincoln before and since, and knew him not!
If an outward and visible sign of Mr. Lincoln's greatness were needed,
--he had chosen to speak to them in homely parables. The story of Farmer
Bell was plain as day. Jim Rickets, who had life all his own way, was
none other than Stephen A. Douglas, the easily successful. The ugly
galoot, who dared to raise his eyes only to the pear, was Mr. Lincoln
himself. And the pear was the Senatorship, which the galoot had denied
himself to save Susan from being Mr. Rickets' bride.
Stephen could understand likewise the vehemence of the Republican leaders
who crowded around their candidate and tried to get him to retract that
Question. He listened quietly, he answered with a patient smile. Now and
then he threw a story into the midst of this discussion which made them
laugh in spite of themselves. The hopelessness of the case was quite
plain to Mr. Hill, who smiled, and whispered in Stephen's ear: "He has
made up his mind. They will not budge him an inch, and they know it."
Finally Mr. Lincoln took the scrap of paper, which was even more dirty
and finger-marked by this time, and handed it to Mr. Hill. The train was
slowing down for Freeport. In the distance, bands could be heard playing,
and along the track, line upon line of men and women were cheering and
waving. It was ten o'clock, raw and cold for that time of the year, and
the sun was trying to come out.
"Bob," said Mr. Lincoln, "be sure you get that right in your notes. And,
Steve, you stick close to me, and you'll see the show. Why, boys," he
added, smiling, "there's the great man's private car, cannon and all."
All that Stephen saw was a regular day-car on a sidetrack. A brass cannon
was on the tender hitched behind it.