A TRANSITION PERIOD.
All Snagtown was astonished one day when a flaring handbill announcing
that Abraham Lincoln and Stephen A. Douglas would speak in that
unpretentious little village. Their presence there was due to the
accident of missing connections in passing from one city to another.
It would have been hard to say whether the citizens of Snagtown were
more astonished or indignant. A public meeting was called the day before
the Abolitionists were advertised to speak, to determine what means
could be taken in this emergency. The Mayor presided, and the residents,
not only of the village, but of all the surrounding country, were urged
to be present.
"I tell you, gentlemen--hem! hem!--it will never do," said Mr. Diggs, as
he strutted about, his glasses on his nose, casting upward glances into
the faces of those who were discussing the question. "Hem! hem! hem! I
tell you it will not do at all," and he expectorated spitefully upon the
pavement. "We must prevent Lincoln's speaking here, if we have to mob
him. He comes not only to deprive us of our slaves, but to destroy the
flag of Washington and Marion, the glorious Stars and Stripes! I, for
one, am in favor of saying he shall not speak."
"So am I," said another.
"And so am I," said a third.
"And I, and I, and I," came responses from many voices.
"Hem, hem, hem!" began Mr. Diggs, shrugging his shoulders, and moving
about furiously, indicating thereby how much in earnest he had become.
"I tell you we must not permit it. Why, it's treason. Yes, sir; he
teaches treason, and it's our duty, as law-abiding citizens, not to
permit him to speak."
"Well, now, do you make them pints, when we have our meetin' to-morrow
night," said an illiterate Virginian.
"Hem, hem, hem!" began Mr. Diggs, thrusting his hands deep into his
pockets, his head on one side, kicking his feet alternately one against
the other. "I will. Hem, hem! I am going to make a speech just about an
hour long--ha! ha! ha!--so that no one else will get a chance to put in
a word, and we shall have it all our own way." The young lawyer, highly
pleased with the favor that he flattered himself he was gaining
politically, finished his sentence with a gleeful chuckle, and strutted
about, swelling with his own importance.
All over the village could be seen groups of men, from five to twenty in
number, discussing the propriety of allowing "Abe Lincoln" to speak in
the village. A majority seemed opposed to it, and a few of the more
reckless spirits talked of tar and feathers and fence rails.
The evening for the public meeting, which was to decide the
all-important question, arrived. The town hall was crowded to its utmost
capacity. Mr. Tompkins and his two sons were present, and so was Uncle
Dan, the mountaineer. The meeting was called to order and the Mayor took
the chair. He was a man past the meridian of life, a slaveholder and a
royal Southerner. The long, white beard falling down upon his breast
gave him a patriarchal look.
The uproar and confusion of tongues were hushed, and all awaited the
speaker in anxious silence.
A call was made on any one present to state the object of the meeting. A
man sprang at once to his feet, and succinctly informed the chairman
that the "object of this meetin' is to determine the question whether or
not it is best to 'low Abraham Lincoln, the great Abolitionist, to speak
in the town. I believe them's all the pints to be discussed," and he sat
down. Another and more voluble speaker arose and addressed the meeting.
He was of the class called "fire-eaters," and was strongly and directly
opposed to Lincoln's visit to Snagtown. His speech was replete with the
vilest vituperations his brain could conceive, or his tongue utter,
against the Republican party. He regarded them as robbers, as enemies
who should be shot down at sight, and he was in favor of greeting Abe
Lincoln with tar and feathers if he dared show himself in Snagtown.
Several others spoke in the same vein, and then Mr. Diggs rose. His
speech of an hour proved not half so long. It was full of empty-sounding
words and borrowed ideas, for there was little originality about Mr.
Diggs.
All, so far, had been against the proposed debate between Lincoln and
Douglas, but now a man rose in the audience whose word always carried
weight. It was Mr. Tompkins, the planter.
"Mr. Chairman," he began, in even, modulated tones, "I am, indeed,
surprised that men of intelligence should give vent to such expressions
and such feelings as we have heard this evening--men who know the law,
and claim to be law abiding citizens. Are we savages or border
ruffians, that we must be swayed and controlled by mob law? Have we not
a Constitution and Constitutional privileges? Have we not statute laws
to protect us against wrongs which others may inflict? Then why resort
to mob law? Why disgrace our fair State and put the blush of shame on
all good citizens by attacking, like outlaws, a stranger among us? Our
Constitution gives to all freedom of speech, and we have no right to
deny any man this Constitutional privilege."
