Barnum had been taken by De Quincey as an epitome of America: "A great
hulk of a continent, that the very moon finds fatiguing to cross,
produces a race of Barnums on a pre-Adamite scale, corresponding in
activity to its own enormous proportions."
Barnum had resorted to daily advertising, a great sensationalism to keep
up interest in the arrival of the singer. We went from our table to the
pier to see her descend from the steamer. Triumphal arches of evergreens
and flowers had been erected over the way she passed. A great crowd had
collected. Bands were playing. Her face came into view. Shouts arose.
She bowed and smiled to the wild throngs about her as she rode with
Barnum to the Astor House. Here the Swedish and American flags floated
in her honor. New York was in a frenzy of delight. But the tickets to
hear her! All this excitement had been worked up for use at the box
office. And Aldington could not afford the price. We wished Abigail and
Aldington to be with us. I therefore submitted to the Barnum extortion
for the whole party.
Jenny Lind sang at Castle Garden, where I had sat nearly twenty years
before, when New York had about half the population. The crowds pressed
around the entrances. Those who could not afford to enter hoped to get a
glimpse of her anyway. It was an enormous audience, and all of
distinguished New York was there. Senator Webster had been one of those
to receive her at the pier, and he was in the audience too. We were all
deeply moved by this wonderful voice. Poor Dorothy was frequently drying
her eyes. And when she sang one of her own national airs, Webster sat
entranced. At its close she courtesied to him. He arose and bowed to her
with the majestic manner of a great monarch. The audience went into a
fury of applause. Every one spoke of her as good of heart, sweet and
natural of manner. She had given her share of the proceeds of this
concert to various charities in New York City. A feeling of uplifted
life spread over the metropolis. She melted the souls of thousands, and
purged the craft of money getting. We came away from her as from a
higher realm. "What," said Abigail, "is anything in the world, money or
statesmanship, what, of all these things of which we have talked to-day
can be compared to an art like that, a divine influence like song?"
After this we started on a round of the theaters. I prevailed upon our
friends to prolong their stay, to be our guests. We saw Burton and Edwin
Booth. We went to the Opera, saw the ballet which Fannie Ellsler had
previously inaugurated. The _Independent_ was denouncing the theater as
an unmitigated evil; the ballet was a shocking exhibition of legs.
Still they had come, and New York had them.
We dined at Niblo's, at Castle Garden. We drove about the city. We went
out to see Trenton Falls where Jenny Lind had been taken as part of her
entertainment, and where she had sung in the woods and been answered by
the birds.
I began to notice that Dorothy was unusually quiet. She complained of
fatigue, of pain. We had done too much perhaps. One morning she could
not arise. Abigail and Aldington were returning to Chicago. We had
expected to go with them. But Dorothy could not travel now--she could
not stand that terrible journey of boats and cars, of changes and
delays. So we bade adieu to our friends.
Dorothy did not rally, as I had expected. She grew weaker day by day.
She became gravely ill. In the midst of the extra labor thrown upon
Mammy, she too was compelled to take to her bed. I was forced to look
about for servants, finding two Irish girls at last. Then quite suddenly
Mammy died. She was very old. And thus we were cut off from all our
past, Nashville, the old days. And I stayed almost constantly by
Dorothy's side, trying to bring back her strength. It entered my mind at
times that after all I was not as tender a husband to Dorothy as I
should have been. I was with her a good deal, to be sure. At the same
time, I was much preoccupied. She did not like politics, and could not
share my interest in that direction. The condition of the country really
distressed her. She had seen slavery in its benign aspect, and she was
impatient with any criticism of the institution.
It was months before Dorothy sat up and began to walk again. I could see
that she was frailer than before and might never be strong again. Our
boy Reverdy was not robust. And the winter was coming on. At the same
time Dorothy did not wish to return to Washington. She wanted to hear no
more of politics. I had to select her books for her, something that
soothed her, led her into dreams. _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ was now appearing
in serial form. I was reading it with great amusement. But I dared not
show it to Dorothy. I had heard Beecher and knew his sentimental
attitude. This book had for me the same quality. Yet it helped me to
pass many hours while watching by Dorothy's side. Somehow I felt that it
would produce a storm akin to the religious psychology which was
sweeping the country. Critics were already noting its moral effect. Mrs.
Stowe was hailed by Sumner as a "Christian genius," a Joan of Arc.
Garrison said that it would make two million abolitionists. In Paris it
was compared to Dumas' _The Three Guardsmen_ as a popular _tour de
force_. Others detected in it a resemblance to Rousseau's _Nouvelle
Héloise_. One pleaded for the liberty of the slave, the other for the
rights of the peasant. But I knew that the book was not really true. It
forefronted the brutality of slavery, it minimized the benevolent
aspects of the institution, which I had myself seen. It was written with
intensity of feeling, with the revivalist's method and emotion. It was
like her brother's sermons, and equally unauthentic. Yet how strangely
was this book received. It won Macaulay and Longfellow and George Sand,
and stirred the heart of Heine. It exasperated the South. The winds of
destiny previously let loose were blowing madly now.