Mr. Tompkins proceeded quietly but forcibly, pointing out to the
malcontents the error of their plans. In conclusion, he said:
"I may be the only one in the house who opposes these views, but as one
I say this, though I be alone. I will oppose with violence the attempt
to injure Mr. Lincoln. You are not compelled to vote for him, even to
hear him speak; but if Mr. Lincoln comes here, by Heaven! he shall
speak."
"So say I, an' I swar if any sorry hound attempts the mobbin' business,
he'll have to cross my carcass fust." The speaker was Uncle Dan, and as
he spoke he drew up his tall figure by the side of Mr. Tompkins, holding
his ominous-looking rifle in his hand.
Abner also rose and took his place at his father's side, but Oleah kept
his seat. This was the first visible difference of opinion between the
brothers.
Several who had been emboldened by Mr. Tompkins' words now declared that
they thought it best not to oppose Mr. Lincoln's speaking there, as it
would increase his popularity in other localities.
One or two of the more fiery replied, maintaining that their case was
beyond the remedy of civil law; that mob law was the only law which
should be meted out to scoundrels and Abolition thieves, and if some of
the citizens intended to espouse the cause of Abe Lincoln, and fight for
him, now was as good as any to settle the matter. A riot seemed
inevitable, but a laughable event now happened, changing anger into
mirth.
Mr. Diggs, fearing that his legal knowledge would be called into
question, now rose and said:
"I wish to make one other statement, in order to put myself right
before the people. I knew the Constitutional law referred to by Mr.
Tompkins, giving every man freedom of speech, and I can give you the
book and the page--"
"Oh, you need not," said a wag in the audience. "Answer this question
instead: Are you Crazy Joe's mud man, and why did you leave before he
came back to exhibit you?"
"Oh, stop that nonsense! I came here to talk sense, not to hear of a
fool's ravings," cried the indignant Mr. Diggs.
But everybody had heard the story of the mud man, and hostile feelings
now gave way to laughter. The laugh was kept up until Mr. Diggs became
enraged and left the assembly, swearing that they were "all a pack of
fools."
A compromise was effected. Mr. Lincoln and Mr. Douglas were to be
permitted to speak in a grove near the village, but not in the village
itself. The next day Mr. Tompkins and Abner, and a few others, with the
aid of their negroes, erected a speaker's stand, and arranged seats for
an audience of over two thousand persons. There were still low murmurs
of discontent, but the most bitter malcontents had been overawed by the
firm stand taken by Mr. Tompkins. Many others had caught his spirit, and
defied the hostile threats of the opponents of free speech.
The occasion had been so thoroughly advertised by the meeting and the
threats and opposition of those who wanted to prevent it, that the whole
country for miles around turned out. People on foot, on horseback, in
carriages and in wagons, came until thousands were assembled on the
spot, many prompted by curiosity to see the bold Abolitionist who dared
invade the sacred soil of Virginia and propound his infamous doctrine.
About ten o'clock two carriages rolled in from the nearest railroad
station, bearing the two disputants, with friends of each in attendance.
There was an eager craning of necks, and a hushed whisper went through
that vast audience as the two opponents for the highest political honors
of the country descended from the carriage.
"Who are they?" "Where are they?" "Is that big,
two-hundred-and-fifty-pounder Douglas?" "Is that short, stout-built man
with big burnsides Lincoln?" and a hundred other questions of a like
character were asked.
A few preliminaries were arranged. Mr. George Washington Tompkins was
chosen chairman, and took his place on the stand. Two New York reporters
were present with note-books and pencils.
The first speaker introduced was Mr. Stephen A. Douglas. His
speech--eloquent, patriotic and straightforward--generously concluded
with an exhortation to the audience to listen calmly, without any
expression of bitterness, to his opponent, who chanced to differ from
him on the great question of the day. When Mr. Douglas took his seat,
Mr. Tompkins rose and introduced Mr. Abraham Lincoln, a tall man,
wearing short, dark whiskers on his chin, and with hair slightly
streaked with gray.
A subdued hiss from many lips was heard as the great "Abolition
candidate" arose.
After a smile as of compassion upon his audience, Mr. Lincoln began
speaking. He talked mildly and candidly, yet freely, notwithstanding the
feeling evinced by some of his hearers. Those deep, rich tones rang
through the surrounding grove as he clearly and forcibly expounded the
principles of the Republican party, showing them to have been either
misunderstood or misrepresented by his opponent. Many who had come to
prevent the hated Abolitionist from speaking now listened with interest.
This was not such iniquitous doctrine after all. Every point made by Mr.
Douglas was successfully met, and his own argument arrayed against him.
Mr. Lincoln spoke for two hours, and at the conclusion of his address
his bitter enemies were forced to admit that he was a man of immense
power. His oratory was so grandly sublime in effect that when he took
his seat an outbreak of applause, which could not be suppressed, could
not be restrained, burst from the spell-bound audience.
Mr. Tompkins went to the meeting a Douglas man, but he left with the
full determination to vote for Abraham Lincoln at the coming Fall
election, as did Uncle Dan and many others. This was truly a transition
period, as the whole world was to learn in a few short months. The Whig
party was dwindling away, and slavery was withered and scorched before
the fiery eloquence of Lincoln, Sumner, and other similar orators.
Freedom was dawning, but it was to be ushered in with fire, and sword,
and death.
Mr. Tompkins and his sons were late in coming home that evening. Abner
and Oleah sat side by side in the family carriage, yet neither spoke.
Hitherto, every event had been fully discussed; every feeling shared by
the brothers; but a silence that was almost coolness now sealed their
lips. A thousand conflicting thoughts swept through their minds.
Abner was convicted, converted, by the new doctrine to which he had
listened, and the melodious voice of the orator was still ringing in his
ears as the carriage rolled homeward. He still seemed to see the tall,
rugged form and plain face, lit up with something rarer than beauty by
his eloquent pleading for four millions of enslaved human beings.
Oleah was in a gloomy mood. He had listened with angry impatience to the
exposition of views so different from his own, and that his father
should have presided over the meeting, and stood openly side by side
with the Abolitionist, stung his Southern prejudices and vexed him to
the soul.
The trio were driven home in silence, and parted for the night, without
any reference to the events of the day.
At the table the next morning the discussion of the day before was first
alluded to. Mr. and Mrs. Tompkins, Abner and Oleah, sat for some moments
in silence--a silence both painful and awkward, and, in this family
circle, unusual; but Irene entered the breakfast room, bright and
unconscious, eager to know all that had passed at Snagtown the day
before.
"We heard an excellent speech," said Abner.
"Yes; Douglas did well," put in Oleah.
"I mean Mr. Lincoln," said Abner. "Douglas' speech was good, but his
position was entirely demolished by Mr. Lincoln's eloquent reasoning."
"You don't call the harangue of that contemptible old demagogue
reasoning, do you?" asked Oleah, astonished and indignant.
"I certainly do," replied Abner. "His reasoning appeared to me clear,
and his conclusions logical."
"And I," cried Oleah, laying down his knife and fork in his excitement,
"I declare I never before heard so much sophistry, and not very
plausible sophistry, either."
"You are prejudiced," said Abner, coolly.
"It is you who are prejudiced. Why he actually asserted we would be more
prosperous if there was not a slave in the United States."
"Yes, and proved his assertion," said Abner.
"Oh, you let him pull the wool over your eyes." There was a sneer in his
voice. "I tell you there was neither logic nor reason in what he said.
No logical conclusions can be drawn from false premises; no assertions
can stand unsupported by proof."
"What did he assert that he did not prove?" asked Abner.
"What did he prove that he asserted?"
"You evade my question by asking another."
"Precisely the same plan Mr. Lincoln adopted," replied Oleah.
"You are prejudiced against Mr. Lincoln, Oleah. Now, tell me what he
said that any fair-minded man in the world can not agree to?"
"He said that slavery should not wither and blight another inch of
territory if he could help it."
"What objection can even a believer in slavery have to that? We have an
immense scope of country where slavery is permitted; then why extend it
to Territories where it is unpopular?"
"But can you not see what lies in the background?" said Oleah, bitterly.
"Mr. Lincoln lifted the curtain high enough for one who was not blinded
by his eloquence to see what was behind it. I would not fear to wager
everything I own that Mr. Lincoln, if elected, will set free every slave
in the United States, before he has been in the presidential chair a
twelvemonth."