In the midst of my own cares I awoke one morning to read that Douglas
was on his way to Cuba. The thought went through my mind, why not take
Dorothy and go in order to give her the benefit of this summer climate
through the winter? As Douglas had traveled by way of New Orleans he had
stopped in Memphis and I read in the _Tribune_ what he had said to the
people there: "If old Joshua R. Giddings should raise a colony in Ohio
and settle down in Louisiana he would be the strongest advocate of
slavery in the South; he would find when he got there that his opinion
would be very much modified; he would find on those sugar plantations
that it was not a question between the white man and the negro, but
between the negro and the crocodile. You come right back to the
principle of dollars and cents."
At New Orleans he had uttered the God of nature doctrine: "There is a
line or belt of country meandering through the valleys and over the
mountain tops which is a natural barrier between free territory and
slave territory, on the south of which are to be found the productions
suitable to slave labor, while on the north exists a country adapted to
free labor alone. But in the great central region, where there may be
some doubt as to the effect of natural causes, who ought to decide the
question except the people residing there, who have all their interests
there, who have gone there to live with their wives and children?"
No recognition of a right and a wrong, to be sure. But no express
advocacy of a wrong. I could not see then, and have never been able to
see since, why Douglas with this practical facing of the business of
life could not fare equally well with public opinion as Hamilton has
fared with it, who advocated corruption in government as a means to a
national power.
I went to Dorothy with my plan about Cuba, telling her that Douglas had
gone there. It stirred her languid spirits. She was all eagerness to
start. We took passage from New York, sailing around Florida, at last
around Morro Castle into the harbor of Havana. The blueness of the
water, with the balmy wind blowing almost incessantly began to restore
Dorothy. The Spanish city lying before our eyes, yellow and continental,
awoke her interest. At the dock there were crowds of idlers, Spaniards,
negroes, to see us fasten and disembark. With Dorothy and our son and
two maids we made our way to a hotel near the water. I was anxious to
look up Douglas; but it was impossible the first evening, owing to
Dorothy's indisposition. She had been seasick and the journey had
fatigued her. Nevertheless we went to the roof of the hotel together
and sat there until nearly midnight, inhaling the luxurious breeze from
the gulf and gazing up at the brilliant stars of this tropical sky.
The next morning I was down to breakfast early, leaving Dorothy to be
served in her room. The hotel was drab and decayed exteriorly; but the
dining room was a continental elegance of marble, gilt, and mirrors.
Douglas was not stopping here, as I had already learned. I concluded
that he would be at one of the better known hotels on the Prado, and I
hurried thither as fast as I could. I soon located him; but he had gone
out for a few days, was making something of a tour of the island,
including a visit to the celebrated cave of Matanzas. Leaving a note for
Douglas which apprised him of my hotel, I hurried back to Dorothy. The
city was so brilliant under the golden sunshine, and the air so
delightful, that I wished to spend these wonderful hours in seeing the
city.
Havana was as novel to me as to Dorothy. It was Spanish, therefore
having no resemblance to London or any other English town. It seemed to
me to be about the size that New York was in 1833. We spent three days
driving through the Paso de Paula, along the Malecon, up and down the
Prado lined with laurels and distinguished for fine houses and clubs. We
visited the parks, the Exchange, the old churches, the navy yard, La
Fueza, built by De Soto, the old markets of Colon and Tacon, the Palace;
and we stood in the Cathedral before the medallion which marked the
burial place of Columbus when his remains were removed here from Santa
Domingo in 1796. We dined about the cafés and hotels, and attended the
theater, and walked, when Dorothy felt equal to it, through the parks,
or along the wall of the sea which stretched from the punta.
I have already recorded so much of wrangling politics and the debates of
infuriate minds that one might infer that I was leading no life of my
own. Do you think that I am only a shadow or a registering machine, and
that Dorothy is not flesh and blood? Sometimes it occurs to me that I am
not treating her as a woman in spite of my desire to be thoughtful. A
vast world of rich imagination, of vital emotion was in truth moving
about me all the while, and in breasts that I did not comprehend. For
all my life up to this time and beyond it, as you shall see, was
occupied with money making and with watching principally the epic
development of America. But I was later to awake as from a day dream or
from a life in a shell, to the consciousness of a brighter world of
sunlight and of wings. I was at peace now, and with Dorothy, whose
frailty required my watchfulness and my care, and whom I delighted to
please with lovely things. That was the extent of my emotional life. And
so we drove, and visited the shops in Opispo Street. For I was waiting
for Douglas. I wanted to take him off to a bull fight or a cock fight.
And I was eager to hear him talk of his plans, of America, of anything
that came from his fluent and restless mind.
One evening when Dorothy and I were in the comfortable lounging chairs
on the roof of the hotel, looking over toward Morro Castle, counting the
largest of the richly brilliant stars, Douglas came upon us. He had
returned from his trip only that afternoon. Finding my note, and leaving
other engagements, he had come over to call, delighted and surprised to
find that we were in Havana. Cuba already had a railroad, but it was not
of much extent. He had been traveling by carriage, and in the hillier
localities in a vehicle of two enormous wheels, drawn by horses driven
in tandem. He had seen the cave, the pineapple fields, the sugar
plantations. His imagination was already at work for America.
He went on to say to me that whenever the people of Cuba should show
themselves worthy of freedom by asserting their independence and should
apply for annexation to the United States, they ought to be annexed. And
that whenever Spain should be ready to sell Cuba, with the consent of
its inhabitants, the United States should accept the chance. With spirit
he exclaimed that if Spain should transfer Cuba to England, or any other
European power America should take Cuba by force. "It is folly," he
said, "to debate the acquisition of the island. It naturally belongs to
the American continent. It guards the mouth of the Mississippi River,
which is the heart of the American continent and the body of the
American nation." This led Douglas to speak, and with bitterness, of the
Clayton-Bulwer treaty, which had given England joint control of any
canal across the Isthmus of Panama. "I was disgusted with this treaty
as I was disgusted with the settlement of the Oregon boundary. Just look
at it! Here the Monroe Doctrine has been an avowed policy for thirty
years, declaring that no European colonization will be permitted in
America. And what happens? Whenever there has been no opportunity to
enforce the doctrine, because there has been nothing at issue, we have
cock-a-doodle-dooed; and whenever a chance has arisen to enforce it we
have beaten a retreat, frightened to death by the awful consequences if
we do enforce it. Frightened by our own spokesmen, Senators and others.
Frightened by England in the main; for truly we have no other power to
fear. So when the Clayton-Bulwer treaty came up I fought it as I fought
Polk on the Oregon boundary of '49. I said then, and I say now, that the
time may come when we shall want to possess some portion of Central
America. It has come to the pass that I can't stand for America as to
new territory without having the Abolitionists charge me with favoritism
to the South. But it's a lie and history will vindicate me. But if I
want Cuba or Central America for slavery I want them also for America.
And what does England want them for? For freedom, I suppose, for the
good of America! The agreement not to fortify the canal was not
reciprocal, because England holds Jamaica, which guards the entrance to
the canal. What rights did England have to the Mosquito Coast? Well, her
title is at least doubtful.
"But what I hate about the canal treaty is the recognition of the right
of European powers to intervene in American affairs. We contracted with
England to protect any canal or railroad across the Isthmus; and not
only that, we invited other European powers to join with us in that
protection. And that lets in all the kings of Europe, and where's your
Monroe Doctrine? It vanishes into air. Study it out; you will see all
these Whigs and all these motley groups joining the Whigs, pulling
together by a sort of momentum started by the old crowd which sided with
England against America in the Revolution. They are the same crowd that
tried to break down the American system when they were banded together
as Federalists. They tried secession at Hartford, when they didn't like
the War of 1812; then they held up their hands in horror when South
Carolina threatened to secede over the tariff. They called on God to
avenge the Mexican War; then they grabbed this slavery matter to give
them a moral push into power. They elected a President, but were afraid
to formulate a platform. All the while they had played with England,
skulking and running and fawning upon England, when our vital interests
were at stake, and siding with England on the canal and on Oregon. They
are better than other men! They are more holy! They are pure, just,
broad! They love God! They are the only Christians! There is only one
evil and that is slavery! But there are many gods, of which banks and
tariffs are not the least; yet I notice that they do not give away
Texas and California, those unholy fruits of a wicked war for which you
fought, my friend. They like the gold and the wheat. And in order to
ride into power they put forward old Taylor, and blow hot and cold with
him and Millard Fillmore."
The great organ-like voice of Douglas poured forth a steady stream of
talk as we sat together under the wonderful stars of a clear sky, with
the soft breeze from the Gulf blowing around us. Dorothy had fallen
asleep. I got up and looked at her, and finding her resting peacefully I
returned to my chair. It was now near midnight. We could hear the rattle
of cabs on the cobblestones, the cries of strange voices in Spanish; and
we saw the lights in the harbor, the lights in the Prado, over the city
which was still feasting and playing. Then Douglas confided to me that
he was going to be a candidate for President in this next campaign of
1852.
The prospects were very good, he thought. If he could get two or three
western states to speak out in his favor he would win. He wondered if I
could not go to Iowa for him. He hoped to have the leading politicians
of Illinois as delegates at Baltimore. He wished me to be a delegate,
not that I was a leading politician, but I counted for as much since I
was an old friend and a sympathetic adherent. I told him to use me in
any way that would serve him.
Having all these enterprises on his hands he was leaving for Mobile in
the morning. No time to see a bull fight. "I'll not say good night to
Mrs. Miles," he said. "Let her sleep." He got up to tiptoe away. "Good
night, Senator," called Dorothy. She had aroused at the cessation of our
talk. Douglas returned and in his most gallant manner bade Dorothy good
night. Then he strode away, stepped through the trapdoor, began to
descend, disappeared. I looked up at the great stars. Then lifting
Dorothy into my arms, I carried her to the stairs and on my back to our
room.