"Did he not say that such emancipation would be unwise policy?"
"He said so, but his tone and manner belied his words."
"Confess now, Oleah, that you are a little prejudiced against Mr.
Lincoln," said the father, good-humoredly.
"You may call it prejudice or what you like, father," Oleah answered,
his flushed face showing how deep was his feeling; "but if Mr. Lincoln
is elected you will not have a nigger when his term is over, if he
should be permitted to take his seat."
"Why, my son, you can't think he would not be permitted to take his
seat?"
"That is a question, father. Each State has its rights. Southern people
have rights, and rather than be cheated of them they may resort to
force."
"Now, Oleah," said Abner, "you don't for a moment suppose that if Mr.
Lincoln should be chosen President by the voters of the United States,
that any considerable body of intelligent people could be found who
would be unfair enough, or foolhardy enough, to attempt to prevent him
from taking his seat?"
"I certainly do," answered Oleah, with an air of conviction.
"You are a Democrat; do you not hold with us Democrats that the majority
should rule?"
"That has nothing to do with it," said Oleah, hotly. "The North and the
East outnumber the South, and they have formed a combination for her
ruin, and the impoverishment of her people. They have nothing at stake
in Lincoln's election; we have everything. They have nothing to
lose--we, all. Our interests conflict. They see an opulent and growing
South, and have set their inventive Yankee genius at work to compass its
ruin. Our cotton fields, our rice fields, our sugar crops, our tobacco
crops, are the production of slave labor, and the abundant wealth of the
South excites the emulation of the cold and envious North. If they can
deprive us of this slave labor, they will have killed the goose that
lays our golden eggs, and may surpass us in wealth and power. This they
have determined to do. They have tried it by legislation, and so far
have failed. They outnumber us in votes, because there every worthless
fellow's vote counts as much as that of a Governor or a man who owns a
thousand slaves. How can they accomplish our ruin? By electing as
president a man whose every breath is poison to slavery; a man who may,
at any time, under the fancied exigencies of the moment, declare all
slaves free. Their plans are deep and shrewd, but there are heads in the
South as wise as theirs, and eyes that can see the danger in time to
avert it."
"You are crazy, Oleah," said Abner; "your very words are treason."
"If treason, then his mother is infected with the same disease, and, in
the language of Patrick Henry, 'If this be treason, make the most of
it,'" said Mrs. Tompkins, with a laugh, in which all joined.
"I am sure we ought to get at the truth of this question," said Mr.
Tompkins; "we have both sides represented."
"Who will judge between us?" asked Mrs. Tompkins.
"All have taken sides except Irene. Which side are you on?" asked Oleah.
"I know nothing about either side," the girl answered, lightly; "so how
can I choose?"
Mrs. Tompkins' love for her sunny land was next in her heart to her love
for her husband, and forced her to espouse a cause which, to her, seemed
patriotic. This was the only question on which she and her husband
differed, and it was avoided by both as much as possible, yet sometimes,
in spite of their precautions, it would creep into their family
conversations.
"Irene is the proper one to act as judge," said Abner.
"Why?" Irene lifted her eyes in wonder.
"Because you know nothing about it."
"Do they make the best judges who know the least?"
"Frequently; and a juror who knows anything of the case he is to pass a
verdict on is incompetent, so you are a competent juror, any way, Irene;
and as one woman is equal to twelve men you can complete the entire
panel."
"I beg pardon of the court," said Irene, rising from the table, "but I
can not sit on this jury. I am prejudiced on both sides. I have friends
on both sides, and I could not render an unbiased verdict."
"That's no excuse," said Abner.
"If it's not, the new piece of music you bought me is, so I leave you
to your discussion, and hope you may effect a happy compromise." She was
gone.
There was a moment's silence, and then the rippling music of her voice
filled the halls and rooms of the great house.
"I wish the name she bears was rightfully hers, though I am glad she is
not my sister," Abner said to himself. The same thought flashed through
Oleah's mind, and, as usual, the mobile face betrayed his thoughts.
Every one seemed always to understand his feelings.
Irene had just returned from school, an accomplished beauty and an
acknowledged belle.
No wonder strange emotions stirred the hearts of the brothers, and that
thoughts gained entrance in their breasts which might prove more
disastrous than mere political differences.